Chapter 1

Edoras, Yule 3020

It had been a good decision, brilliant even, Éomer congratulated himself. And as if to show their approval, the Valar had sent them the best harvest within living memory. People were already starting to talk of the Year of Plenty.

From his seat on the dais, he surveyed the illustrious company assembled in the Golden Hall for the wedding feast of the King of the Mark. It seemed that the whole of Gondor’s nobility attended and of course his own people would not have missed the occasion for anything. On his right, Aragorn and Imrahil were discussing some scheme for establishing a network of errand riders along all the major roads in Gondor, while on his left Erkenbrand was expounding to Princess Lothíriel on the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Even though, as usual, he was reliving almost every single sword stroke, she listened with unflagging attention, an impressive feat in itself.

In fact from the moment of her arrival a few days before, she had proven her worth. Since there had been no rush for the wedding, she had spent the summer getting her dowry together and learning Rohirric and already sported an extensive command of the language. He smiled with satisfaction. The traditional speech offering the welcome cup to the guests by the new lady of the hall had tripped off her tongue as if she had been born in Rohan.

As for the household duties, she had already begun to ease into them, while careful not to upset old Wulfrith, their housekeeper of twenty years, so what more could he ask for? Taking another swig of ale, he suddenly noticed Éowyn and Faramir behind one of the pillars that upheld the beams of the roof, their heads close together. Really, married for more than six months and still they sneaked away at the first possible opportunity! What they had done while ‘catching some fresh air’ outside, he didn’t even want to know.

Excusing himself to mingle amongst his guests, he rose from his chair. Princess Lothíriel cast him a gracious smile, then returned her attention to Erkenbrand, who was explaining the layout of the Hornburg with the help of some saltcellars. For a moment he felt a flicker of remorse at leaving her to the tender mercies of his Marshal, but he hadn’t seen much of Éowyn the last few days and wanted to take the opportunity to speak to her before she left for her home in Ithilien again. Anyway, if she wanted to, the princess could probably extricate herself from Erkenbrand’s clutches as smoothly as an eel slipping through a fisherman’s fingers.

Pausing for a word here and there with his men, he threaded his way through the crowd. At the lower end of the hall, the tables and benches had been folded away to make space for dancing and he managed to catch Éowyn just as she and Faramir finished a lively reel.

“May I prise my sister from her doting husband for a moment?” he asked.

Faramir smiled. “Just this once.” He kissed Éowyn’s fingertips. “I will reclaim you later, my lady.”

Really, the two love birds were just a tiny bit sickening, weren’t they? However, he said nothing, just hooked his sister’s arm into his own and drew her away into a quiet alcove. “I have no idea what you have done to the poor man, little witch, but I’ve never seen anybody so besotted.”

She laughed out loud and he thought how much he would miss that unrestrained, merry sound. “It’s reciprocal, I assure you.”

He squeezed her arm. “I am so pleased to see you happy at last. Even if it means that you will abandon me here in Edoras again.”

“At least this time you won’t be alone,” Éowyn reminded him.

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so?” She searched his face. “Éomer, I know it’s none of my business, but this marriage of yours...”

“Yes?” They both turned to look towards the dais, where Princess Lothíriel was now apparently charming Elfhelm, who had taken Erkenbrand’s seat. “She really is a marvel, isn’t she?” he said. “Why, she hasn’t even lost her appetite, like so many brides do.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Éowyn hesitated. “Do you know her well?”

“Well enough. I spent a whole week in Minas Tirith in the spring. She had my men eating out of the palm of her hand within a couple of days, even Éothain who had been dead set against marriage with a Gondorian.” He chuckled at the memory.

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Has she got you eating out of the palm of her hand, too?”

“Of course not.” He burst out laughing. “What ideas you get, Éowyn.”

“Then why marry her?”

He frowned. “I’ve already told you in my letters. It makes sense: the highest ranking lady of Gondor, beautiful, accomplished, an expert housekeeper...”

“Oh really, Éomer, sometimes I would like to box your ears!” Éowyn exclaimed. “This is just so wrong for you. Have you ever looked at her, really looked?”

“I don’t see what you mean,” he shot back, offended. “Of course I’ve looked at her: she’s very pretty I think.” In fact he had garnered more than one envious look from his men when she had entered the hall for the wedding ceremony in a clinging dark red dress. Taking her to his bed would be no hardship at all had darted through his mind.

“Oh, listen to yourself!” Éowyn exclaimed. “I’ll tell you what I see when I look at your wife: a house with its outside immaculate, but whose inhabitants have closed all the shutters and huddle somewhere deep inside so not a crack of light is shining through.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I spent two weeks with her on the journey from Minas Tirith and I know her no better now than I did when we set out.” She made a cutting motion with her hand. “It rained for five days, we were all cold and perfectly miserable, the tents never really dried out, I snapped at Faramir half a dozen times a day...and your bride was impeccably composed the whole time.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” he said defensively. You’d think she wanted him to marry somebody with a foul temper!

Éowyn grabbed his shoulders. “It’s unnatural, that’s what it is! To exert that much control, every minute of every day, takes a frightening strength of will. Trust me, she’s bottling something up inside. After having to suffer Wormtongue whispering in my ears for years, I know.”

Éomer’s temper snapped. “Are you saying I’m like him, forcing myself upon women?”

“Of course not, but–”

“She had every chance to refuse my suit. I spelled out very clearly what I offered.” And also what he didn’t offer...

Éowyn’s arms sank to her side. “I’m sure you did. I just wish... Faramir said that she wasn’t always so controlled, that something must have happened. He compared her to a limpet.”

Éomer frowned. “What is a limpet?” Trust Faramir to speak in riddles.

“Some kind of mussel or something,” his sister explained, not really helping. “Oh Éomer!” she exclaimed. “All I ever wanted is that you’re as happy as I am!”

Dear Éowyn! He took her in his arms. “I am content this way. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

She gave a little sniff. “I hope you do.”

Faramir had materialised at their side as if he had sensed his wife’s distress. “What’s the matter?”

Éowyn smiled at him. “Nothing. Just worrying about my brother being his usual stubborn self.”

Éomer  released her and gave her a little push towards Faramir. “Why don’t you forget your worries for tonight and enjoy your husband’s company instead.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He watched them go and join the couples forming up for a line dance. His little sister, so determined that he should have the same happiness that she had found with Faramir. He sighed. Poor Éowyn, she would never understand that he did not want it.

As if it had been yesterday he could still recall that fatal day, the worst moment of his life: finding her lying on the battle field. Thinking her dead. He could never quite remember what had happened next, nothing but yelling echoing in his head endlessly: death, death, death! But that single image was burnt into his memory with every detail intact. The dew on the blades of grass glittering in the morning sunlight, Éowyn’s flaxen hair tumbled about her, her skin pale as wax. Then the Rage had risen in a crimson wave and swept him away.

He had lost so many dear to him, sometimes he thought that he was cursed: mother, father, Théoden, Théodred... No, he could not help loving his sister, but only a fool would give his heart away again after what had happened.

And he was no fool.

“My dear King Éomer!”

Startled out of his thoughts, he turned towards the speaker, realising too late who it was. “Lady Malheril,” he greeted the woman bearing down on him in a wave of flowery perfume.

She took his arm with overmuch familiarity. “What a pleasure to see you. It’s been such an age, hasn’t it?” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

Not long enough! Once again he cursed himself for that moment of weakness, but life had seemed so sweet that day in Cormallen, with victory snatched from the jaws of defeat... And he had been drunk, Éomer reminded himself.

Murmuring an acknowledgement, he tried to move away, but she dug her long, sharp fingers into his arm. “And what a happy occasion,” she added with an arch laugh. “Such a sweet little bride.”

“Yes indeed.” He must have been very drunk, he thought. But the lady had been more than willing, a widow with quite a reputation, so he had not blamed himself too much the next day.

Her fingers crept up his arm. “Although of course you cannot expect a young girl to be very experienced...”

He stared down at her. It was preposterous! Surely she couldn’t be suggesting...

A hand slipped into the crook of his free arm. “There you are, my lord,” Princess Lothíriel said. “I thought I might join you in talking to our guests.”

Éomer started. He had not noticed her leaving her place on the dais at all. A bolt of panic shot through him. Had she heard something of his conversation with Lady Malheril? “A wonderful idea,” he stuttered.

She leant across him. “Lady Malheril, please forgive me, I did not see you before. How are you keeping?”

Éomer held his breath. Of course they would know each other from the court in Gondor. If only Lady Malheril would keep her mouth shut! He frowned down at her.

Lady Malheril’s eyes glittered with malicious enjoyment. “I’m having a lovely time, thank you, my dear.” She patted Éomer’s hand. “You could say your husband and I are old friends.”

The vixen! He cast about in his mind for a pretext to excuse himself, but Princess Lothíriel beat him to it. “How nice,” she exclaimed. “So you’ve been to Rohan before! I suppose you knew him as a boy?”

Lady Malheril gave a smile as edged as a blade. “You might say I know some of his more boyish traits.”

At the words Éomer felt an urgent need for fresh air. “Shall we perhaps–”

“Ah, just like Lord Húrin,” Princess Lothíriel interrupted him, her eyes wide and guileless. “He’s forever reminding me how he dandled me on his knees when I was a baby.”

Lady Malheril’s smile lost some of its false cordiality at being compared to that venerable, grey bearded lord. “My dear, that’s not quite what I meant.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply you look aged,” the princess hastened to assure her. “You’re very well preserved!”

“Well preserved!” In her outrage Lady Malheril loosened her grip on Éomer’s arm and he quickly freed himself.

Princess Lothíriel seemed to notice nothing. “Yes, truly,” she said earnestly. “I think it’s simply marvellous what you ladies of the court achieve with a bit of powder and paint. Clearly I have a lot to learn.” She turned to Éomer. “But I’m sure the rest of our guests also want a word with us. Shall we go?”

Swallowing his surprise, Éomer nodded and let her lead him away. Unless he was very much mistaken he had just witnessed a set-down delivered in a truly masterly manner. “That was...” Pitiless? Ferocious? Ruthless? “...rather effective.”

“You think so?” They paused for a moment at the edge of the crowd. “Where the likes of Lady Malheril are concerned, I follow my brother Amrothos’s philosophy of combat,” the princess said with a sunny smile.

“And what is that?”

“Never mind the manoeuvres, go straight at them.”

He stared down at her. It was like biting into a fluffy pastry and finding it was made of stone. Or petting a lapdog, only to discover that he handled a wolf.

“Shall we?” she asked. Once again the perfect hostess was back. If it hadn’t been for the marks of Lady Malheril’s grip on his sleeve, he might have thought the whole thing a dream.

Éomer forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” 

The musicians struck up another dance just then and he surprised a wistful expression on Princess Lothíriel’s face. “Would you like a turn?” he asked, suddenly intrigued by the woman he had married.

She hesitated. “What about your guests?”

He shrugged. “They can take care of themselves. As your husband, don’t I rate any of your attention?” Never mind that so far he had not exerted himself to claim any. He pulled her towards the lower end of the hall. “Will you do me the honour?”

“With pleasure, my lord.”

It was a Rohirric dance with easy steps, but one that required you to whirl your partner about in your arms. The princess caught on quickly, trusting herself to his lead, and laughing as the music became faster and faster. She flashed him a smile that was as different from her usual well-bred expression as a brightly polished gold coin from a tarnished copper. Éomer blinked in surprise. Yet the smile was gone as fast as it had appeared, the corners of her mouth just turned up in polite contentment again. Was that what Éowyn had meant?

He would have liked to surprise another glimpse of that unknown woman from her, but she did not let her control slip again and at the end of the dance he received a flawless curtsy from her. Frustrated, he relinquished her hand to a Gondorian noble who begged for the next dance. She did not lack for partners, he thought; after the Gondorian a number of his own young riders took turns asking her to dance. Erkenbrand’s eldest son Eadbald, his hair flame-coloured as his father’s, seemed especially taken with her, as were Elfhelm’s two grandsons.

It pleased Éomer to see that his people accepted his choice of queen so readily, but he also couldn’t help noticing that she gifted none of her partners with a true smile. Still, maybe he was just attaching too much importance to his sister’s remarks. A large measure of self-control could only be a good thing in a queen after all.

“You’re ogling my sister most persistently,” somebody said at that moment. “If you weren’t married to her, I’d have to call you out.”

Amrothos! And you could smell the ale on his breath. However, Éomer had come to like Imrahil’s youngest son on the march to the Black Gate as somebody who even cracked jokes when standing on a slag hill surrounded by thousands of orcs.

“I had no idea you were such a paragon of propriety,” he shot back. The two exchanged a grin.

“I saw you bandying words with Lady Malheril earlier on,” Amrothos drawled.

Éomer shuddered. “Your sister rescued me. She’s a remarkable women.”

“So she is.” The look Amrothos gave him suddenly had nothing inebriated in it. “Always remember that. If I find you’ve made her unhappy, I will call you out.”

No idle threat from the best swordsman of Dol Amroth. Éomer raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That won’t be necessary. I’d rather fight at your side than against you.”

Amrothos nodded. “So would I.”

Éomer suddenly realised that here he had an expert in all matters nautical. “Tell me,” he said. “What is a limpet?”

“What? Why ever would you ask me that?”

“Just something Éowyn mentioned,” Éomer said. In his current belligerent mood Amrothos might not take it kindly to have his sister compared to a sea creature.

“Well, it’s a small snail with a round shell that lives on tidal rocks, nothing special really.”

“A snail?” Faramir’s words became more and more obscure. “Is it tasty to eat?”

Amrothos shrugged. “It might be, but it’s not worth the effort.”

“What do you mean?”

“As children we used to spend hours trying to prise them off the rock, but never managed to, not even Boromir who was the strongest of us. The only way to do it is to smash the shell.” Amrothos sounded a bit bored with the subject.

Éomer began to see the light. “Yet they have to let go sometime. How else can there be little limpets?” he asked triumphantly.

“Ah!” Amrothos said slowly. “You see, on moonlit nights, when a warm current rises from the south and the sea glows phosphorescent, the male limpets begin to sing.” He lowered his voice. “They say the sea throbs with their desire.”

What! Surely Faramir didn’t expect him to serenade the princess? Then he noticed a glint in Amrothos’s eyes. “You’re having me on,” he accused him.

“Yes,” Amrothos admitted. “But I have to confess to being puzzled by this sudden interest in marine life. And on your wedding day as well.”

“It’s nothing,” Éomer said. Amrothos would only laugh at him.

Another dance came to an end just then and he took the opportunity to reclaim the princess’s hand, thus shaking off his brother-in-law’s company. “What have you two been talking about?” she asked curiously when he swept her away.

“Your brother’s been threatening me,” he said, wondering if she had put him up to it.

The corners of her mouth quirked. “He must like you then. Amrothos only threatens his friends.”

“Indeed? Should I worry?” She certainly didn’t appear to do so.

Princess Lothíriel shrugged. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Surely you can take care of yourself. And anyway, Amrothos forgets easily once he meets the next woman he fancies.”

“It wasn’t over a woman.”

“No?” She sounded surprised.

“At least not exactly,” he added in all fairness. “He threatened to kill me if I made you unhappy.”

“What? But that’s silly. Why should you make me unhappy?”

“I certainly will do my best not to.” He smiled in reassurance. “In fact I think we’ll rub along very well. From what I’ve heard, you’ve already started to settle in here.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then looked him straight in the eye. “My lord, when do we retire? I read up on the customs of Rohan in the books that you so kindly provided for me, but that information was not included.”

He grinned. “Well, it’s up to us, but traditionally anytime after the third barrel of ale has been breached.”

“When will that be?”

He craned his neck to check and realised to his surprise that already four barrels stood empty. “We’re already into the fifth. Do you want to retire now?”

The princess chewed her lower lip, then straightened her shoulders. “Yes, why not,” she answered and he got the impression she wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.

Éomer blinked. She managed to make getting married to him sound remarkably like having a tooth drawn!

A/N: Amrothos's motto is of course borrowed from Lord Nelson (via Jack Aubrey)