Nobody had ever mentioned to her that love could be so irritating.

Lothíriel stiffened in the saddle and her hold on the reins slackened. Fortunately her chestnut mare concentrated more on the horse in front of her than on her rider. Hastily Lothíriel seized the reins again.

Where had that thought come from?

Up until now she had successfully avoided putting a name to her emotions. How could she term it? Especially when the most characteristic trait of the emotion was to discomfort her so profoundly? On the other hand, she had had this sneaking suspicion for quite some time now that her heart was already certain. She just had to make sure that her mind agreed.

She felt her eyes being drawn to the two kings. The procession they were now heading had increased to more than two hundred riders. Her gaze became fixed on Éomer’s back. Since they had left Aldburg he had been amiably chatting to Elessar as if their argument in the screens passage hadn’t taken place or as if he hadn’t been affected by it. How did he dare to look so relaxed and handsome with his blond mane falling down over his shoulders, not to mention tormenting her with the warm laughter he shared with his friend? All this while she had to struggle with the realization that she had indeed fallen in love with him?

Behind her, she could hear Amrothos bantering with Lord Elfhelm’s daughter, teasing her, and making her giggle. Lothíriel began to ask herself why she should have been concerned about him at all? If his frolics earned him a bloody nose, some loose teeth and a few bruises, it would be just what he deserved. Right now she couldn’t make up her mind whom she was more upset with: Éomer for just walking off and leaving her standing there or Amrothos for preventing Éomer, a second time, from revealing . . .

Well, what exactly had he tried to reveal to her?

Lothíriel growled in frustration, surprising not only Erchirion, who was riding at her side, but also herself. Thinking about it she found that she wouldn’t have consciously known how to make such a sound.

Erchirion did not even attempt to stifle his laughter.

“What in the name of the Valar could have brought about that rumble?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to reply but then closed it again, pressing her lips into a firm line.  She was not certain what to answer or if she even wanted to give one. She saw her brother’s expression sharpen and nearly growled again. The problem with Erchirion and Amrothos was that they were much more perceptive than most people would give them credit for. But then again, they did have many years of practice in hiding most of their abilities effectively.

“What has Amrothos done this time?” he inquired with deliberate patience.

“What makes you think he has done anything at all?” she hit back.

“Lothíriel, you have to do something about this habitual reaction of yours to adamantly defend Amrothos even before one has the chance to bring anything forward against him.”

“I do not think he did it on purpose.” She had, however, to admit to herself that she didn’t really believe that.

“No? Well, that would have been the first time since he was about one year old.” There was not even sarcasm in Erchirion’s voice. He eyed his sister quizzically. “Let me rehash. We were all out in the courtyard waiting for Éomer King and his betrothed to join us so we could set off to Edoras. There was no obvious urgency. Nevertheless, our brother thought it advisable to walk back to the hall. And after he had barely entered the porch, our host – your betrothed – came out looking like a thundercloud on legs, a sign, by the way, that could cause a more timorous soul to run for cover. Now you must admit having witnessed this little incident should give me more than enough reason to inquire as to the latest misconduct of said brother of ours.”

Lothíriel sighed. She knew when she was fighting a lost cause. Erchirion was not only perceptive but could also be rather persistent if he chose to.

“That Éomer was so angry was not Amrothos’s fault but mine.”

“Yours?” Erchirion looked slightly suspicious, “What could you have done to upset him so obviously?” When he got no immediate answer, he pumped her again, “You and Éomer have quarrelled?”

At least she could try. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

“You do not wish to talk about it!” The way he stressed the words sounded somehow peculiar. From the corner of her eye she could see him scrutinizing her but she refused to meet his gaze. “Very well, then we may assume that any disagreements between you and Éomer will have been mended by tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. You do remember, do you not? Tomorrow you and Éomer will be bonded.”

Lothíriel was about to sigh again but suppressed the urge rather quickly. The desire alone to do so felt pathetic and she certainly didn’t want to appear miserable in front of Erchirion. The thing about having a number of siblings was that there was never a lack of opportunity to make a fool of oneself.

Another silence stretched between them. Nobody was able to remain silent as expressively as Erchirion. Lothíriel felt herself begin to fidget.

“You said yourself I would ask him,” she burst out. “And you did not seem to think that anything was wrong with asking.”

“I said you would ask him what?” Erchirion inquired. But then it dawned on him, “Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel! Could you not even wait at least a whole day before you demanded a declaration from him?”

“It is not as if I woke up this morning and made up my mind to approach him on the subject,” she replied irritably, ignoring that she had already brought up the matter the day before. “It just came up . .  . somehow. And I think I have a right to know before we are bonded tomorrow,” she added defensively.

“That might be so,” Erchirion conceded. “By the way: did you find the time to explain to Éomer why you consented to his proposal?” he asked incidentally.

Lothíriel stopped short. “No, I did not,” she said hesitantly.

“He did not want to know?”

“I asked first.” That was one of the stupidest statements she had ever made . . .  if not the stupidest. She saw Erchirion rolling his eyes heavenward.

“I begin to understand why Father feels you two are made for each other.”

Lothíriel’s sense of justice wouldn’t permit it that Erchirion thought Éomer had taken advantage of her foolishness. “I think Éomer was trying to tell me . . . something. But then Amrothos happened to arrive . . .”

Erchirion did not say anything but looked at her steadily for a very long time. Lothíriel did her best to withstand his gaze without too much blinking. It occurred to her that most females would envy her brothers for their long thick lashes.

“What I do not understand,” this brother finally said, “is how the King of Rohan has managed to build up the reputation of being short-tempered. As far as I am able to judge, in recent incidents, he had shown enough patience to rival Aunt Ivriniel’s giant tortoises.”

“I think that comparison is inappropriate,” she objected. “They are rather more phlegmatic than patient.”

“Whatever,” Erchirion replied in a tone that sounded decidedly impatient. “Only one last question. Assuming Éomer had asked first,” he ignored the unladylike snort coming from his sister, “and supposing that you would have been willing to answer that particular question at all, what would your answer have been?”

Lothíriel decided to copy Erchirion’s recent demonstration. She tried to keep expressively silent. After half a dozen horse lengths he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well. I only hope that at least you are able to admit it to yourself.”

Lothíriel eyes wandered back to Éomer. She contemplated him thoughtfully, not even trying to be subtle about it.

“Yes, I am,” she murmured under her breath, but Erchirion had caught it. She could virtually feel his grin, but he was gracious enough to forbear to further comment on it.

They travelled until well after midday before they made a halt. Lothíriel suspected that they only did so in order that she could get some rest. Her aching muscles, which had recovered fairly well overnight due to the comfortable bed, made themselves felt again. She did her best not to let her soreness show but her tense posture didn’t leave much to anyone’s imagination.

They must have covered more than half of today’s leg, probably closer to two thirds. Once past Aldburg, the Great West Road had ascended gradually but consistently until it finally led onto the bank of a river running downhill towards them from the West. If she had discovered enough of something when she had searched for knowledge about Rohan in the Great Library of Minas Tirith, then it had been maps. Therefore Lothíriel did not have to ask for the name of the river. It was the Snowbourn, which had its source in the Ered Nimrais at the foot of the mountain Starkhorn. From there it followed the Harrowdale northwards, passing Edoras, then flowing eastwards and finally joining its waters with those of the Entwash. It had been at its mouth where the Orcs had attacked the herds, killing two young boys.

She began to understand how somebody like Merewyn, who must have lived with the threat of the Orcs all her life, did not feel just relief but also a strong sense of satisfaction about the destruction of the foul creatures.

When they made the halt on the banks of the Snowbourn, most of the riders of the Royal Guard didn’t dismount, but just gave their horses free rein, letting them walk around at will. They moved with an ease and casualness on their steeds as if they were sitting securely in a comfortable armchair. But there was also an underlying watchfulness in their bearing. Lothíriel could not have said if it was due to a actual threat from a foe – after all, the Orcs had come closer to Aldburg than since before the war - or if it was, above all, a habit which had become second nature to them during all those years living under constant threat.

Lothíriel did dismount, with the help of Erchirion, more gracefully than she could have hoped for. Her brother had been perfectly right this morning: she had not the slightest intention of making a fool of herself with Éomer’s guard watching. It appeared that she was the object of their curiosity and the topic of their conversation anyway. Which was hardly surprising but she would rather not contribute to their entertainment.

She left it to Erchirion to take care of her mare and walked down to the bank of the river. It was a wide, flat stretch of water, fast-running with the riverbed strewn with rocks of all sizes. They had been rounded and polished over thousands of years by the force of the water. Here and there boulders lay scattered along the grassy banks. Lothíriel climbed up on one of them, turning to look upstream. Willow-trees grew thickly along the stream. There would certainly never be a shortage of willow-tree bark for her herb stocks.

Suddenly the cloud cover, which had hung over them since they had left the White City, broke up and for the first time in more than ten days she could feel the sun. She tipped her face up and basked in its unexpected warmth. It felt wonderful.

At least it did until the tingling on the nape of her neck provided her with the information that Éomer was approaching. She straightened immediately, her entire body reacting.

She did not move; did not turn around, but waited for him to do or say something. She felt a slight vibration of the boulder under her feet. Éomer had also stepped on it, invading the already narrow space. She could sense him behind her so clearly, watching her, as if he touched her not only with his eyes but with his hands.

“You are a challenge, indeed, my Lady.” His voice was warm and soft and wrapped itself around her.

Lothíriel swallowed, trying to ignore the goose-flesh making its way down her back. “A stubborn and aggravating challenge, I gather? Not what you were expecting?"

“Oh, do not get me wrong. I love challenges. And I am going to prove that I am a match for this one.”

She lifted her chin. “Are you challenging me?”

“This is not a contest, Lothíriel.”

She didn’t respond. His closeness made her become more tense and fidgety with every passing moment. She was tempted to turn around but also feared it. From now on she would have to look into his eyes with the recently admitted knowledge that she loved him. She was certain that she would not be able to keep her feelings from him. She was not quite sure why she would still want to hide those feelings. Everything was so confusing. Why couldn’t this have happened in the middle of the night; in her bed where she was alone and had the time to get used to the idea and to compose herself? In broad daylight and surrounded by about two hundred men it was truly a case of bad timing.

“I should not have remained silent all these months,” Éomer said, after what seemed to be a ridiculously long pause.

For some reason she hadn’t even expected him to say anything else without a response from her. And certainly not something she had wanted him to say: namely the confession that he had been at fault. But now that he had said those words she felt it was not fair. She couldn’t put the blame entirely on him. She had taken offence at the form of his proposal and without trying to find out why he had chosen to write such a formal and aloof letter, she had written back in the same fashion. Judging by the way he had acknowledged her consent he had been as upset by her wording as she had been by his. It would be childish indeed to insist upon who was at fault at the origin of their strife.  

“You are right, Lothíriel. We need to learn about each other.” Probably because she hadn’t responded to his introductory words, there was a hint of urgency but also of impatience in the tone of his voice. Giant tortoise indeed.

“We need to talk. But I am afraid with that brother of yours around there is not much point in trying to before I have the right to lock you up.”

“You are going to lock me up?”

Lothíriel came around so abruptly that she lost her footing on the uneven surface of the boulder. Without Éomer seizing her quickly at her waist she would have fallen off backwards. She only noticed in passing that she had just shown, once more, the more clumsy side of herself. Highly indignant she scowled at him.

“You are going to lock me up?” she repeated.

Having helped her to regain her balance Éomer let one of his hands settle lightly on her hip. He did not try to conceal his grin at her indignation.

“My apologies. My wording was misleading,” he said soothingly, keeping his eyes on hers. “What I wanted to say was - that I will not even try to have a meaningful conversation with you before I have the right to lock us into a chamber together. It will seem that it is a law of nature that as soon as I open my mouth that youngest brother of yours will appear out of nowhere. It is beginning to become a nuisance.”

“The first time we were interrupted it was Lord Elfhelm.” Lothíriel thought it only fair to point out.

“But Elfhelm did not do it on purpose while your brother . . .”

“He is a good bother.” Erchirion was right. It was some sort of habitual reaction.

“I think you mentioned that before.” Éomer sounded highly doubtful, the expression emphasized by a pair of eyebrows which had moved up to be very close to his hairline. Looking into the green and gold depth of his eyes Lothíriel lost the thread of the conversation. A man shouldn’t really have such beautiful eyes. Or lips . . .

Seeing her looking at him so intensely the brows made their way back downwards and the fingertips of the hand laying on her hip pressed slightly into her flesh. “Do not look at me that way,” he murmured.

Lothíriel’s mouth suddenly became dry and she had to swallow a couple of times to get her tongue off her palate.

“What way?” she got out, when her brain finally took charge of her spinning emotions.

He smiled at her slowly and she felt her blood heat.

“I am wondering if you have any notion how much I want you.”

Lothíriel frowned. That phrase again! “I do not even know if I understand what wanting somebody truly means. I asked Amrothos about it . . .”

“You did what?” Éomer burst out.

She blinked at him in surprise. She saw his eyes being drawn toward to their travel companions and following his gaze found that his voice, which certainly carried, had attracted the attention of virtually everyone – if they hadn’t had it before already.  Perhaps they should just ignore the curious glances.

Éomer appeared to have come to the same conclusion. He cleared his throat. “Do I want to know what his answer was?”

“He said he would leave it to my husband to enlighten me.”

“There seems to be a small amount of brain in his head, after all,” Éomer muttered. He gave his head a small shake as if to clear his thoughts. “Lothíriel, do you feel rested enough so that we can continue to Edoras?”

She felt slightly baffled by the sudden change of subject but resisted the urge to pursue the matter and just nodded. “Of course.”

Éomer stepped down from the boulder and turned, holding out his hand to assist her. She took it and hopped down. Before he let go of her hand he squeezed it lightly.

“I think it is high time we were alone,” he murmured.

“We have not said a word to each other for nine months,” Lothíriel replied pragmatically. “I think our talk can wait for another day.”

She thought she heard a snort coming from him, but when she looked up at him he just stared straight ahead, his face showing a deadpan expression. He accompanied her back to her chestnut and helped her mount by grasping her lower leg and lifting her up so she could swung her right leg easily over the back of her mare. Putting her left foot into the stirrup he kept his hand wrapped around her ankle while she arranged her wide skirts.

“By the way.” She looked down at him and saw him motioning to her riding habit. “I do like this gown.”

“Thank you,” she smiled hesitantly, explaining, “I would not have chosen it myself. These wide sleeves are rather impractical.”

His mouth quirked slightly at the corner, “Indeed, then who chose it for you?”

“Queen Arwen.” Suddenly she got an idea. “I am not certain if you have taken note of it but Merewyn mentioned that the wains with my possessions have arrived at Edoras. I am afraid there are chests upon chests with gowns and all kind of pieces of clothing. Probably more than I will ever have need for.”

“Yes, I took note of the arrival of those wains and I was told there were chests upon chests containing healers’ equipment.”

“I hope you do not mind.”

“Mind what? You bringing all those herbs and potions and instruments? Our people will only benefit from them. This morning when I looked in on Éothain I saw Berenwald happily playing with his new set of surgical knives.”

“No, that is not what I meant. Will you object if I continue to use my knowledge as a healer?” she asked cautiously

Éomer gave her a long considering look. “If I had any objections, would I have asked you to cut the arrowhead out of my Marshal? And I had better be careful about any objections I might have. As you said earlier, as a healer you have the means to force me into submission.”

“True!” Lothíriel smiled down at him with a sigh of relief. “And all I need for it is in those chests you mentioned.”

“Without a doubt a very interesting prospect to look forward to.”

She frowned, confused by that statement. He didn’t truly expect her to poison him? But he continued before she could ask him to explain.

 “Lothíriel, you once told me that without the acquiescence of either her father or her husband a woman in Gondor can do nothing.”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise that he remembered something she once had mentioned, more or less only incidentally.

“As my wife you will not need my consent for everything you do. You will make your own decisions. I cannot promise that I will always agree with them, but I can promise that I will respect them. I think I understand what it means to you to be a healer. And as long as you will not keep me from riding, I will not keep you from healing,” he added with a lighter note in his voice. “But there will be one condition,” he went on. “You will refrain from treating strange men, all on your own, in the middle of the night.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Yes indeed. I think I had better refrain from it. After all, we have seen where it can lead.”

He watched her with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it to him and pushed the cuff slightly down so he could drop a kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“I think I would have found you at any rate.”

Lothíriel’s fingers tightened around his in a short, flexing movement, but she nearly managed to keep her voice calm. “Somehow I have this feeling that my father would have had made sure of it.”

“Ah yes, Imrahil,” he said dryly. He appeared to be holding back a smile. “Remind me, when the opportunity arises, to convey my gratitude to your father.”

She did not get the chance to reply. King Elessar approached, leading not only his own steed but also the huge grey she had earlier seen Éomer riding.

“Éomer, this beast of yours is everything but cooperative.”

Lothíriel could have sworn there was a hint of desperation in her king’s voice.

“What are you doing with Firefoot? I left him with Forthhere.” Éomer seized the reins of his stallion and rubbed his muzzle with his palm in greeting.

“Your squire was needed to assist Prince Elphir whose horse seems to have picked up a stone in his shoe.”

Éomer had gone over to run his fingers lovingly through his steed’s forelock. “Lothíriel, I do not think you have yet had the chance to meet Firefoot.”

Lothíriel looked at the stallion who was wearing an elaborately decorated bridle and saddle, somehow a contrast to Éomer’s otherwise rather mundane tastes. To her, who had admittedly very little experience of horses, this one looked very fierce and she couldn’t help feeling that she hadn’t missed much by not having met him until now. Nevertheless, Éomer’s words had sounded like an official introduction and as if she was supposed to respond to it. But she had never before been officially introduced to a horse. What was there to say?

“Greetings, Firefoot. It is good to finally meet you.”

The stallion granted her no more than a bored glance.

“I am afraid I do not impress him very much,” she pointed out.

Éomer grinned first at her and then at his horse, patting his neck.  “He is a very amiable lad,” he said.

Never before had Lothíriel seen her king rolling his eyes.

“Has the problem with Elphir’s horse been resolved?” she asked Elessar.

The King of Gondor swung into the saddle. Bringing his steed on the bit, he smiled at her.

“Yes, it was nothing serious. If you are ready, Lady Lothíriel, we can continue.”

They were distracted by Firefoot, who, after his master had mounted him, was prancing around in a circle. “Stop those gimmicks. You are not a colt any more,” Lothíriel could hear Éomer scolding affectionately.

Elessar watched his younger friend with a brotherly smile. “I think there is one aspect in the relationship of those two I can reassure you about,” he addressed Lothíriel. “It is known that Éomer has shared Firefoot’s stall from time to time, but so far it has not been heard of, that on any occasion, he has shared his bedchamber with his horse.”

“Very funny,” Éomer muttered.

“I am relieved to hear that,” Lothíriel said with a deadpan voice, “and furthermore I would be grateful if you would refrain from it in the future. The only exception I would tolerate would be in the case of excessive flooding of the stables.”

“Edoras is situated on a high hill,” Éomer pointed out.

“So I have been told,” she replied.

Both men chuckled in response.

Imrahil rode up to them.

“Lothíriel, there you are,” her father said, remarking on the obvious. “Eight more miles, my dear, and you will have it all behind you.”

“Now that she is in Rohan she will have the opportunity to quickly improve her skills,” Éomer announced.

“I was afraid you would say that sooner or later,” Lothíriel sighed. But she assumed that she would at least get a few days of rest before she had to mount a horse again. With the wedding and the festivities there certainly wouldn’t be the time to go for a ride.

They began the last leg of their journey to Edoras. Soon it turned out that her elegant chestnut couldn’t keep pace with the stallions of the two kings, so she let her drop back and took again her place at the side of Erchirion. Her brother must have seen her with Éomer and must have inferred from their conduct that they had indeed mended their disagreement. But Erchirion didn’t say a word about it and instead chatted about the recent improvement in the weather and the imposing landscape.

They followed the reaches of the Snowbourn upstream. It led them in a wide curve crossing the foothills towards one of the uncountable valleys which ran through the great mountain barrier. Its mouth was still wide but it closed in towards its end like a huge funnel. Suddenly Erchirion pointed at a steep hill still far before them.

“Lothíriel, that must be Edoras.”

She raised her hand to shield her eyes against the sun which now hung low in the sky. After a while she could see the hill on the eastern side of the valley more clearly and she could make out more details. Edoras certainly made use of its natural geography. It was a natural rock stronghold that looked down on the whole plateau. 

The hill was surrounded by a mighty wall and thatched houses nestled uphill into the green slopes. On the top of the hill stood, defiant and in solitary splendour, the great feast hall of Edoras, Meduseld. Bathed in the glow of the setting sun there was certainly the impression of the roof being tiled with gleaming metal. The Golden Hall did credit to its name indeed.

Finally the Great West Road came upon the ford of the Snowbourn and they left this route and forked off onto a track leading towards the gates of the city. Closer and closer they came to the place which would be, from today on, her home. She was able to make out that the protective wall consisted of three sections; an earthen dyke and a wall of stone topped by a thorny hedge.

Concentrating on her surroundings and taking in a whole host of new impressions, Lothíriel did not notice that Éomer had turned his steed around and was riding next to her, not until he addressed her. She started slightly, leading him to smile.

“So engrossed?” he asked in a low tone.

“I have never seen a city like this, fashioned by the hand of men but in harmony with nature. In Gondor, wherever men built their settlements they subjugated their surroundings, wanting to make their mark for all eternity.”

“We Rohirrim are still a young people, Lothíriel, who have not yet begun to think about eternity. For us the 'now' is more important. We are not trying to make history and create a legacy.”

“The Rohirrim have made history already.”

“Perhaps, but rather incidentally. We fought for the survival of those who are living now.”

“And for those who will come.”

“That is a law in itself.”

They had reached two rows of mounds, lining the road on both sides. They were covered with tiny, simple flowers. The barrows of the Kings of Rohan. Éomer gestured to the first barrow to his left.

“This is where we laid my uncle to rest. This is Rohan’s history, for better and for worse.”

She looked at his face turned towards the grave of his predecessor.

“Did you love your uncle?”

“As my king and as my kin.” His voice was strangely colourless. “I found that love does not make one blind but it makes one hesitant and cautious.”

Lothíriel did not know what to answer as she was not sure what he was talking about. At first glance Éomer was of a pragmatic nature, a man who was comfortable with his power and utterly in control. Her father had described him as a man who had a natural talent for leadership and command and also that he had the ability needed to organize people and resources to achieve a purpose. A man who could make people understand his purpose; make them want to get there with him. And he was a warrior; focused and aggressive.

But no man was two-dimensional. Under the surface there were many layers of his personality to be discovered. He was right. They had to learn about each other. And as soon as all those necessary preliminaries were over, the wedding and the festivities, she would begin to peel back those layers until she could discover what lay hidden in his core. She doubted that that was going to be an easy task, but then:  nobody had ever mentioned that love would not be irritating.

The sound of horns jolted her out of her reverie. They had passed the barrow field and were approaching the massive gates which were flanked by tall watchtowers. From the top of the towers and along the crown of the wall the banners of Rohan, Gondor and Dol Amroth greeted them. All those who had ridden in front of them, except the standard-bearer, had reined in their horses and joined the procession behind them.

The King of Rohan escorted his bride into his city.

The huge pair of gates, elaborately decorated with carvings, swung open and admitted them into Edoras. Lothíriel’s eyes were caught by the mighty stone wall.

“It is constructed without any mortar to bind them together,” she remarked.

“I beg your pardon?” Éomer looked at her, slightly baffled.

“The wall,” she explained, “is built without any mortar to bind the stones together.”

Éomer surprised her by bursting out laughing, and so those citizens of Edoras who had come to the wide open grounds behind the gates to greet their king and their future queen, were given a rather cheerful first impression of the soon-to-be royal couple.

“What is so funny about my remark?” Lothíriel demanded under her breath.

“It is not funny but unexpected.”

They had crossed the open grounds and entered the wide stable yard. More Rohirrim were waiting there, but Lothíriel did not find the time to comprehend that all those eyes were looking first and foremost at her. Éomer jumped off his steed and, handing the reins over to a stable-hand, he turned to help his bride dismount.

Having her on her feet before him he looked down at her, his eyes gleaming with warmth and laughter.

“I swear you must be the first bride ever to enter Edoras commenting of the construction of its fortification.”

“I still do not see why that should be so funny,” she stated. “I mean, it is difficult to overlook.”

“For somebody with your sense for detail and your curiosity . . . probably it is.”

Éomer looked around for his guests. King Elessar, her father and brothers and Lord Elfhelm with his daughter joined them. Their host nodded to them and then raised his arm, inviting his bride to put her hand on his.

“We will have to walk uphill to Meduseld.”

“Do not worry. In contrast to my sadly lacking skills on horseback, I am steady on my feet.”

They left the stable yard, following a broad path paved with light-yellow flagstones. Several times they had to climb wide steps to a higher level. The path was lined by houses, all built of wood and with thatched roofs. The further they went uphill the bigger the houses became and the more elaborate the carvings on the doors, the shutters and the ridges. It appeared the more prosperous a citizen of Edoras was, the closer he lived to the Golden Hall.

The way was lined with people, their faces friendly, open and curious, but a loud and cheerful greeting did not seem to be in the character of the Rohirrim.

Finally they reached the high platform on which Meduseld stood. When Lothíriel raised her eyes, she saw that a large group of people had gathered together on the paved terrace in front of the hall.

“I was told you always complained about the crowds in Minas Tirith,” she murmured only for Éomer to hear.

He followed her gaze. “That is not truly a crowd. They only appear to be of a great number because the space they have assembled on is rather limited.”

He led her up the high stairs of stone and Lothíriel would have preferred to turn around and appreciate the view over the city but instead she had to face a load of guests and dignitaries. She braced herself for this task when her eyes fell upon a tall figure apparelled in white. The same moment she heard Éomer exclaiming, definite delight in his voice.

“Gandalf.” He held out both hands to the wizard who clasped his forearms. “This is an unexpected but great joy to have you back at Edoras.”

“I could not let the King of Rohan get wedded and stay away. And, of course, I wanted to meet his bride . . . again.”

Lothíriel looked startled. “I am honoured, Mithrandir. I have seen you at the White City but . . .  you said again. We have never been introduced.”

“Oh, not officially,” Gandalf replied in a friendly manner. “But we spoke a few words at the Houses of Healing, Princess Lothíriel. I think you said: ‘You are in my way!’ and I answered: ‘My apologies.’”

Lothíriel blinked at him in embarrassment. “My belated apologies,” she said, feeling warmth in her cheeks. “I did not realize . . . I cannot even remember that episode.”

Éomer chuckled beside her. “I think I already mentioned that you have a tendency to be slightly single-minded in certain situations.”

She gave that a moment of thoughtful consideration. “Do you think we will soon find the time to discuss your character shortcomings for a change?”

“Oh, I am certain you will,” Gandalf assured her. “But there are many more who wish to meet your bride, Éomer. I will keep her no longer. And I wish to greet Aragorn and Imrahil.” He was about to turn around, but then hesitated as if he remembered something. Raising his hand, he stopped the King of Rohan. “Éomer, I thought while I am here I can make myself useful. I will preside over the ceremony tomorrow.”

“You will?” Éomer asked, undoubtedly surprised by this offer, which did not sound like a request.

“Yes, I will,” the wizard confirmed. “We can talk over the details of it later.”

“As you wish.” If he had intended to comment on this unexpected development, he didn’t get the chance. Two small figures, who had been fidgeting around in the background, came forward to greet him with bubbling enthusiasm. They were talking fast and over each other and Lothíriel could have sworn they were talking about several different subjects at the same time. Amazingly enough Éomer appeared to be able to follow the torrent of words and managed to take advantage of a short silence to take over the conversation.

“Lothíriel, please meet Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine of the Mark and Master Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor. My Lords, I have the pleasure to introduce to you my betrothed, the daughter of Prince Imrahil, the Princess Lothíriel.”

The very formally introduced princess looked at her betrothed from out of the corner of her eye, not certain if he was making fun of the Hobbits, but all she could see in his expression was genuine affection for those small men.

She accepted their felicitations and compliments but had hardly time to thank them when another short but definitely more massive figure pushed to the front.

“Yes, yes, yes!” a deep voice boomed. “You Hobbits always talk too much. Go away, so I can greet the lad and have a look at his bride.”

The next moment Lothíriel found herself face to face with . . . a face that was somehow well camouflaged behind masses of wiry hair. The dwarf had braided parts of his hair and beard but could have also easily have braided his brows.

“Ha!” it rang out of the undergrowth. “I knew it!”

“You knew what, Gimli?” Éomer demanded clarification.

“Dark hair! I have known it since that feast. You do not like blond hair.”

“A rather unfortunate dislike in a land like Rohan,” Lothíriel murmured. It seemed their wedding would offer an interesting assortment of guests.

“I remember you, Princess,” Gimli informed her. “You had that row with him. I always wanted to know what it was about.” The bushy brows move up quizzically.

“The weather,” Éomer enlightened him.

“What?” the dwarf bellowed.

“The weather,” Lothíriel confirmed. “I have always been quite self-willed about the weather.”

“The weather is indeed a subject one can easily become absorbed in and reflect upon for long hours in philosophical meditation.” The voice was melodious and silvery soft, the face of the speaker beautiful beyond compare.  However neither drew Lothíriel in, but rather forced a restrained response from her.

The Elf bowed his head to Éomer. “My Lord King.” He turned towards Lothíriel. “My Lady, you are your father’s daughter. The echo of your elven blood can still be seen.”

“The eyes of the elves must be sharp indeed if you are able to see this blood, thinned over twenty three generations,” Lothíriel answered.

“No matter how thin, Princess, it will stay with you and with many more generations to come.”

Legolas bowed again and then left, steering his friend away so Éomer and Lothíriel could proceed in greeting others.

“The weather?” she could hear the dwarf ask sceptically.

The introductions went on for quite some time. Lothíriel met Erkenbrand, Marshal of the Westmark. A mountain of a man with the biggest hands she had ever had to entrust her own to. He had once chosen a wife in proportion to his own configuration and therefore their children, two sons and two daughters, were of similar size. A truly large family. She had never felt so fragile.

She was introduced to the members of the Royal Council and their families; too many faces and too many names to be taken in all at once. But finally she looked into a face that made her nearly sigh in relief. There was no doubt from whom Merewyn had inherited her untameable honey-blond hair and her wide, lush mouth.

Lord Elfhelm’s wife stood next to a tall lean woman with a thick wheat-coloured braid. Both women bowed when Lothíriel came up to them.

“My Lady, I am honoured to finally make your personal acquaintance.”

“And I have been looking forward to meeting you, Lady Cynewyn.”

“You must be exhausted after so many days of travel. I gather you did not get too much rest at Aldburg.”

“I went to bed early and had a good night’s sleep,” Lothíriel assured her.

“Only after she had to perform an operation on Éothain,” Éomer had come up to them. Both women looked at him with concern in their eyes. “We had to hunt down Orcs. Éothain is fine and is now with Berenwald.”

“No further casualties, my Lord?” Lady Cynewyn had lowered her voice.

“Two lads have been killed by the Orcs. We lost several dams and foals.” The woman opened her mouth to say something more but Éomer shook his head. “Not now, Cynewyn. Not here. Take the Princess to her chamber. She needs to rest.”

“But I cannot just. . .” Lothíriel began to protest.

“You can and you will,” he cut her short. He took her hand and pulled her inside the hall. Lothíriel realized that she hadn’t had a chance to have a closer look at the beautiful doors and bronze mountings or the carving and gildings which decorated the outside of Meduseld.

“Today I don’t want you to have to think about anything other than getting your rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“I think I can promise not to break down because of exhaustion during the wedding ceremony,” Lothíriel protested slightly irritated over his high-handed conduct.

“I was not thinking so much about the ceremony,” he murmured.

Lothíriel frowned. She did not like that particular smile of his. It always seemed to appear at those times when she got the feeling that she didn’t really understand the meaning of what he had just said.

“Are there any Rohirric wedding customs I do not know about?” she asked suspiciously.

Éomer shook his head. “No, I do not think so.”

Others began to pour into the hall and he nodded towards Lady Cynewyn and the second Rohirric woman.

“Lothíriel, I have neglected to introduce Ælfgyth. She is the housekeeper at Meduseld. She will take you to the bedchamber which has been prepared for you for tonight.”

“Mistress Ælfgyth.” Lothíriel greeted the tall woman.

“My Lady.”

“I will also accompany you, my Lady,” Cynewyn announced.

“Then you are in good hands.”

Éomer still held one of her hands in his and suddenly she felt a tug which was becoming all too familiar. He was trying to slide her glove from her fingers. Lothíriel made a fist. She looked up into the green-gold gaze. His grin nearly made her knees buckle but she refused to give in. Finally he raised her gloved fist to his lips and dropped a light kiss on it.

“Sleep well.”

It seemed that the purr was at his disposal whenever he wanted to make use of it. There was no doubt. Éomer of Rohan enjoyed playing cat-and-mouse . . . as long as he got to be the cat. She had a lot to learn and she intended to be an apt pupil.

Lady Cynewyn and Ælfgyth led her quickly across the hall. Lothíriel could get only a fleeting first glance of the splendour of the Golden Hall. It was much bigger than the hall of Aldburg and decorated with tapestries and the banners of Rohan, Gondor and Dol Amroth. The complicated pattern of the stone floor was magnificent; mighty pillars, carved and gilded, supported a lofty roof; the high set windows held panes of coloured glass; the dais at the far end of the hall did not house the top table but a single, richly carved and gilded chair.

Obviously the Rohirrim loved their carvings and the colour gold.

Lord Elfhelm’s wife preceded her up the three steps and across the dais, pushing aside a wall hanging in the far left corner to uncover a door. It led the three women into a wide corridor, apparently running along the entire short side of the hall. Cynewyn opened one of the many doors from the corridor.

“This will be your chamber for tonight, my Lady.”

Lothíriel stepped past her into the room and looked around. It was more spacious than the one she had spent the last night in. Like the great hall it had a beautifully tiled stone floor covered with woven rugs. The walls showed panelling in a warm honey-tone colour. The same wood was used for the richly carved furniture: a four-poster bed, a bench and two armchairs in front of the hearth and several chests. There was a screen which shielded a bathtub and on it hung a dress of dark blue velvet and ice blue satin: her wedding gown.

“I took the liberty of having all your possessions taken straight to the Queen’s chamber,” Cynewyn explained. “Only those things I thought you might need for tonight and for the preparation for tomorrow I had brought here. I hope that meets your approval.”

“Very much so,” Lothíriel answered. “You have been a great help, Lady Cynewyn. Not just by taking care of all the preparations for the wedding. Lord Elfhelm told me that you took over this, and it certainly could not have been an easy task.”

“It has given me . . . all of us,” she gestured towards the housekeeper who stood by the door, “great pleasure to prepare for the wedding of our king. Rohan hasn’t had a queen in forty years. When Thengel King died his wife Morwen returned to her home in Gondor and Théoden King’s wife, Elfhild, had died two years prior to that; so there never was a queen at Théoden’s side. And we are not even certain that the Golden Hall has ever witnessed the wedding of a crowned king. This occurrence is special indeed.”

“Oh my,” Lothíriel went over to the bench and sat down, “another reason to be nervous.”

Both women laughed. “I do not see any reason for you to be nervous about anything. I admired you just now, when you were paraded in front of all those people out there, you showed all of them a friendly face.”

“I fear I have already forgotten at least half of the names of those I was introduced to.” She put her palm against her forehead. “There was Lord Erkenbrand and his family. His wife’s name is Alfrun and there was a daughter with the name Eormenhild and a son named Erkenwald. I am afraid the names of the two others have slipped my mind.”

“Do not worry about that, my Lady,” Ælfgyth interjected. “You may have forgotten their names, but any offspring of Lord Erkenbrand and Lady Alfrun are easily identified.”

Lothíriel blinked a few times, fighting the temptation to laugh. “True,” she finally commented in a deadpan voice. “And then there was Lord Aldhelm, the head of the Royal Council and his wife Heregyth.” She frowned. “But the names of all the others . . . I will have to begin all over again.”

“But not tonight,” Cynewyn objected. “Let me send for hot water so you can take a bath.”

“I would like that very much. I was able to take one this morning, but only in haste. And I do need to wash my hair,” she added, pulling the dark strands over her shoulder and eyeing them critically.

“In that case I will go and get, not only the water, but also Winfrith,” Ælfgyth declared. With a brief nod she left the chamber.

“Who is Winfrith?” Lothíriel asked.

“If she is agreeable to you, she will be your handmaiden,” Cynewyn replied. “She is a young widow who lost her husband at the Fords of Isen. He was a rider in Prince Théodred’s éored. She has no surviving male relatives or close kin to rely on and has to make a living on her own. I found her much too bright and eager to waste her as a kitchen maid.”

“I am quite certain that I will find her agreeable, as she has your recommendation,” Lothíriel assured her.

Cynewyn went behind the screen and returned with a quilted robe of a pale blue silk. Lothíriel couldn’t remember that one having been made for her. But then there had been so many pieces of clothing. She wondered how Cynewyn and Ælfgyth had managed to store everything away.

“Perhaps you would like to take off your riding habit and make yourself more comfortable while waiting for the water to arrive.” Cynewyn suggested.

Lothíriel groaned inwardly. This taking off her clothes in front of others was getting to be habitual. Before she had decided with which part of her clothing to begin, a knock sounded at the door. Cynewyn bid whoever was there to enter and another blond woman stepped in. Her hair showed a strawberry tone and her face was covered with freckles; an amazing number of freckles for this time of the year. There was hardly any more space for additional ones which might arrive in the summer.

“My Lady, this is Winfrith.”

Unlike Cynewyn and Ælfgyth, the handmaiden curtseyed to her. She was in her mid twenties and could have been called quite pretty if there had been a trace of joy on her face and less sadness in her eyes.

“Let me help you to undress, my Lady.” She went down on one knee before Lothíriel and began to unlace her riding boots. “Ælfgyth will see to your bathing water. You are going to feel much better after you have washed off the dust from the roads.”

Lothíriel decided to just let everything happen to her. If she had learnt one thing from her acquaintance with Gondor’s Elven queen then it was that resistance was futile when females got going about a fellow female’s toilet and wardrobe. She considered herself lucky that she had escaped all that fuss for at least her years in the Houses of Healing.

Soon she was reclining in a spacious bathtub, resting her head against a rolled up linen sheet. Winfrith had somehow managed to retrieve her travel bags and she had been able to enrich the water with the soothing oil of the laurel fruit. While her newly appointed handmaiden took care of the dirty clothing from the bags, Lady Cynewyn went over the order of events for the next day – her wedding day.

She would be glad when all these preludes would be done with and she could go back to her life. Or rather forward to her new life. There was so much to learn and to discover, a prospect she was definitely looking forward to.

“My Lady, are you listening?” Cynewyn asked from the other side of the screen, humour in her voice.

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose sheepishly. “I am afraid I was wool-gathering for a moment.” She sighed, “I will probably stumble through the ceremony like a dimwit tomorrow.”

“I doubt that you know how to stumble around,” the other woman assured her. “And the Rohirric customs are like our people: straightforward and not very ostentatious. All you have to do is give the affirmation that you are entering this union of your own free will.”

“And otherwise I just follow – of my own free will, of course - wherever Éomer leads me.”

Cynewyn laughed. “Yes, I think you have comprehended the essence of our customs.”

Lothíriel found it as easy to talk to Marshal Elfhelm’s wife as she had found it writing to her. They chatted about the preparation for the festivities: about the lady’s children – there were two more daughters beside Merewyn, sixteen and fourteen years old (to the embarrassment of those daughters Cynewyn had given birth to a baby boy just three months ago) – and about the measures which had been taken to store all of Lothíriel’s possessions, especially her healer’s equipment, until she decided what to do with them.

Finally Winfrith washed Lothíriel’s hair. The young woman was polite and obliging and certainly very clever and practically minded, but she was also the total opposite to the talkative Merewyn. But that was a quality Lothíriel could very well live with.

Feeling really clean and comfortable for the first time in many days, Lothíriel found herself in front of the hearth, clad in a chemise and the silk robe and feasting on a light meal whilst letting the warmth from the fire slowly dry her hair.

Winfrith place a pitcher of water and a mug on the stand next to the bed and turned to her lady. “Is there anything else you wish for, my Lady?”

“No, thank you, Winfrith. You can retire and wake me tomorrow morning early enough.” Lothíriel lifted the tray with the leftovers of her meal. “Please take this with you.”

The handmaiden took the tray, curtseyed and left the chamber.

“And I will go so you can take your rest,” Cynewyn declared, getting to her feet. “I will be back tomorrow morning, together with Winfrith, to be at your disposal. Ælfgyth is going to be very busy with the preparation of the feast. Sleep well, my Lady.”

“Thank you again for all your help, Lady Cynewyn.”

“As I said, it is a great pleasure.”

The lady went to the door. With her hand on the bolt she turned around again, looking at her soon-to-be queen with the quiet humour which reminded Lothíriel very much of Lord Elfhelm.

“You are going to get a rather . . . unique husband, my Lady.”

“So I have already gathered,” Lothíriel replied wryly.

With a chuckle, Cynewyn left the chamber.

Lothíriel shook out her hair in front of the fire. She was tempted to go straight to bed, but she had better let her hair dry entirely or tomorrow there would be only an unruly mess. She pulled one of the armchairs to the fire and settled down in it, resting her neck on the upholstered back and letting her hair fall over it. Staring at the ceiling she became drowsy and must have nearly fallen asleep when noises penetrated the slumberous clouds that were wrapped about her. It took her a while to identify those noises as voices and then to identify the voices as those of her brothers – all three of them. Sweet Elbereth, what was that lot doing in the corridor outside her chamber?

In the meantime, it had become dark outside and, according to Lady Cynewyn, there was a feast prepared for the guests in the great hall. Why weren’t they at the feast?

Lothíriel got up reluctantly from her comfortable chair and shuffled half-asleep towards the door. She pressed her ear to the panel. Yes, indeed, there was Erchirion’s voice and Elphir’s and she could have sworn she had heard Amrothos’s earlier. Carefully she opened the door just a crack.

Now she could understand Erchirion quite clearly.

“Elphir, we are guests of the King of Rohan and it is not usual to snoop around after your host. What are you thinking?”

“What makes you think he can think?” Amrothos butted in. “By now you should have realized that he has the brain of a chicken.”

“All I want is to make certain of where Éomer King has disappeared to.” Elphir replied irritably to Erchirion, ignoring his youngest brother’s remark.

“Meaning you are going to knock at our sister’s door to make certain that Éomer is not with her. Sweet Elbereth, Elphir! Tomorrow he is going to wed her.”

“Not to mention that tomorrow night he is going to bed her,” Amrothos supplied cheerfully.

Lothíriel heard a snort from Erchirion. “You are not very helpful, Amrothos.”

“What makes you think I am trying to be helpful?”

“I have really no idea why the two of you are making such a fuss,” Elphir hissed. “She was ushered away so quickly after our arrival that I just want to make sure that our sister is well.”

Now she could hear snorts coming from both Erchirion and Amrothos. She feared that they would quarrel happily until somebody might not only discover them but also the reason for their disagreement and that could become truly embarrassing.

She flung open the door and stepped out into the corridor.

“I am well,” she announced. “I am alone and I am tired. And Amrothos is right, Elphir, you do have the brain of a chicken and I bet it was glad to get rid of it.”

Without giving them a chance to reply she retreated back into her room and slammed the door shut.

She loved her brothers. She truly did. But she was glad that she was going to get shot of them.

TBC