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Morgengifu  by Lady Bluejay

Well, thank you for all the positive response I received for the first chapter.  There are only four in all – it’s just a short, fun scenario to get me back into writing. So I hope you enjoy.

And special thanks to Lia for her beta and continued support. LBJ

Morgengifu 2

Edoras – Last year of the Third Age.

Éomer removed a few strands of hair from his mouth, and moved away slightly so that he could look down on Lothíriel’s face. The lamp had finally gone out, but a thin shaft of sunlight cut across the bed from between the heavy curtains, enough for him to see that her eyes were still tightly closed. As much as he wanted her to wake, he did nothing to hasten the process, acknowledging to himself that she very much needed to sleep. The arduous journey she had made to get here, the three hectic days before the wedding when she had struggled to familiarise herself with a new culture, a new people and a new language, and the lengthy wedding feast would have tired the toughest constitution. And then of course there had been the wedding night itself...

Éomer allowed himself a sigh of pure satisfaction. The last few hours had set the foundation of what he sincerely hoped – and expected – to be a successful and fulfilling marriage. Which could be considered incredible because he could count on two hands the number of days they had spent together beforehand. To occupy himself he started to tick off the times they had actually met – true, there was that first time, although he could discount that as she had been a child and had so far shown no remembrance of the occasion anyway.  But since then he had certainly become acquainted with her family, all of them, and each were in their own way rather a strong willed, unforgettable bunch. Her father was the best of men, one worthy of great respect – the only problem with Imrahil was that he had a knack of getting his own way, wielding words to combat any objections to his plans with the same ease and expertise with which he hefted his illustrious sword.

ooo

In three days, as the King had said, Éomer of Rohan came riding to the City, and with him came an éored of the fairest knights of the Mark. (From the Return of the King by JRR Tolkien.)

 

Minas Tirith July 18th 3019

‘I’ll say one thing for these Gondorians, they don’t hold back when there is something to be done.’ Éothain swept his arm around in a wide arc, a gesture intended to encompass most of the Pelennor.

Éomer nodded, impressed by the activity he saw around him. When they had left after Aragorn’s crowning  the land around Minas Tirith had still been showing the ravishes of the desperate battle that had been fought there, but now, not much more than two months later the trenches had been filled in and a great deal of the area put to the plough. Men were rebuilding the homesteads, women casting seed beans over the newly tilled earth and he saw some children laughing together as they erected a scarecrow on one of the planted fields. Éomer doubted that the structure of wood and a few scraps of red cloth, topped by what looked to be a battered Haradrim helmet, would keep many birds away from the feast of seed, but the children were certainly enjoying making the hated effigy. He sighed to himself, thinking of the problems he had left behind in the Riddermark – the children of the Westfold hardly had time to play, every small hand was needed to try and recover from the wanton destruction wrought by a malevolent wizard.

‘Give yourself a break and enjoy some respite from the worry, Éomer. It will do no good. Everyone is doing their best.’

Éomer threw his friend a wry look. ‘Read minds now, do you, Éothain?’

His warrior friend shrugged. ‘It’s not difficult, it’s written all over you. But we shall come through it, we have Gondor’s help.’

‘Yes, you’re right. And more promised.’ Éomer smiled suddenly. ‘Which is a good job, as we’d be hard pressed to feed everyone in any style over the days of Théoden’s funeral feast otherwise.’

Éothain laughed and rubbed his hand across his stomach. ‘Pity we are only here for a few days; I for one am looking forward to the welcome feast tonight. I got quite a taste for Gondorian delicacies after the war.’

‘Which delicacy was that?’ A voice came from behind. ‘One of those things with spicy shrimps on top, or one of those pretties with long black hair?’

Éothain swivelled round glaring. ‘Don’t you start any false rumours!’

‘Too near the bone, Éothain?’ Amusement at the uncomfortable expression on his captain’s face made Éomer chuckle. ‘I am sure I saw you surrounded by a bevy of beauties a few times.’

‘I was only telling them of the ride through the Drúadan Forest and about the wild-men,’ Éothain said quickly, his cheeks reddening.

‘Oh, Éothain would much rather feed his face,’ another rider called out. ‘He’s too scared of his wife to take an interest in anything else.’

A general guffaw of laughter greeted that remark. Éothain didn’t deny it, joining in with the merriment.  ‘It’s true, my Æffe would have my hide if she thought I’d got up to any of those tricks.’

 ‘I don’t blame you being wary,’ Éomer remarked deadpan. ‘I’m always a bit worried about upsetting Æffe myself.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Éothain shot back with a big grin on his face. ‘You know darned well you can do no wrong in her eyes since I took that arrow and you hauled me out of the Entwash before I could be swept away. But,’ he said with a lift of his brows, ‘you watch you don’t upset your friend Aragorn, I’ve never seen you so taken with a woman as you were with his intended.’

Éomer laughed out loud at that. ‘Lady Arwen is an elf, and way above any pretensions of mine. One can admire beauty without wishing to possess it, you know.’ In fact as much as he thought all the elf maidens who came with Arwen and her grandmother were lovely, he felt happier dealing with solid flesh and blood.

‘Never thought I’d see it,’ one the riders remarked. ‘A whole party of the First-born walking up the steps to Meduseld.’

‘Very true,’ Éomer agreed. ‘And we will see it again when we take Théoden’s body home. And what’s more, we will have the pleasure of their company for about three sennights on the road home.’

‘Five days to get here, fifteen to get back,’ Éothain mused. ‘It will be a slow laborious journey.’

‘But think of all those tempting edibles our Gondorian friends will bring with them,’ Éomer reminded him. ‘They are always well organised and provision themselves handsomely. It won’t be just dried meat and oats on the way home.’

‘There is that,’ Éothain agreed, smiling at the thought.

By this time they had nearly reached the gap in the wall where the great gates had been. As his standard bearer approached the entrance, a couple of dozen soldiers marched out forming up to make a guard of honour for the Rohirrim to ride between as they entered the city of stone.

Passing under the broken arch, Éomer stretched out his arm and flexed his fingers, trying to banish the slight stiffness he felt after the long hard ride. He would be glad to get to his quarters and become intimately acquainted with a large tub of hot water. Funny, during the years that had led up to the war cleanliness had never bothered him much, used as he was to riding for days in the same clothes with his hair greasy and lank from its infrequent washing. Now though, he enjoyed being clean and welcomed the feel of newly pressed garments and sheets. Not that he felt himself overly vain but he undoubtedly took pleasure in wearing clothes that were not always torn and blooded as they mostly were during the days before Sauron fell.  How much of that change he owed to his newly obtained Gondorian friends he was not sure, but he certainly did not wish them to think he, or indeed the Rohirrim in general, could not hold themselves proudly. He looked down at his boots; a day or two of rain on the journey had not contributed to them looking their best.

‘Someone to meet us,’ Éothain murmured from beside him.

Éomer jerked his head up from the contemplation of his footwear to see Faramir, astride a well- muscled bay, waiting for him in the middle of the square.  Wearing his favoured dark grey raiment with his long black hair brushing his shoulders, Faramir looked as neat and noble as he always did.

‘Éomer!’ Faramir bowed his head as Éomer urged Firefoot forward.   Pleased to see his future brother, Éomer held out his arm as he came level with the Steward. ‘You are here right on time,’ Faramir observed as he grasped Éomer’s outstretched hand.

‘It was without a doubt an easier journey than last time.’ But instead of saying any more, not wanting to follow that particular line of thought, Éomer ran his eyes over Faramir’s gelding. ‘I see you are as good a judge of horseflesh as ever, my friend.’

Faramir smiled, and smoothed a well-manicured hand down his horse’s neck. ‘The best of those you left us, I think.’

Éomer nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, and he looks to have recovered well.’ Just as they’d had to leave injured Riders in the Healing Houses, many wounded horses had remained in Minas Tirith, some more severely affected than others. Most would hopefully make the journey back to the Mark, but Éomer had gifted a number to Gondor’s captains. Idly he wondered if he would be as keen on having Faramir wed his sister had the man not been such a natural horseman. It was an intriguing thought. But he had liked Denethor’s second-born  since their first meeting many years before, and after the war, in spite of Faramir’s injuries, he had recognised the expert warrior under the covering of a man heavy with wisdom and lore. Besides that, eyes told you a lot about a person, and Faramir’s grey eyes had always held truth and astute perception. He knew he could trust Éowyn to this fine son of Gondor.

‘I hope your sister is well,’ Faramir said as though he was picking up his thoughts.

Éomer could see the light of expectation in Faramir’s normally cool expression and for a moment was tempted to keep him waiting, but taking pity he reached inside his tunic, struggling to extract the bulky package. ‘I have a letter for you.’ He passed it over to a waiting hand. Faramir glanced at it for a moment, a faint smile quirking his lips, before he tucked it carefully into the folds of his own tunic.

‘If I needed any proof that my sister’s affections were truly engaged then that letter would easily suffice. I have never known her write anything other than a short scrawl before.’

Faramir laughed but made no comment, signalling his escort to move. ‘Let us ride up to the citadel, Éomer. You will wish for refreshment, I think.’

After a word with Éothain to make sure the men were well-quartered, Éomer pulled off his gauntlets and eased himself in the saddle; he could let Firefoot take himself up the hill without too much attention, the capricious war-horse too weary to make mischief.  He flashed a grin to Faramir. ‘Never mind the refreshment, I need a bath.’

‘Really?’ Faramir raised one dark brow. ‘My uncle told me that you and Aragon neither washed nor changed your clothes for the whole journey to the Black Gate, whilst he...’

‘I know...’ Éomer broke into a chuckle... ‘Imrahil managed to look clean and tidy all the way through. How he did it I will never know.’

‘Determination, I imagine. My uncle has plenty of it.  Which reminds me, he has asked me to extend an invitation for you to take the noon meal at his house. He said he will give you time to clean up and refresh yourself, and then come to escort you. Aragorn is tied up with some matter of government at present, but plans to meet you before the feast tonight.’

‘I will gladly eat with Imrahil. But there is no need for him to escort me, I know my way to his house well enough.’

‘Of course, but it seems that my uncle wishes to talk to you privately about something.’

‘Fine.  Whatever he wishes,’ Éomer responded amiably. Imrahil had become a good friend to himself and the Riddermark. Much of the aid that had already been given had come from Belfalas and the prince had promised a great deal more over the next few months, even to sending sheep once the Dimholt was open, but since any details could be thrashed out during the long ride back to Edoras, Éomer could think of nothing that immediately needed his attention. However, Imrahil would soon enlighten him, so he wasted no time surmising and instead enjoyed an interesting conversation with Faramir as to the steps made to return prisoners to their homelands and start negotiations for long- term peace with the lands to the east. A forlorn hope in his opinion, but it had to be tried.

Faramir accompanied him to the stables and after Éomer had insured that Firefoot was housed comfortably, they walked up to the citadel together, parting at the open door of one of the lavish guest chambers in the King’s House. Outside a Gondorian guard stood on duty, inside the manservant assigned to him had already unpacked his saddlebags, laying out the spare clothes Éomer had brought with him on top of an ornate chest.

The man bowed. ‘I will have these brushed and pressed while you bathe, lord.’ His eyes dropped to Éomer’s feet.  ‘And clean your boots.’

With an inward chuckle to himself, Éomer assented to this and set about unbuckling his sword, allowing the servant to help him with his hauberk and boots.  Once his soiled garments had been taken away, he sank thankfully into a tubful of warm water.

A while later, clean, refreshed and sipping from a goblet of dark red wine, Éomer looked around the chamber taking in the rich hangings surrounding the bed and the moulded relief on the ceiling. Both, as far as he could tell, depicted scenes from the Battle of Dagorlad. Perhaps someone had thought he would appreciate a battle-themed room, which said a lot for his reputation around here. He never got a chance to think more about that as he heard voices outside, immediately recognising that one belonged to Imrahil. From the conversation he guessed a couple of men from his éored had replaced the Gondorian guard – Éothain left nothing to chance. Chuckling to himself, he stood up from the armchair in which he had been relaxing just as there was a rap on the door. Instead of calling out to enter, Éomer strode to the door and flung it wide, smiling as he encountered the imposing figure of the Prince of Dol Amroth.  As always Imrahil looked immaculate in dark blue; he stood straight-backed, only a few streaks of grey in his black hair giving witness to his age, otherwise he could easily be mistaken for one of his sons.

The prince told his guards to wait and stepped inside. ‘It is good to see you again, my young friend.’

The two warriors embraced, celebrating a friendship formed on the battlefield but which had deepened during the time they spent at Cormallen, as Éomer had sought to learn from a leader of men whose  age and experience far exceeded his own. He always enjoyed Imrahil’s company and this early meeting pleased him. ‘You have impeccable timing as always. I have just finished getting dressed and was waiting for you.’  Éomer indicated the pitcher of wine and the goblet waiting to be filled. Imrahil smiled his agreement, sitting down in the second chair whilst Éomer poured him a drink.

‘Here’s to peace,’ Imrahil said, raising his goblet once Éomer had taken up his place and his wine.

‘May it last till the world ends.’ Éomer responded.

A sardonic look met that remark and for a while they talked of things pertaining to the aftermath of a ruinous war. Éomer had no qualms about telling Imrahil about his worries and concerns.

The prince listened intently, an expression of sympathy on his face, but his words were positive and designed to encourage hope. ‘The aid is there for you, Éomer. Get through this winter and things will improve; once your people are fed and housed you will be able to give your mind to the enjoyment of life. Rohan will recover; new ties with Gondor will mean opportunities to trade, which will provide a more comfortable existence for all your folk

Éomer sighed, not liking to be so beholden, but knowing he had no choice but to accept help. ‘My people are working as hard as they can, but it is mostly thanks to your efforts that we will survive the winter, Imrahil. Aragorn, I know, will give us anything in his power, but the majority of the food we require has to come from Belfalas. I can only thank you that you are providing this before we can send you enough horses to repay the debt.’

Imrahil shook his head. ‘The debt is ours, Éomer. And the coffers of Gondor will pay any dues. When you have horses to trade then we shall be pleased to barter with you. Until then you must not be too proud to accept the help you need.’

‘You have given me help from almost the moment we met, my friend. Your wise counsel has been invaluable to one inexperienced in the ways of kingship.’ Éomer stood up and reached for the wine-jug, refilling Imrahil’s goblet.

‘Thank you.’ The prince took a sip and looked up, hesitating a little before he said.  ‘Éomer, you tread a steady and straight path. I have no doubt you will lead your people well, but if you will allow me, there is one issue I would like to bring up. A different matter I may be able to help you with.’

‘And that is?’ Éomer filled his own goblet and went to put the jug back on the table just as Imrahil said.

‘Have you given thought to taking a wife?’

What! Éomer turned slowly, staring hard at the prince, tempted to tell him to go to Mordor. Only his deep respect and gratitude for Imrahil’s support stopped him.  He sat back down, which gave him time to temper his displeasure.  A moment later he found himself able to answer in a controlled voice. ‘Are you going to tell me it is my duty to do so without delay, Imrahil?  If so, I have heard that many times these last weeks. And I promise you I am well aware of the necessity of marriage, but a suitable wife does not appear at the very time one decides it might be a good idea to wed. Be assured that once the present problems are behind us, I will make an effort in that direction.’

Imrahil’s lips twitched as he observed the annoyance in Éomer’s expression, but he didn’t draw back. ‘Ahh... as I suspected, your heart is not engaged and it sounds like there is no particular woman you have in mind for the role of wife and queen. Or am I wrong in that?’

Suddenly Éomer wanted to laugh, wondering why anyone, even such a good friend, should think he would give an account of any amorous affairs he might be enjoying. He said, with more than a chuckle in his voice, ‘I have had no time these past few years to fix my interest in a suitable lady if that is what you mean.’

Probably guessing his thoughts, Imrahil lips quirked into an amused smile.  ‘In that case, Éomer, I have a proposal for you.’

‘You have?’ Éomer waited, wondering what noble lady the Gondorians had picked out for him. Not that it would do any good, for he would wed at no one’s command.

The prince regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Yes, I am sure I am right. I think you could do no better than to consider wedding my daughter Lothíriel. She would make you a fine wife and queen.’

‘Your daughter!’ Éomer nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise. ‘But she’s no more than a child!’

Imrahil’s brows drew together in a bemused frown. ‘Lothíriel is twenty; I would hardly call her a child.’

Almost unconsciously Éomer’s hand went to the area of his tunic over his heart; he could just feel the small silver pendant that lay tucked in the hidden pocket. He had carried it ever since she had given it to him. Not that he was overly superstitious, but not long after that visit to Minas Tirith his patrol had been attacked by orcs with him being the only one not to sustain a wound. Fight had followed fight over the years and the longer he escaped any serious injury, the more he treasured his little lucky charm. Twenty! He couldn’t imagine it.  If ever he thought of Imrahil’s daughter, a picture of a mischievous child with huge, silver-grey eyes came into his mind.

‘I am sure I mentioned that she was a bit younger than Amrothos,’ Imrahil went on when Éomer was stunned to silence.

‘I don’t remember that,’ Éomer said at last. He took a gulp of wine taking the time to collect his thoughts.  For no particular reason he had never mentioned to Imrahil that long ago meeting with his daughter. Perhaps, he reflected, because it had taken place when he was young, in a different, more carefree time untouched by war. That had soon changed, but he had held on to that memory, and others, such as racing his pony through the long grass around Aldburg with his friends, keeping the innocent past  safe from the blemish of reality. Realising the prince must think he was behaving oddly in not answering, he smiled. ‘Somehow I imagined her younger than twenty. But twenty is still young in comparison to me. And very young to be made a queen.’

‘I doubt any wedding would take place until next year, Éomer. Lothiriel would then be nearing twenty-two. And I can assure you that she has the sense, confidence and understanding of someone much older. But you will see that, I am sure, when you meet. Besides,’ Imrahil said, smiling as he went on, ‘the age-gap is nothing. Faramir is twelve years older than Éowyn and that bothers no one.’

‘And before you point it out to me’, Éomer quipped, ‘I very well know that Arwen is three thousand years older than Aragorn!’ Imrahil chuckled at that and Éomer continued with his real objection. ‘The big difference is not the disparity in age, more that Faramir and my sister wanted to marry each other. At home we call it falling in love.’

‘You need to meet before you have any hope of falling in love with anyone, Éomer. And don’t tell me that the sons and daughters of Rohan’s nobility are not sometimes put in the way of one another, because I wouldn’t believe you.’

Éomer was just going to deny this when he remembered how one year Elfhelm had deliberately taken his daughter to the Hornburg to join in the Yule celebrations, admitting that he hoped she would look kindly on Erkenbrand’s eldest son. And Théoden himself had suggested Dúnhere of Harrowdale as a match for Hama’s daughter.  Acknowledging that Imrahil’s words held truth he said, ‘So if you just want us to see how we get on, why are we having this conversation? You could have introduced her and said nothing.’

The prince studied him over the top of his goblet, a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘I could, and therefore not have risked putting your back up!’

Éomer shrugged. ‘I should know by now that you are ever reluctant to withdraw from any conflict.  So you might as well say whatever is in your mind and have done with it.’

‘I agree that it would have been a better way, and had there been many opportunities for you to spend time getting to know each other I would have allowed that to happen. But circumstances dictate our actions and in a few days you will be leagues apart and by the time you have fully prepared Rohan for the lean days ahead, winter will have thrust its icy grip between you. I thought it better to tell you of my proposal so that you could spend some productive time together today to help you come to a decision.’

 Éomer took a gulp of his wine, mostly to collect his thoughts. Were marriages so arranged in Gondor that feelings didn’t come into it? And he doubted if he would be interested anyway. Especially if she had changed from the cheeky urchin he remembered, to the confident, overly mature, princess Imrahil described.

 ‘It’s impossible, Imrahil.  I am only here for a few days, not enough time to decide on so important a matter.’

The prince let a small smile flicker across his face, as if he did not want to give away how amused he was. ‘It’s worse than that, Éomer: Lothíriel intends to return to Dol Amroth tomorrow.’

Did he hear that right!  Staggered by the very idea, Éomer stopped lounging in the chair and sat up straight, staring at the prince. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I decide by the end of today if I wish to marry your daughter?’

Imrahil nonchalantly flicked a piece of fluff from his doeskin breeches before he answered. ‘As I said, I doubt you will be able to visit Gondor for a while, so yes, I suppose I am expecting you to come to a decision.’ He looked straight at Éomer, his enigmatic eyes fixed on him. ‘Believe me, Éomer, I would not be so forceful did I not think it the right thing for you to do. With all the changes coming to Middle-earth, you need a wife that will be able to support you in every way. I have confidence that Lothíriel could do that and will help ease the burdens you will face in the coming years. Besides, you must see that there could be no better way to strengthen the friendship between us.’

‘Us?’

‘Gondor and Rohan.’ The prince favoured him with a disarming smile. ‘Our personal friendship, Éomer, will not be affected, whatever you decide.’

Éomer let out a long sigh; he didn’t want to be rude to the prince and could perhaps see some merit in being united more closely with him. But many doubts assailed him, even if when they met he and the princess got on well.  ‘The last Gondorian to be Queen of the Riddermark did not appreciate the culture our people thrive on. She did many good things, but insisting on Sindarin or Westron being spoken in the Golden Hall was not one of them.  And I understand that she went back to Gondor with unseemly haste when Thengel died. Even if I agreed to this, how do you know that your daughter would be happy living in the Mark?’

‘The difference is that it would be her choice, Éomer.’  I spoke to your grandmother some years ago and she explained to me that when she married Thengel there was no talk of going to Rohan. He had fallen out with his father so badly that he really thought the crown would go to,’ the prince hesitated, trawling his memory ‘...some relation of yours with an ounce or two of Eorl’s blood...

‘Eoforwine,’ Éomer supplied. ‘Son of my great-aunt.’

‘Yes, that’s right.  But Morwen told me that he died fighting Dunlendings, and so after Fengel’s death the council called Thengel home.  She did not want to leave Gondor, but loyally followed her husband. It is different with Lothíriel, for whoever she marries she would be likely to leave Dol Amroth. True, living in Rohan will different for her. But so would it be if she married into the nobility of one of the Southern Fiefs, as she would be a stranger there too.  And believe me there are only a few men to whom I would entrust my daughter and even less places where she would find an outlet for her talents. I do not wish to see her rusticating in some out of the way castle where nothing happens. ’

‘Let me think a moment.’ Éomer dropped his head in his hands as thoughts whirled around his head. Had it been any other than Imrahil suggesting such a thing, he would have shown him the door. Aye, and probably kicked him through it. But he couldn’t treat his noble friend like that, and what was more, he knew the prince believed in what he was suggesting. But to make such an important decision after not even a day to get to know a woman was ridiculous. He was not such a fool that he expected to wed anyone he took a fancy too, his duty to the Mark would not countenance such a course, but he did expect to have strong feelings for his future wife and to be sure they would deal well together. If Imrahil’s daughter, young though he thought her to be, was capable of stirring his heart, then he had to agree she might be a sensible choice. But on one meeting... Éomer suddenly became aware of a question to be asked.  There lay an obvious answer to this madness...

‘Why is your daughter returning to Dol Amroth, Imrahil? If you are set on this plan, surely the best course of action is to bring her with you when we ride for Edoras. Many wagons are going...’

Imrahil held up his hand, stopping him from going on. ‘It is not the journey that prevents her coming with us, and she would not need a wagon, as she rides well. No, it is my anxious son who has obtained a promise from Lothíriel that she will return home within a few days.’

‘Anxious son?’ Éomer had met all three and not to one of them would he assign that label.

‘Elphir,’ Imrahil made clear, in a voice tinged with more than a little irritation. ‘You have met him and are aware that in battle there is none better, he is fearless and even a little reckless. But when it comes to the slightest danger to his family, then he is as nervous as an unarmed man in a lion pit. His wife, Míril, is near her time. It will be her second child and Míril’s mother will not be able to attend the birth owing to succumbing to the ague this last year.  Elphir wants Lothíriel there to support Míril and she wants Lothíriel at home to keep Elphir sane. Unfortunately she gave her word before I...’

‘Hatched your plans?’ Éomer provided, his voice sharp with suppressed anger.

The prince shrugged, the gleam in his eye showing he felt no embarrassment or fear of the royal temper.  ‘My daughter made a promise and whatever other considerations there are, she will stick to it.’

Imrahil said no more, waiting for a response. Éomer sighed, letting go his annoyance, and deep in thought he picked at the braiding on the arm of the chair, not wanting to commit to anything he might later regret. But he would have to meet her, no getting away from that. As for anything else –he still couldn’t imagine coming to any agreement with Imrahil by the end of today, and what about Lothíriel herself? What did she think of her father’s plans? Surprising himself by how calm he felt, he said with a touch of humour in his voice, ‘And what of your daughter, Imrahil, is she willing to fall in with this scheme of yours, or have you not told her?’

‘If it wasn’t for the need to meet you, Éomer, she would already be on her way home.  Be assured, there is no way I would coerce Lothíriel to marry or indeed do anything else against her will. To be honest even if I wished to I would likely stand no chance.’ His eyes sparkled with some inner merriment, which probably spoke well of Lothíriel’s character.  ‘But she is mindful of her duty,’ the prince carried on, ‘as well as the responsibilities her privileged position gives her. As I said, there are only a few men I would happily betroth her to, and most are in Minas Tirith at this time. Lothíriel has been here since before Arwen arrived and she has met none that have claimed her heart. When I put this suggestion to her she looked thoughtful but not dismayed. She asked me many questions about you and also listened intently to anything not only her brothers had to say but Aragorn and Arwen also. A few days ago she told me she would be happy to meet you with a view to a betrothal.’ Imrahil stared at him, only a quirk of an eyebrow giving away his amusement. ‘But of course if she finds you repulsive, I will not hold her to anything.’

‘Thank you,’ Éomer said with a resigned edge to his voice, not feeling at all humorous. ‘I can imagine little that is more awkward than a meeting under the circumstances you describe.’

‘Your position makes this kind of thing necessary, Éomer. I am sure you are capable of rising above any perceived embarrassment.’

 

To be continued.

 

 

 

 

 

 





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