Lothíriel woke slowly, consciousness returning as each layer of sleep peeled away. She winced when the first stirring reminded her of her sore muscles. She could not have said what had awoken her. Perhaps it was some noise or perhaps the brightness of her chamber. She had not bothered to close the drapes in front of the high set window and its bulls-eye panes gave the light a diffused quality which made it difficult to guess the time of the day. Or perhaps her body just had been satisfied with the rest it had been given.

Apparently Éomer and Amrothos had passed on her request. Nobody had come to check on her or had disturbed her in any way. At least not to her knowledge. But then she had been dead to the world from only moments after she had closed the door behind her. She had kicked off her shoes, had, after some uncomfortable contortions, managed to pull open the laces of her gown and then just dropped it where she stood. Without caring about finding a chemise she had slipped under the bedcovers and had fallen asleep as soon as her head had touched the pillow.

Lothíriel stretched underneath the covers, arching her back. The sore muscles still protested, but a more pleasant feeling gained the upper hand over the stiffness. Never before had she slept without wearing a nighttime garment. Doing without it gave her an odd sensation of freedom of movement and the soft, smooth linen sliding over her bare skin had a somewhat sensual feel.

She stretched again, lazily like a cat in the sun, and rolled over onto her stomach, hugging a pillow and snuggling into it. There was something . . . somebody she would rather hug and snuggle into. Pillows were not a good substitute.

To say that she liked being held by Éomer did not do justice to the way it made her feel. She could not . . . would not deny the allure the warmth and the hardness of his body held for her. Being wrapped in his arms gave her an indescribable sense of well-being. And that with all their clothes between them. She wondered how it would feel to be just skin-to-skin.

Contentedly she rubbed her cheek against the pillow but then paused when her eyes fell on the dress she had worn yesterday. It should have been on the floor where she had left it, but it lay carefully folded on the bench at the foot of her bed. Somebody had put her bags down onto the floor to make space, not only for the day dress, but also for the grey velvet gown which she should have had worn the night before at the feast and also for the riding habit Merewyn had taken to be pressed.

She sat up, holding the quilt to her breasts. Somebody must have been in the chamber while she had been sleeping. Again she gazed up to the bull-eye panes. It was daylight outside, but was it early in the morning or already well into the day? They wouldn’t have let her sleep late? As Éomer had mentioned, they had to cover the twenty-five miles to Edoras today. And she wouldn’t be able to do that at a very fast pace.

She searched for her creased robe and found it hanging over the edge of the empty bathtub. She couldn’t remember if the tub had already been empty when she had returned to the chamber, but she thought that it probably had. She might have slept through somebody folding up her clothes but certainly not through the water being ladled out of the tub.

Lothíriel wrapped the quilt more securely around her and slid to the edge of the bed. She had just put her feet down when she heard a muted rap at the door. Before she had the chance to respond, the door opened slowly and Merewyn’s honey blond head appeared. Finding Lothíriel awake she smiled and pushed the door open with her shoulder to enter the chamber. She did not seem to care that the occupant of the chamber hastily scrambled backwards to bury her more bare parts into the pillows.

“You are awake,” she cheerfully stated the obvious.

The girl was carrying a tray in front of her. With both her hands occupied, she hooked a foot around the door and shoved it shut with a bang. She was wearing a riding outfit, less lavish but the cut similar to the ones which had been made for Lothíriel. Hers was made of deep russet wool, which complimented her natural colouring. Several of her corkscrew curls had escaped her plait and framed her heart shaped face.

“Good morning, Merewyn.” Lothíriel tugged at the quilt to make sure that it covered all of her significant parts while she was trying to sit up.

“Good morning, my Lady. I have brought you something to eat. You must be starving. You did not have anything at all last night.”

Without any forewarning she put the tray on Lothíriel’s lap, causing the quilt to slide down to an alarmingly low position. There was no chance to pull the cover up again without throwing the tray out of balance.

Holding the bedspread to her chest with one hand and stabilizing the tray with the other, Lothíriel indicated with her chin the garment lying across the bathtub.

“Merewyn, would you be so kind as to hand me my robe?”

“Oh, you must be cold.”

The girl fetched the garment and laid it down on the bed next to Lothíriel. She reached for the tray.

“I will take that again so you can slip on your robe.”

She took a few steps back to allow Lothíriel to get out of the bed. Obviously she found nothing unusual about seeing her soon-to-be queen in a state of complete nudity. That was probably due to the fact that she had grown up with two sisters. And, after having seen her interact with her king, Lothíriel had the suspicion that Merewyn lacked any excessive regard for title or station. In her, the girl saw, very likely, less the princess and future queen, but rather, another female of more or less similar age.

Lothíriel fished for her garment, holding the quilt around her and trying as discreetly as possible to put it on without revealing too much skin. She saw Merewyn contemplating her with a look of concentration in her eyes. She was not left for long wondering what was going on inside the girl’s head.

Placing the tray on the bench on top of the velvet dress, Elfhelm’s daughter continued in a chatty tone. “The riders say that you are beautiful and that they do not believe that Éomer is going to take you as his wife only because of the provisions we have received from Gondor over the winter.”

Lothíriel froze, so that the quilt slipped out of her grasp and dropped to the floor. Totally stunned for the moment she forgot to tie the belt of her robe, trying to digest what the young girl had just said. But before she had the chance to gather her thoughts, Merewyn clapped a hand over her mouth. A little too hard, to judge by the muffled “Ow!” that was to be heard. She looked at Lothíriel in a momentary embarrassment.

“I should not have said that,” she murmured in a voice smothered by her own hand. “It is only what people have been saying but my father told my mother that that is utter nonsense and Éomer has fallen for you so hard that it knocked the breath out of him and some sense into his brain.”

Merewyn had certainly a rare talent for merrily dropping one clanger after the other. Lothíriel’s mind already had difficulties grappling with the fact that the Rohirrim apparently believed her to be part of a political bargain. Now it took her a few more heartbeats to recover from the next revelation. Somebody else, in this case Marshal Elfhelm, thought that Éomer had fallen for her, and she was still not quite certain what that phrase actually meant.

She studied Merewyn’s innocent face, finally remembering to close her mouth. And there were people lamenting Amrothos’s lack of sensitivity. Here was somebody who could easily compete with him, with the distinction that her brother never ever uttered a single word accidentally, while the girl – it would seem - blurted out whatever shot through her head without a second thought.

Lothíriel gathered the folds of her robe together and, drawing a deep breath, tied the belt with a rather forceful motion.

“Merewyn,” she said, in a voice that was almost steady, “I do not think that certain comments you overhear your father making, especially to your mother, should be repeated to whomsoever by you.”

The young woman looked at her in true bafflement. “But he did not say anything unfavourable. He was delighted when he heard about your betrothal. He said . . .”

“Merewyn,” Lothíriel used the voice, which had in the past proved effective even with the more stubborn patients. And this time, too, it secured her the attention of the addressed. She continued in a more obliging tone, gesturing towards the tray. “I think I should apply myself to the food you have on offer here. I am truly hungry as I have not eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

“Oh, of course.” The girl picked up the tray. “Will you go back to your bed? I hope the tea has not cooled down too much.”

She looked expectantly at Lothíriel who had never felt the desire to take a meal in bed as it reminded her too much of those who had to be confined there because of their sickness. A bed, even the most comfortable one, was meant to be slept in. At least that was how she had regarded that particular piece of furniture until now. In the future she would certainly experience it in an additional capacity. But right now it seemed to be best to follow the line of least resistance and fall in with Merewyn’s suggestion.

She plumped up the pillows and then settled against them, accepting the tray, which was placed once again on her lap. She found a large mug with still hot mint tea and another one with buttermilk, piles of honey cake, sweet poppy-seed bread and fruit bread with a small bowl of goat butter. Even though she was unusually hungry, the amount of food on offer should have easily satisfied another two starving souls.

“I forgot to ask you yesterday what you would prefer for an early meal,” Merewyn explain apologetically. “That is . . . after you sent me to boil those instruments I did not have the chance to ask. And after you got that arrowhead out of Éothain, Éomer took you straight to bed.”

Lothíriel had put some butter on a piece of fruit bread and popped it into her mouth. She looked thoughtfully at Elfhelm’s daughter. Her – admittedly involuntary - tactlessness was quite worthy of Amrothos. That was somehow worrying. It was probably better not to investigate any of her remarks.

“Merewyn, is it already well into the morning? I am afraid I have lost my sense of time.”

“Oh, no. It is still quite early,” the girl assured her. “Éomer instructed me last night to let you be until you gave a shout. But your brother advised me earlier this morning to check on you and that it would be better to help things along a bit, or we might get stuck here for another day.”

“I have three brothers,” Lothíriel reminded her, concentrating on her food.

“Oh, the nice one.”

“Erchirion?”

“Amrothos.”

Lothíriel swallowed carefully and took a sip from her tea.

“You spent some time with Amrothos?”

“Yes, we sat together at last night’s feast.” Merewyn nodded, her untameable curls dancing around her face. “He is really very nice. He told me a lot of things.”

“Did he indeed?”

Sweet Elbereth! What was Amrothos up to? He would never dally with a girl like Merewyn, would he? Lothíriel remembered his words from last night, when he had ambushed her and Éomer in the passageway. He had learnt about it from Elfhelm’s daughter. Of course, her irrepressible brother would recognize a kindred spirit as soon as he saw one. If he had decided to keep himself entertained by stirring up some trouble he might find it useful to engage the girl in his frolics.

And if Merewyn was indeed in any way similar to Amrothos there was no point in warning her off. She would only do exactly the opposite. Better to say nothing and keep an eye on her . . . and on Amrothos.

Merewyn’s mind had already jumped to the next subject.

“Ealric and Hleogar were quite disappointed when they found you had retired last night. But they are hoping that there will be some time for them to call upon you before you leave today.”

Lothíriel looked up from her food. “At any rate, I absolutely want to see them. I had better make haste. I do not want to delay our departure to Edoras needlessly.” She was about to hand the tray over to the girl, but Merewyn gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

“No, first you shall have your bath. Éomer gave the order. He said you are very particular about bathing.” She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Your brother asked how he could know about that.”

“Amrothos asked that?” She really hoped it had been Amrothos.

“No, the grouchy one.”

“Elphir!” Lothíriel sighed. “I am not certain if it is a good idea to make this inquiry, but what did Éomer answer?”

“That you mentioned it to him once or twice. And then your brother – the grouchy one - wanted to know why you had talked about something as intimate as personal hygiene. And Éomer said it came up because you found him sadly lacking in it.”

Lothíriel stifled another sigh. It seemed that she had missed some truly interesting discussions last night. She just hoped that Éomer would appreciate that there was a certain balance in her family. Elphir and Amrothos might be hard to endure - each in his own way - but her father and Erchirion surely represented some sort of compensation. And if he should ever meet her aunt Ivriniel  . . . well, she could always blame it on their elven blood.

Merewyn interrupted her reverie.

“Shall I send for the hot water, my Lady? While the serving wenches fill the tub you can finish your meal.”

Lothíriel nodded her agreement and the girl rushed out of the room to return only moments later, the same women from the day before in tow, who, after a polite greeting, began to fill the bathtub once more. This time she got lucky. Nobody turned up to disturb her bath. Nevertheless, she kept it brief and did not allow herself to linger long in the soothing warmth of the water. And there was no time to wash her hair, but Merewyn happily took on again the task of brushing it and helping her to braid it back from her temples and fasten the tresses at the nape of her neck with a brooch. From there she let it hang loose down her back.

For the day she would arrive in Edoras Arwen had chosen a riding habit made of an elaborate fabric. It was woven of two different threads, one of a deep green, the other of a lighter blue. The material shimmered in jewellery colours; sometimes more like emeralds, then again, dependent on how it caught the light, like sapphires. It was worn over a sapphire-blue blouse of a very fine silk crêpe. The sleeves fell in many small folds down her arms and over her wrists, covering the emerald-green gloves to the knuckles. The wide sweeping skirts hid deerskin breeches, dyed in the same deep green.

Personally Lothíriel found this outfit much too loud and had asked her to consider that, in view of the fact that the Rohirrim still had to live from hand to mouth, it was almost immoral to let oneself be seen in such a lavish dress. But Arwen had argued that it would rather disappoint the citizens of Edoras if they first saw their future queen in some plain gown, perhaps even shabby after all the days of the journey.

Merewyn seemed to agree with that point of view. In her own effusive way she expressed her approval, babbling out that she had pressed the dress herself, because she had wanted it to be done right and that it was not easy to deal with the unusual fabric.

“And you look gorgeous,” she declared, walking round Lothíriel, appraising her. “Éomer’s women have always been very pretty, but you are the most beautiful so far.”

Lothíriel decided she had better not take everything the girl said literally or seriously. Perhaps she should just feel reassured that she was able to hold her own in comparison to Éomer’s past liaisons. – At least in Merewyn’s opinion.

With the help of Elfhelm’s daughter she collected the few belongings she had with her, packed them in her bags and left in the chamber those that would be collected by the servants. The girl assured her that Berenwald would take her healer’s chest to the packhorses himself, as he wished to bid her farewell anyway.

Leaving the chamber and walking along the corridor towards the hall she could hear a confusion of voices. From the riders in her care she had learnt that in Rohan the great hall of a dwelling place was a multifunctional room. It was not only used for receiving guests, it was also the room where all the household – the lord of the house, the riders and even the servants – would come together for their meals in the mornings and in the evenings. In the winter some members of the household might even bed down there for the night.

Stepping through the arched door onto the dais, she saw that the early meal had officially ended. Whoever had sat at the high table had gone and the food and dishes had already been removed. Only on the floor of the hall were there a few still seated at the long tables. Most people were moving in and out through the screens passage or had gathered in small groups, talking.

Experiencing once again those little hot and cold chills of awareness, her gaze was drawn to her left. Éomer was standing there on the main floor, clad in full armour. He had his back towards her, one of his feet resting on the upper step of the dais with his elbow propped up on his thigh. He was talking to another man, no doubt one of his riders, as he wore a knee-length coat of mail and the ornamental gorget of the Royal Guard. The latter’s eyes spotted her when she stepped out into the hall, his shift of focus causing Éomer to straighten and to turn around in a single fluid movement. Not for the first time Lothíriel wondered how he was able to move so easily and unhindered under the sheer weight of his harness. And she remembered the unfortunate remark it had – indirectly -provoked her to make during that night in the Houses of Healing; a comment about his back muscles that had revealed more of her interest in him than she had intended.

Éomer took both steps up to the dais at a time and came over to her. He reached for her hand and brushed a light kiss across her gloved knuckles.

“I hope you have rested well,” he said, his mouth curved into a faint smile, but in his eyes there was enough warmth to heat the hall.

Lothíriel didn’t get the chance to answer him. Merewyn’s mouth worked quicker.

“My Lady slept like a stone. She did not even stir when I tidied her room last night and returned her riding dress. Do you like it?” she asked, making a sweeping gesture and managing to get her hand caught in one of Lothíriel’s wide sleeves.

Éomer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Why do you not go and try to make yourself useful?”

The girl giggled, not taking the brusque discharge amiss, and left without a word, hopping down the dais and crossing the hall to where Lothíriel noticed Erchirion and Amrothos just making their entrance through the screens passage. Her youngest brother greeted the girl with a wide grin.

A frown of genuine concern appeared between Lothíriel’s brows. “I hope he knows what he is doing,” she murmured more to herself.

“I hope he does not,” Éomer replied hopefully. When he saw her questioning gaze, he added with an unsympathetic grin. “If Elfhelm runs him through I can keep my hands clean.”

Although she had, only yesterday, hoped that Éomer would subject Amrothos to some kind of corporal punishment – after all, he had proven to have a rather effective hook - she felt suddenly an unexpected loyalty to her brother surge up.

“I am very fond of my brothers,” she declared, a faint challenge in her voice.

“Of all of them?” Éomer asked in disbelief.

Now, there he got her. “Yes, I am!” But in all sincerity she could answer him only with a certain reservation. “. . . at least basically.”

The hesitation in her reply produced an even deeper smile in his eyes. He took her hand between both of his and pulled it against his cuirass.

“That you will give me an honest answer,” he said in a low voice, “no matter what the question might be, is what I love most about you.”

Lothíriel stared at him, too stunned to get a word out of her mouth. It was as if her tongue had been paralysed. Her brain too. He couldn’t really mean what he had just said. He wouldn’t declare something like that without any preliminary indication, surrounded by several dozen people. In all likelihood it was just a figure of speech and she simply didn’t understand the true meaning because of her limited experience in such matters. It was probably best to give him a non-committal smile and pass over his words.

Her bemused brain began to grope around carefully for a safer subject.

“My Lord, Merewyn mentioned earlier that Ealric and Hleogar are here at Aldburg and I would very much like to see them before we depart for Edoras.”

Éomer looked down at her, slightly taken aback and with a certain lack of understanding.

“They are two the men who were in my care in the Houses of Healing last year,” Lothíriel hastened to add.

“I know who Ealric and Hleogar are.” There was a faint note of resigned mockery in his voice. “They are right here in the hall.”

He let her hand go and turned around, gesturing towards a table in the opposite corner. Indeed, there she could see the two herdsmen who had been entrusted to her for so many months. If she had bothered to look around when she had entered the hall earlier, she would have had seen them, as she could have had seen not only her brothers – all three of them – but also her father who was standing nearby with King Elessar and Lord Elfhelm. She had simply failed to notice any of the others because her whole attention had been fixed on Éomer.

He escorted her down the dais and along the aisle between two rows of now abandoned tables. They paused for her to greet the group around her father. With some relief she found that she was able to execute her curtsey to her liege without any particular difficulties. At least the muscles of her legs had recovered overnight.

“You look well rested, my dear,” Imrahil said genially. “You should be able to cover the last stretch of our journey without any disquieting strain.”

“Do not worry, Father.” Erchirion had joined them. “I doubt Lothíriel intends to embarrass you or herself by falling off her horse in front of the Royal Guard of Rohan.” He gave her one of his lazy and amused smiles.

The men chuckled and Lothíriel felt unexpectedly tempted to kick this brother of hers on his shin. It would have surprised him. If she remembered correctly the last time she had done that had been about twelve years ago and it hadn’t been on purpose. Or at least she hadn’t intended to kick Erchirion but had simply missed Amrothos.

“I am glad you had a peaceful night after yesterday’s bedlam caused by Éothain’s injury, my Lady,” Lord Elfhelm addressed her in his even, friendly way. “I hope Merewyn did everything to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, my Lord Elfhelm. Your daughter has been very much at pains to make my stay here agreeable.”

Lothíriel looked around – discreetly, she hoped - but couldn’t see either Amrothos or Merewyn. Where had her bloody brother and the little chatterbox disappeared to?

“I understand we are ready to set off for Edoras?” Elessar asked, directing his inquiry politely at Lothíriel.

“If I could have a few moments more, my Lord King,” she replied. “I would like to have a word with two men who were in my care after the battle on the Pelennor. They already asked yesterday to call upon me.”

“By all means, Lady Lothíriel. Take your time.”

“I will accompany you,” Éomer announced, but Lothíriel’s mind was fixed on a different matter.

“That is not necessary,” she declined, not thinking. “Erchirion will come with me.” She grasped for her brother’s arm, but instead got hold of his surcoat as he had already turned to leave and was taken by surprise at his sister’s action. Unaffected by the odd stares she was receiving – not least from her betrothed - she dragged Erchirion behind her. Half way to the corner where the two herdsmen were sitting she came to a halt so abruptly that her brother bumped into her. 

“Is something wrong, Lothíriel?” he asked politely.

“What is Amrothos doing with Lord Elfhelm’s daughter?” she demanded. “I hope he is not up to something reprehensible.”

“I am certain he would love to be up to something reprehensible.”

“Erchirion,” Lothíriel exclaimed, not quite able to hide the laugh in her voice. “You do not make jokes about things like this.”

“Dearest,” he reassured her, “if I felt that our brother were in any danger of getting carried away, I would not have attempted to make a joke. There is nothing to worry about. Amrothos would never dally with an innocent girl like Merewyn. He treats her like his newest and favourite pet.”

“I just hope she understands that. She appears to be very taken by him.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “She has called him nice.”

“You are worried because somebody calls our brother nice?”

“No, I am worried because a young female calls Amrothos nice.”

He did not respond immediately, but contemplated her with one of his sudden shrewd gazes.

“And you think that has to be considered alarming? Perhaps based on your own experience?” He grinned at her. “Does this mean we are now on our way to Edoras because at one point you began to think about your betrothed being nice?”

“I can assure you that I have thought about an assortment of expressions to describe Éomer. Nice has never been one of them and is not very likely ever to become one of them.”

The by now, familiar, whisper of awareness that tingled through her when the just named was close, came only marginally too late.  She guessed that he must have heard her last words, not least because of Erchirion’s mocking grin.

“It is not very nice that you do not consider me worthy of being called nice.” It sounded genuinely offended.

Lothíriel briefly closed her eyes, sighing. She tilted her head, looking at Éomer over her shoulder. “I think I said this before, but somebody of your size should not be able to move so stealthily. And certainly not with all that mail and leather moving with him.”

“And my answer is still the same. You have a tendency to be oblivious to the rest of your surroundings when you concentrate on one matter.”

Erchirion raised his hand. “If you will excuse me, I think you are going to do quite well without my presence.” He bowed to Rohan’s King. “I wish you a merry argument.”

Éomer’s eyes followed the retreating form of the middle of the Dol Amroth princes. “I think that is a brother of yours I could get used to.”

“How courteous of you,” Lothíriel muttered, earning herself a smirk. His smiles were truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Shall we go and wait upon your former patients?” He gestured her to precede him.

Lothíriel decided to bite back the comment that she would be quite able to find her way around the hall without an escort. It was not as if she did not long for Éomer’s company; it was just that the feeling of being under the scrutiny of so many made her uneasy. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she couldn’t help thinking that everybody was watching them, contemplating upon the kind of relationship they would establish – or what kind of relationship they may have had back in Minas Tirith. Éomer, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be troubled by it at all. Since she had arrived the day before he appeared determined to keep her close to him – at least as close as the respective circumstances permitted. But she was still waiting for an answer to her question why he hadn’t bothered to drive forward their relationship after they had become betrothed.

Seeing their king and his betrothed approaching, the two invalid herdsmen got to their feet. To her satisfaction Lothíriel recognized that both did do so without any great difficulty. The Rohirrim had always assured her that they would recuperate much quicker as soon as they were back to the expanses of the plains, away from the confining narrowness of a city made of stone. And looking at those two men, there was no doubt that their words had come true.

“My Lady. Éomer King.”

Both men bowed their greetings, Ealric’s accompanied by a wide grin, the more guarded Hleogar barely showing a smile on his face. And it was Ealric who addressed his soon-to-be queen first.

“Welcome to the Riddermark, my Lady.”

“Greetings, Ealric. Hleogar. It is good to see you so well.”

“And we know that we have got you to thank for that, my Lady.”

Lothíriel shook her head, smiling at the men.

“When you left the Houses of Healing your health was still poor and your constitution frail. Since then you have recovered very well; here at your home, and I have not had any part in that. Has Master Berenwald carried on the treatment of the scars?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Ealric confirmed. “As you did, Berenwald sets great store by keeping the new skin supple.”

“May I?” Lothíriel gestured at the stump of his right arm. Ealric appeared to regard her professional curiosity as something entirely natural. He turned his shoulder towards her so she could roll up the loose hanging sleeve of his shirt and have a look at the stump. The skin was still thin but supple and well cared for.

“What kind of oil do you use?” she asked.

“Goat grease.”

“That works very well for scars, but perhaps you could ask Master Berenwald if he could make some oil with the essence of sweet violets. I do not know when they flower in Rohan but I suppose it will be soon.”

“So, are you still in the habit of mutilating defenceless flowers?” inquired Éomer, sounding mildly interested.

Lothíriel let the sleeve fall back over Ealric’s stump and turned to look at Éomer. She frowned, confused by that statement. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mutilating flowers,” he repeated softly. “Those you use for your salves and oils, like sweet violets, roses . . . marigolds.”

Lothíriel caught the innuendo – for a change - at once and felt the colour spreading across her cheeks. She watched another smirk appearing on Éomer’s face. It would seem he had achieved his goal. Why had he done this? Yesterday he had apologized for his behaviour on that day – not that she had ever felt an apology to be necessary – and now he was teasing her with it. The only thing worse than being teased was not being sure why one was being teased.

She wasn’t even conscious of her chin lurching up. “I am seriously considering including certain representatives of the human species into the assortment of ingredients I use for those salves and oils.”

“You may find those representatives are not as defenceless as the flowers.”

“I am a healer, my Lord. As such I can think of more than one way to make them defenceless.”

“So can I.”

Lothíriel nearly growled. She was quite certain that that was just another innuendo, unfortunately one she didn’t understand. Therefore she had to confine herself to a scowl and to turning her back on him. She resumed her conversation with the two herdsmen, who had followed their exchange with a mixture of bewilderment and relish. She was so pleased to be able to contribute to the general entertainment!

And while she learnt that Ealric had returned to his old task of assessing and choosing the young horses for training, and that Hleogar had found a new one in repairing and maintaining the saddlery of the riders, she was only too aware of Éomer standing closely behind her. It was as if she could feel his eyes physically on her neck. She was just glad her riding habit and her gloves covered her entirely, or he might have seen the goose-flesh running in wave after wave down her body.

“My Lady.” Despite her constant awareness of him, his sudden address startled her. She forced herself to turn around and look up into his face. Éomer returned her look, eyes gleaming. “I am afraid you have to take leave of your patients. It is time that we set out for Edoras or we will not arrive before dusk.” He looked her up and down with one of his assessing gazes. “The people of Edoras want to see their queen-to-be and not just catch a glance of a shadow in the dark.”

Lothíriel just nodded her assent and bid her farewell to the herdsmen. Ealric and Hleogar bowed, but when she was about to leave the former addressed her once again.

“You know, my Lady, I have been wondering why you are willing to be his wife?”

Thrown off by this unexpected question which any Gondorian would have considered as extremely impertinent not only for its tenor but also for the way it had been put forward, Lothíriel stared aghast first at Ealric and then at Éomer.

Rohan’s King didn’t even bat an eyelid, although the inquiry was just short of an insult towards him. He raised one of his straight brows in deliberate thoughtfulness. “Strange that you should mention it, Ealric. I have been asking myself the same thing.”

Before Lothíriel had the chance to recover, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and pulled her behind him out of the hall. While they had been talking to the two Rohirrim everybody else had left, either to prepare for the forthcoming departure or to go about whatever their tasks might be. The porch door to the courtyard stood open and she could see that outside it was as busy as when the Gondorian company had arrived yesterday. There was nobody in the screens passage.

Lothíriel tried to free herself from Éomer’s grasp with a sudden jerk, causing him to tighten his grip reflexively. Her moan was more a protest as it was an actual expression of pain but he came to a halt and let her go immediately.

“Did I hurt you?”

Lothíriel rubbed her arm and scowled at him.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded angrily.

“What precisely am I doing?” He had this bad habit of returning her questions with one of his own.

“Again and again you are trying to throw me off balance,” she hissed. “And what is that remark you just made to Ealric supposed to mean?”

He eyed her thoughtfully and for long enough to make her blush again.

“You know, Lothíriel,” he began slowly, “you asked me a question yesterday and I had all night to think about it and I found that I have a question of my own, which I would like you to answer. Well,” he added with a shrug, “there are actually two questions.”

He came closer and leant forward slightly. There was a glint in his eyes she was not able to interpret.

“Why have you not said a word in all these months and – more importantly – why did you give your consent to my proposal?”

He raised his hand to her face and let his forefinger move along her jawbone, tracing the shape as if he intended to sculpt her features.

“Give me an honest answer,” he pressed for her reply, his voice soft and low.

Lothíriel looked up at him and when her eyes met his she found she couldn’t even blink. She tried to fight the feeling of being melted by his gaze and to force her brain to think pragmatically and logically. She was out of her league and he knew all the tricks. Amrothos had explained to her that women were easy game for him, and from Merewyn’s words she could only infer that there had been plenty and that he had not made a secret of his various liaisons. With her confession that she longed to be close to him she had dropped her guard rashly and had laid herself open to attack. And he was too experienced a warrior not to seize the advantages when he saw a chink in the armour of an adversary. She wouldn’t give him any more answers to any questions as long as she did not know how he felt about her. She had made the first step; the next had to be his.

She shook her head. “No.”

“No?” He gazed down at her in a most amused manner.

She gave a single shake of her head. “It is your turn, and I asked first.” It sounded childish. It sounded exactly like one of those typical arguments she used to have with Amrothos many years ago.

“If I recall the occasion correctly it was I who asked first,” Éomer pointed out with deliberate patience. “I asked you to become my wife.”

“And I consented.”

“Which leads us back to the question ‘why’.”

“True! Why have you not earlier asked ‘why’?”

“Communication with you, my dearest princess, proves to be difficult.”

His sarcasm irritated her. “You think I am difficult?”

“In a word? Yes!” he mocked.

“Look who is speaking!”

“Bema!” Éomer gave her an exasperated glance. “I have received quite a few felicitations to the forthcoming union. I get this feeling that sympathies would have been probably more to the point.”

“You made the arrangements for this union with my father,” she felt it necessary to stress that at this point.

“Not true! You sent the letter with your consent before Imrahil had returned to Minas Tirith. He had no bearing on your decision. Therefore, why did you consent?”

“Why did you propose? I mean, was there a reason other than that you thought why not take the princess from Gondor as you take the provisions anyway?”

“What?” He stared at her, obviously stunned. She saw anger and outrage flare up in his eyes, and something more, something very dangerous. She should congratulate herself. She had just stepped onto the tail of the sleeping lion.

“That is the most stupid thing I have heard in a very long time. Even somebody like you who is the most stubborn, aggravating and . . . .”

“It is not what I thought but what your people think. That I am just the side-dish to the provisions Gondor has sent to Rohan as its appreciation for your contribution during the war.”

“What makes you think that you know the . . .” He stopped himself and sucked in a deep breath. “Merewyn! That bloody little gossip needs her mouth sewn shut.”

“Why? Because she voices the common opinion? She also had some words of comfort for me. I may call myself fortunate that I come off quite well in comparison to your other women.”

Lothíriel was startled by the sound of her own words. She did not know where they had come from. She had not intended to say them. But there they were.

There was a deep anger in Éomer. It burned in his green-gold eyes and vibrated along every line of the hard body underneath the armour. He seethed with it, although he was masking it well enough beneath a layer of self-control. Lothíriel could sense it and it sent a shiver down her spine. Angry men were dangerous. Amazingly enough, she felt herself more of a match for him when he was angry, than when he was in his teasing and courting mood.

“If I ever needed a reminder that you possess this vexing tendency always to do or say something one does not expect, then I have just been given one - a not too gentle one, I may add.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth for a retort but his finger came with lightning speed, pointing at her face.

“Not a word! Not a single word before I have finished.”

His voice was so low and underlined with outrage that Lothíriel thought it advisable to comply with this request.

“You are going to be my wife. You are going to be Queen of the Riddermark. There are not, and will not be, any other women for you to be compared with. Not by you, nor by me, nor by anyone else.”

He caught her chin between his fingers, surprisingly gentle considering his state of mind, and tilted her face slightly so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

“And one thing has to be absolutely certain between us. My decision to ask you to become my wife has nothing to do with the provisions Gondor supplied, an offer made to me by your father or any kind of politics. There has only ever been one reason . . .”

“I am truly sorry having to interrupt, but I just wish to inform you that everybody is ready to set off for Edoras.”

Lothíriel could make out from Éomer’s dumbfounded expression that he had a similar sense of unreality as she had. This couldn’t be real. There couldn’t have been this voice. Slowly they both turned their heads towards the porch. What they saw standing there was certainly not a delusion.

It was Amrothos.

Lothíriel heard Éomer growl. It was a rough, dark sound that came from deep in his chest and her brother couldn’t have heard it or he would already have turned around and run for his life. Instead he propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.

“We are only waiting for you, Éomer King, and your bride.”

Éomer said nothing, but no one could have mistaken the murderous look in his eyes - no one except Amrothos.

“Shall I inform King Elessar and our father that you need some more time alone with your bride?”

Lothíriel saw Éomer closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. She counted the breaths. After the fifth he opened his eyes again and turned towards her brother, addressing him in a dangerously even voice.

“Do you have any idea how much effort it requires to keep my temper in check?”

“No, I do not,” Amrothos replied genially, as if he had been asked after the weather. “But if you give me a hint . . .”

Éomer shook his head in a motion of mixed disbelief and resignation. “You are a menace, if there has ever been one that has taken on human shape.”

“People say that sort of thing to me all the time; I try not to take it personally.”

Rohan’s King walked up to the Prince of Dol Amroth, confronting him face to face. Lothíriel began to worry about Amrothos. He was not that much shorter than Éomer but much lighter build – and totally oblivious to the fact that, at the very least, his health was in acute danger.

“Will you do me a favour?” Éomer inquired politely.

“If it does not take too much trouble.”

“Fall onto your sword.”

With that parting request he walked straight out of the door, forcing Amrothos to press himself flat against the jamb in order not to get mown down.

“That takes too much trouble,” he remarked, adjusting his surcoat, which had got caught on the departing king’s couter. He looked at his sister. “You know what I think, Lothíriel? It is time that this wedding took place. That man has a lot of tension to work off.”

Lothíriel was wondering if she should feel affronted by having been left standing here. She sighed. “I wish he would do something to get rid of the tension before the wedding.”

Amrothos surprised her when laughter exploded from him. “I doubt that you truly mean that.” His eyes narrowed. “What have you done to make him so angry?”

His sister just blinked at him in indignation.

“Do not give me that look. I own that look.” He held out his hand to her and Lothíriel walked over to him and took it. Amrothos pulled her closer. “Lothíriel, I do not know what he was trying to make clear . . .”

“You have been eavesdropping,” she interrupted him. “Has nobody ever told you that that is considered very bad manners?”

Amrothos just shrugged one shoulder, a movement somehow matching perfectly his lopsided grin.  “Whatever the common opinion about eavesdropping, I learnt a long time ago to appreciate its merits. But that is not the point.” He took her other hand, too, and pulled both of them up under his chin.

“You asked me once how the mind of a man works. Well, today I feel I should give you an additional piece of advice. Do not push. Whatever questions you may have – and I know there are many – ask them, but do not push for an immediate answer. Men do not like being pushed by women.”

He turned her around and shoved her out of the door.

“I know what I am talking about. After all, I am a man.”

TBC