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Title: To Become a Queen (#2399)
Author: Madeleine
Chapters: 2

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Fifth installment of the series and sequel to A Bride for a King Lothíriel arrives in Rohan to become Éomer's wife and Queen of the Riddermark
Published: 02 Dec 2005
Updated: 11 Dec 2005
Warnings: highly annoying brothers
Type: Romance
Characters: Éomer; Lothíriel


Chapter 1 - Chapter One

To Become a Queen

Chapter 1



It hurt.

To be precise: it hurt everywhere.

Lothíriel had, long ago, given up trying to distinguish the different body parts that hurt most. It would have been much easier anyway - and less time-consuming - to name the few which felt fit and healthy. Her nose, for example, seemed to do quite well; also her earlobes. Anything else . . . She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt more uncomfortable.

This was the tenth day on horseback; travelling 30 to 35 miles each day. They broke camp every morning at dawn, made a halt around midday and then continued their journey until the sun touched the western horizon.

It wasn’t only the physical strain - which should really not have come as a big surprise; for although she had been a fairly good rider as a child, she hadn’t been in the saddle for nearly 7 years – it was also the inconveniences any travel had the misfortune to involve. A tent was a tent and a cot was a cot and both were not good substitutes for a warm and quiet room and a comfortable bed. As tired as she was every evening, she simply couldn’t find a deep restful sleep.

That was not an unknown phenomenon to her. The more exhausted she was, the harder she found rest. She had discovered that a year ago, after the great battles. She, and all the other healers, had worked themselves into a stupor whilst trying desperately to care for all those wounded brought to the Houses of Healing.

But then at least her muscles hadn’t hurt so badly. Her bottom and the inside of her legs hadn’t felt as if they had been worked on with some coarse-grained sandpaper. And never had her legs felt so . . . bendy. Every time she dismounted she had the impression that it took her legs longer to straighten and she feared, one day, they would just stay sickle-shaped.

She was on her way to Edoras. Not on her own, of course. Besides an honourable guard of 25 Swan Knights and a swarm of servants, she hadn’t taken the trouble to count; she was accompanied by her father and all three of her brothers. Also, King Elessar had bestowed an exceptional honour upon her – probably rather upon her father and Éomer - by having joined the wedding procession – together with 50 knights of the Royal Gondorian Guard.

Yet her father had announced that the wedding would be a subdued affair: due to the fact that Rohan was far from having recovered from the after-effects of the war. The Rohirrim still depended greatly on the food aid from Gondor. Last year’s planting had been more or less entirely destroyed by Isengard and it would be later this year before the new crops were ready to harvest.

This restraint was just fine with Lothíriel. The last months had been bad enough. Her life had begun to change the moment her betrothal to the King of Rohan had been made public knowledge. The morning after the official announcement the Warden had sought her out instead of summoning her, as he would have done with any of the other healers. He had explained that it would be an awkward situation for her fellow healers to work side by side with the betrothed of a king. The difference in rank could no longer be ignored and, as there wasn’t that much work at present, it would be for the best if she left the Houses of Healing without any delay.

Although she had assumed that she would have to give up her work as a healer at some point, being unceremoniously booted out had come as a shock. From one moment to the other the central purpose of her life, as she had known it for over four years, had been taken away from her. She had sat in her chamber at the citadel, her mind numb. Unable to think about what to do next. Since she had been with the healers, her hours had been filled with study and work – and suddenly there was only emptiness. The first reaction she had felt, had been resentment; resentment against her father as well as against Éomer, whose doings had pushed her into this gaping void. For the first time in her life she had stayed passive and had waited for somebody to tell her what to do next.

She had spent the better part of two days starring out of the window, westwards across the Pelennor towards the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay her new life. A new life which had not yet started even though her old life had already come to a halt. Her common sense had been overwhelmed by the irrational, but nonetheless overpowering wish, that something . . . anything would happen, so that her life would be what it had been before.

But somewhere in her darkened mind there was a tiny little flame. It was more than just hope, more than just belief. There was the conviction that something special was waiting for her, something more than what she had had before. She only needed to hold out and get through the next few months.

Presumably she would have sat spiritlessly on her window seat for quite some time longer had not Arwen summoned her and forced her out of her languor. Gondor’s elf queen had very rigid ideas how Lothíriel should occupy her time. She had been supposed to learn how to become a queen; more precisely: to become the Queen of the Riddermark. To her shame she had had to admit that she had been so occupied by the events, which had come thick and fast, and her somersaulting emotions about them that she had somehow closed her eyes to the fact that she would not simply become a wife but the wife of a king. She was expected to fulfil her obligations from the very first day.

At first she had accompanied Arwen on her daily routine, which – to Lothíriel’s surprise - had not just consisted of amusement and idle ways of passing the time. The Queen of Gondor kept herself well informed about all political events, although she was very cautious about expressing her opinions in public. It would take some time for the Gondorians to become used to the idea that they had a King again, let alone becoming comfortable, not only with having an elf as their queen, but also with a queen who had an influence on politics.

It had to be expected that the Rohirrim would react similarly to a queen from Gondor. Therefore it had been a valuable experience for Lothíriel to watch Arwen navigating the cliffs of political sensitivities. But she had been assured by the elf that domestic politics in Rohan were a less complicated affair, as the Rohirrim had the tendency to state their opinions and raise their objections about anything at any time in a rather blunt manner. Dealing with them would require less tact and a thick skin. That prospect did not bother Lothíriel at all. She had felt very comfortable in her dealings with the wounded riders from Rohan who had been in her care for several months. She couldn’t believe that their kinsmen would turn out to be that much different.

She had learnt a lot from them. They had talked about their home and described their land and their customs. She had listened to their songs and ballads sung in their guttural language. Some who had mastered Westron well enough had translated the words for her. They were of battle and honour, of heroism and sacrifice, but also of love and joy . . . and of horses, of course.

Lothíriel had decided to write down everything she remembered from the tales of the Rohirrim and then she would go to the Great Library to complete her knowledge. Unfortunately she found that her tried and tested approach to a subject was not much of a success in this case. There was simply not enough written down about the Rohirrim.

There had been piles of old maps. Records from the time when Cirion, Steward of Gondor, had ceded the province of Calenardhon to the Eothéod as reward for their help against the Balchoth were filed on the shelves. The wording of the Oath of Eorl could be found, together with descriptions of some political events, invasions, battles. There was also a list of all kings of the Mark up to Thengel, Éomer’s grandfather, who had lived for many years in Gondor and had wed a Gondorian noblewoman, somehow kin to the Princes of Dol Amroth.

But nowhere could she find anything written on the way of life of the Rohirrim and their customs and traditions. It would appear that those were of no significance to the Gondorians. Their interest in the Horselords was only in their capacity as a military ally. And all that had been written down had the unpleasant taste of superciliousness.

To her surprise she had found a large tome in the language of the Mark. Not that finding it had taken her any further. Neither did she understand the Rohirric tongue, nor was she able to read this particular form of Cirth. Even the archivists of the Great Library hadn’t been able to decipher the runic characters. One of them had mentioned that the mound over the grave of Théoden King’s horse bore an inscription in the language of the Mark. A few weeks later she had gone out to the Pelennor with Amrothos to have a look at it. A mound for a horse, as such, was a rather strange concept for any Gondorian.

After her failure at the Great Library Lothíriel had first felt at a loss. She had shied away from writing to Éomer. After her letter, in which she had conveyed her consent, she had received another from him – or rather a short note, brusquely acknowledging that they now had to be considered betrothed. Perhaps she should have worded her reply to his proposal less subdued and pretentious. It seemed he hadn’t taken it very well, although he had set the original tone. Since then, he hadn’t written to her directly, and had only sent his compliments with the frequent letters to her father. She, in return, had asked him to return those greetings on her behalf, with his replies. Imrahil had refrained from inquiring about the perceptible silence between them.

After she had pondered about her possibilities for some days, not wanting to discuss her dilemma with either the Queen or any member of her family, she had finally decided to ask Lord Elfhelm for advice. Although she felt still highly embarrassed about the situation the Marshal of the Eastmark had discovered her in, she believed him to be judicious and now – as she was betrothed to the other party of that indiscretion – hopefully understanding. Messengers left regularly for Edoras, and the next to do so had taken her letter. To her great delight – and relief - she had not only received an answer from Lord Elfhelm but also from his wife, Lady Cynewyn, whom he believed better suited to correspond with her. Over the past months the lady had written to her regularly, answering many of her questions and giving her lots of advice regarding Rohirric customs, especially about what was expected from a bride.

Acting on her suggestions Lothíriel had – inter alia - acquired a new wardrobe suitable for the colder climate of the north and the different life style at Meduseld. In this matter Queen Arwen had a few ideas of her own to contribute and so Lothíriel found herself spending much too much time on a small pedestal with seamstresses pricking needles into her. One gown after the other made its way into the chests, and the chests increased day by day. She could only hope that there was plenty of space at Meduseld to store them all and if she did avoid gaining too much weight over the next decades, she should have enough gowns to wear until her dying day.

The more interesting items of clothing to be made for her were the riding habits. As a girl she had ridden astride, wearing leggings and bootees under wide skirts. Usually, when about thirteen or fourteen years, a girl approaching womanhood would change to riding side-saddle. But at that age Lothíriel had spent most of her days at her ailing mother’s side in the Houses of Healing, and when travelling they had used carriages or ships between the Harlond and Dol Amroth. She hadn’t been on horseback since before her fourteenth birthday and never been instructed how to ride side-saddle.

Queen Arwen had declared that there was absolutely no need for her to learn now as the Rohirric women all rode astride. To Lothíriel’s relief her brothers – at least Erchirion and Amrothos – and, more importantly, her father had agreed. Those side-saddles had never inspired great confidence in her. After her first riding habit had been ready – suede breeches, sturdy boots and a dress with an ankle-length split skirt, Erchirion and Amrothos had insisted of dragging her out at least every other day to ride. Both had thought it rather ludicrous that the King of the Horselords had – of all women – chosen one who preferred horses from a distance . . . from a rather far distance, to be his bride. That was not entirely true. Lothíriel thought horses to be very beautiful animals and she had really loved her pony. But these big horses had also rather big teeth and four hooves and were better not trusted.

Of course her brothers had been right. She needed to revive her riding skills, or even better, she had to improve them. And as with everything Lothíriel took into her head to do she had put her utmost effort into it. But those rides with her brothers across the Pelennor and along the Anduin could not have prepared her for entire days and day after day on horseback. For the past three mornings it had required all of her self-control not to whine but to climb into the saddle. The daily sections of their journey seemed to drag on longer and longer and she couldn’t find anything that would take her mind from her aching body. Long had the glorious landscape lost its ability to distract her.

On her left, since they had left the Drúadan Forest behind them and followed the Great West Road, were the peaks of the Ered Nimrais. They were strung together like a massive, seemingly boundless chain. Nothing but ridges, jagged peaks, ravines, steep slopes, snowfields and glaciers. Wild and untamed beauty as far as the eye could see; one of the great mountain barriers dividing Middle-Earth.

If her eyes needed a rest from this curt and savage sight she could turn to the right, which presented the view of gently rolling hills running into the green ocean of an endless plain. From that direction two riders approached in a checked gallop, slowing down to a canter when they drew nearer to the travellers. Erchirion and Amrothos found their pace much too slow and whiled away the time with short reconnaissance expeditions along their route. Now they rode up to their sister and put her between them.

Trying to avoid any unnecessary movement Lothíriel just turned her head once to her right and then to her left to acknowledge them. Erchirion looked her up and down with a pitying smile.

“How are you faring, dearest?”

“I do not know.” Lothíriel answered irritably. “I have no possibility of comparison.”

Her brothers chuckled.

“That bad?” Erchirion inquired, and of course Amrothos had to shove his oar in. “Or may be even worse?” he asked.

“Worse!” She spat out that one word with emphasis.

“Worse than worse would be worst,” Amrothos pondered. “Can there anything be worse than worst?”

His siblings considered that a pure rhetorical musing and therefore chose to refrain from responding to it in any way.

“I am afraid we have all misjudged the strain so many days spent on horseback will inflict on you.” Erchirion’s smile had faded to a concerned frown. “It would have had been better had we accepted a longer time of travel so that you could have used a carriage.”

“It is much too late for considerations of that kind,” Amrothos interjected. “And I doubt that a journey in a carriage would have been much more comfortable.” He gestured towards the road in front of them. “The treks of wains with the provisions have done great damage over the cold months. A carriage would have just bumped from one pothole into the next.”

“And it really does not matter anymore.” Lothíriel didn’t feel she had the patience for the pointless discussion that threatened to arise. “Hopefully we will have reached Aldburg by early afternoon.”

It had been agreed, that they would be met by Éomer King and the Royal Guard at Aldburg, the seat of the Marshals of the Eastmark, which lay only less than a day’s journey from Edoras. From there, the Lord of the Mark would accompany his chosen bride and present her to the citizens of Rohan’s capital.

At this very moment Lothíriel had reached a state where the prospect of meeting Éomer again had taken second place, on her personal scale of important issues, behind the prospect of a long soak in a big tub filled with very hot water enriched by a cup of oil from the laurel fruit. She was just glad that she had thought to add the muscle relaxing oil and a pain-relieving thyme salve to the few remedies she had with her, although she could not have even guessed how badly she would be in need of them.

All her possessions had been sent to Edoras two weeks prior to their own departure from Minas Tirith. The dowry of the future Queen of Rohan had taken up four heavy wains. Two of them alone for the healing equipment Lothíriel had put together and paid for, with the permission of her father, of course, with a relatively small sum from her dowry money that Éomer had refused to accept.

From some remarks Queen Arwen had made she had gathered that although there were healers in Rohan their standard of knowledge could not be compared to those at the Houses of Healing. On her careful enquiry Lady Cynewyn had confirmed that the Rohirric healers concentrated mainly on the treatment of wounds and injuries but were rarely consulted or competent when it came to common illnesses. Also there was no central setting – not even in Edoras - to take in patients. Treatment was administered at their homes or wherever they found shelter.

That was a situation Lothíriel intended to change. The healers had to become better educated. The basic training she would be able do herself. But then there had to be several chosen from among the most promising to be sent to the Houses of Healing for a thorough education. She was certain that King Elessar would permit such a scheme; she had just to convince the Rohirric healers . . . and their king.

Of course, she could not blurt out her plans as soon as she entered Edoras. People would certainly not appreciate a foreign queen who came to them with the intention to push through changes from the very first day. But she carried the conviction that, in the course of some time, she would be able to make the relevant people see that it would be beneficial if the Rohirrim adopted certain skills from the Gondorians. She was also convinced that it would do the Gondorians some good if they took up a few traits from the Horselords. But that should not be her concern. Her sole concern was, from now on, her own people, the people of Rohan.

While trying to ignore her brothers' bickering, Lothíriel failed to give her attention to her mare. The elegant chestnut suddenly decided that the ground on the right-hand side of the path looked less rough and therefore was preferable for her hooves. With no consideration to the fact that Amrothos’s horse was already walking there, she pushed her way over in front of him, bumping into the bigger gelding. Her sudden manoeuvre surprised both horse and rider, and Amrothos couldn’t prevent his red roan from startling and throwing up his head and, in the course of doing so, hitting Lothíriel hard against her shoulder. She was unable to hold back a cry. A wave of pain ran through her sore body. Erchirion urged his own gelding forward and seized her mare by the reins to bring her to a halt. Amrothos, who had his horse in hand again, reached over to support her.

“You are well, midget?” he asked, looking uncharacteristically worried.

Hearing this much despised childhood nickname, Lothíriel turned her head too quickly for the comfort of her neck, but she ignored the dull pain and glared at her brother.

“Use that word one more time and I will ram wormwood down your throat,” she threatened, truly meaning it. But her brothers just burst out laughing.

Unfortunately her cry of pain had attracted the attention of her father and King Elessar, who had been riding at the head of the procession. They came back towards them at a fast trot, Elphir behind them. Lothíriel groaned, earning herself another chuckle from Erchirion and Amrothos. She just wanted to suffer in peace and quiet. She was able to bear anything as long as she was not forced to talk about it.

Imrahil reined in his horse, scrutinizing his daughter from head to toe. “Lothíriel, we have only a short journey to manage today. If it is your wish we can take a rest.”

Lothíriel was grateful her father hadn’t asked how she was faring. She could not have guaranteed her answer. “Thank you, Father. But I would prefer it if we continued to Aldburg.” With an irritable sigh she added candidly, and rather unthinkingly, “I just want to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath.” Neither her prickly tone nor her choice of words was entirely proper in the presence of the King, but Elessar didn’t seem to take offence judging by his understanding smile. And her father and her younger brothers also didn’t respond in any way. Only Elphir couldn’t let this breach of etiquette simply go.

“Sister, your manners leave a great deal to be desired. You have to attach more importance to your speech.”

Lothíriel was highly tempted to tell him what he could do with his patronizing attitude but Amrothos was, of course, quicker with his reply. He smiled at his eldest brother, who had ridden up beside him, and laid his hand on his shoulder. “You know, Elphir. You may look like a moron and talk like a moron but we will not let that fool us. You really are a moron.”

“A truer word has hardly ever been spoken,” Erchirion confirmed in all friendliness, “or at least not since dawn.”

Amrothos gave him a glance of utter surprise. “When people agree with me, I always feel that I must be wrong,” he said, sounding slightly disappointed.

Normally, Imrahil avoided getting between the lines when his offspring plunged into a battle of words, but this time he raised his hand and gave all of them a suppressive look, demanding wordlessly, a ceasefire.

“It is your decision, Lothíriel, but please let not your stubbornness overrule your common sense.”

“Your father is right, Lady Lothíriel,” the King said gently. “The tiredness you are feeling is nothing to be embarrassed about. Most men, not used to long hours on horseback, would have demanded a day of rest long ago.”

Inwardly Lothíriel was scolding herself for not having been able to cover her discomfort better. She hadn’t wanted her companions to become aware of how exhausted she truly was. Now, that the King and her father had left the head of their party, the entire procession had come to a halt and she had the feeling everybody was looking at her and becoming aware of her misery. She was only waiting for someone to make a remark about her delicateness - that was the last thing she needed to hear right now. She was able to deal with her condition as long as she was just left alone. As a healer she was well aware that there was nothing to be alarmed about. A good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed and a few days of rest were all what her body needed.

She decided that some self-mockery would convince the others that there was nothing to be worried about

“It is not false pride, my Lord King that lets me choose to ride on without a rest. It is rather the fear that when I get off the horse, I will not be able to mount it again.” She managed a genuine sounding chuckle. “At least not in a remotely dignified manner.”

Her light tone appeared to persuade the men that her condition was not that serious. The King turned half around in the saddle and pointed towards the direction they were travelling.

“Do you see the foothills ahead of us? Behind them lies Aldburg.” He looked up at the sky where the sun was barely recognizable behind low clouds. At least it wasn’t raining any more as it had been for four days of their journey.

“We have made good pace this morning. Shortly after midday we will arrive at our destination for today.” Elessar gave her a pensive smile. “You certainly do have a stubborn streak, my Lady. That makes me wonder.”

He didn’t explain what made him wonder. Lothíriel watched him, slightly puzzled, as he returned together with her father to the head of the procession, gesturing to the guards to continue the journey. She could hardly call after her king and demand clarification.

She wasn’t given the time to ponder about Elessar’s words. Elphir, who had unfortunately not joined his liege and his father again but stayed with his siblings, demanded her attention. When she was a child, the eldest of her brothers had showed the most patience when it came to answering her irrepressible questions. Her memory from that time recalled a reserved but warm-hearted adolescent who always found the time to tell his little sister a story. Retrospectively, she could not have said when or how their relationship had changed. But it seemed to be impossible for her to meet Elphir’s standards when it came to proper behaviour – or what he considered to be the proper behaviour for his sister.

Nobody had protested with more outrage when their father permitted her to seek an education as a healer. While Erchirion had argued that she was too young to be separated from her family, Elphir considered it simply undignified that the Princess of Dol Amroth would have to care for people of lower birth. And she had learnt from Amrothos that he had – very much to Imrahil’s surprise – tried to foil her bond with Éomer. Whatever his objections had been, her father had kept them to himself. Lothíriel, however, was afraid that her brother suffered from the same prejudice as so many of the Gondorians, who considered the Rohirrim inferior to them. She just wished Elphir had not insisted upon accompanying her to Edoras. If Éomer’s opinion about Amrothos was not overly favourable she rather did not wish to find out what he might come to think of Elphir.

Unintentionally another groan escaped her, this one having nothing to do with her physical condition, but giving her eldest brother just another reason for one of his constant grumbles.

“The preparation of this whole journey was exceedingly inefficient,” he declared.

“Thank you,” murmured Erchirion, who had been the one responsible for said preparation. His brother took no notice.

“If it was decided – for reasons I still fail to understand – that Lothíriel should not travel in a carriage then at least she should have been provided with a palfrey.”

“As she is not using a side-saddle there is not any real point in her riding an ambler.” Erchirion miraculously succeeded in keeping the annoyance that he must be feeling from his voice.

Lothíriel began to wonder how long it would take for Amrothos to interfere . . . and then the true enjoyment would begin. At this moment she wished her brothers – all three of them, although Amrothos would pretend to be deeply offended if he knew – far away. By preference on the opposite side of the Ered Nimrais.

“Well, she should not be riding astride anyway.” Elphir appeared to have every intention of dragging up an issue which had been crossed off long ago. “It is highly inappropriate for a lady of her standing. Had I known that you two were encouraging her to behave so inappropriately, I would have intervened at once.”

“Over-estimation of his abilities is a trait in a man that never ceases to amaze me,” Amrothos remarked, somewhat rhetorically.

Lothíriel caught Erchirion’s gaze, harbouring between exasperation and amusement. Trying to mediate a truce between the eldest and the youngest of Imrahil’s sons could become hazardous for one’s own health.

“There is certainly no danger that anybody will overestimate your abilities,” Elphir retorted humourlessly. “Up till today they have managed to keep themselves successfully hidden.”

“Great talents flourish in obscurity,” Amrothos reminded him with a suspiciously easy grin.

“If you have any talent at all then it is only the one to embarrass others in front of their liege.”

“If you mean by others - you, then let me assure you, you do not need any help to make a fool of yourself. So far, you have done very well on your own.”

Elphir scowled, and looked at his younger brother in what he took for superiority. “Let me give you one piece of well meant advice . . . “

Amrothos was, of course, not interested in whatever lecture was going to follow and interrupted before he had to listen to it. “In my experience, good advice is something a man gives when he is unable to set a good example.”

Lothíriel felt like shrieking. For a short moment she had the notion to dismount, sit down on the spot and refuse to take another step. Instead she cast a pleading glance at Erchirion who took pity on her.

“Hold it,” he growled in his best authoritive voice. “I am fed up to the back teeth with both of you behaving in this infantile way. Do you believe your constant quarrelling makes Lothíriel feel any better?”

Instantly Amrothos, who was riding next to her, leaned forward and put his hand over hers. “I apologize, midg . . . sorry, dearest,” he said with a smirk, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Would it help, if we just left you on your own?”

“It would be indeed of benefit to my well-being if you and Elphir could move your arguments out of my earshot,” Lothíriel replied with a strained smile.

“Your wish is my command.” He squeezed her hand once more and then reined in his gelding. “Well, Elphir, let us take to our heels. You may try to outwit me at a distance.”

“You may remove yourself,” his eldest brother answered, sounding distinctively complacent. “There are a few instructions I have to give to Lothíriel before she meets her betrothed.”

As Amrothos was now behind them the only reaction Lothíriel could get from him was a loud snort. Erchirion shot his older brother a look that left no doubt about what he was thinking of his frame of mind.

“Elphir,” he began in a voice of forced calmness, “I would really appreciate it if you were capable of comprehending a few simple things. For example knowing when you have outstayed your welcome. You will be the healthier for it.”

“It is not within your sphere of duty to tell me what to do and what not to do,” Elphir repelled in a tone of hauteur.

“How about blackmail?” Amrothos had ridden up to him again. “I will tell Father that you are pestering Lothíriel and speak ill of Éomer . . . once again.”

“What?” Lothíriel stared alternately at her brothers in disbelief. “What are you talking about, Amrothos?”

But her brothers paid her no attention. Amrothos gave Elphir, who looked most irritated, a very unpleasant smile. “King Elessar will certainly be quite interested to learn what the heir of Dol Amroth has to say about a man he calls his brother.”

Elphir’s face worked furiously, his jaw jerking a couple of times. “I will not be intimidated.”

“I was not considering intimidation,” Amrothos clarified. “I was thinking about embarrassing you in front of your liege.”

Elphir shot Erchirion an indignant glance, but the former just dismissively shrugged his shoulders. Snarling, the oldest of the Dol Amroth princes reined in his horse with too much force, causing the animal to rear. Giving it a violent touch of the spurs he forced the brown gelding into a gallop, leaving his siblings behind. Lothíriel was only just able to calm her startled mare.

Her brothers exchanged a look.

“Apart from those present, I really do prefer the concept of the elective affinity,” Amrothos announced before he spurred his horse into a canter to close up to his father and the King. As long as he was riding in their vicinity, Elphir would be reminded of his threat.

The abrupt movements of her shying horse hadn’t helped Lothíriel’s aching muscles. She pulled a face and then turned to Erchirion.

“What is the matter with Elphir? He has always been a bit smug and pompous. But I have the feeling I do not know him any more.”

Erchirion waited a long time before responding. When he did, it was obvious he was somehow at a loss. “So do I,” he finally said. “I wish it would be so simple to just say that five years ago he chose the wrong wife, one he cannot live in contentment with. Oraineth is very competent to run a noble household and she is fulfilling all the responsibilities of the wife of a Prince of Dol Amroth, admirably, but she is not a woman that is easily gratified.” This was the first time ever Erchirion had made a judgement on his brother’s wife.

Lothíriel’s eyebrows drew together in thought. “Am I right in the assumption that she was not overly joyous when Father refused her brother’s suit and promised me to Éomer?” Erchirion opened his mouth to answer, when Lothíriel cut him off. “Is she the reason why Elphir has opposed my union with Éomer so strongly?”

Erchirion looked at her quizzically. “Amrothos has told you that?”

“Yes, he has,” his sister confirmed. “And for some reason of your own neither Father nor you felt it necessary to tell me that my oldest brother threw a tantrum when he was informed about my betrothal to the King of Rohan.”

“You know, Elphir would reject emphatically the reproach that he had ever thrown a tantrum.”

Lothíriel wouldn’t let anything distract her. “If he disapproves so vehemently of this union why has he insisted upon accompanying us to Edoras?”

“He still finds it hard to accept, but as he cannot do anything to prevent it he will at least make certain that everything will be conducted properly.”

“And he feels that the presence of Father and King Elessar will not be enough to guarantee compliance with the proprieties?” Lothíriel gave her head a little shake of non-comprehension. “What does he think could happen anyway?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Erchirion grinning and suddenly it dawned on her. “You cannot be serious,” she said much too loudly. A couple of guards, riding in front, turned to look back at them.

“That is our brother for you,” Erchirion reminded her, mockingly apologetic.

“I will be bonded to Éomer in three days and he feels until then he has to guard my . . .” She interrupted herself, unable to voice her thought.

“Your chastity?” Erchirion offered helpfully.

She averted her eyes, fighting one of those blushes, which always seemed to loom under her skin. “Amrothos is perfectly right. He is a moron!”

“That is one of Amrothos’s more complimentary expressions. According to his newest theory Elphir is an experiment.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows questionably.

“He thinks Father was still experimenting when he begot Elphir . . . and the experiment went wrong.”

“Sweet Elbereth!” Only very rarely did Lothíriel let herself use profane language. “I just hope he did not mention that to others than you.”

“He came up with that theory only last night.” He chuckled a little. “But I have no doubt he will make it known to the world soon enough.”

“That means there is not the slightest prospect of some peace and quiet in the near future.”

“Not as long as Elphir and Amrothos are within the vicinity of each other.”

“I set my hope in Éomer.” Lothíriel gave a sigh in which irritation and frustration were mixed.

“It makes sense that a woman sets her hope in her coming union.” Erchirion nodded his agreement.

“I was thinking more in the line of Éomer disembowelling at least one of those two brothers of mine; my preference being Elphir.”

“Your demands on a husband are slightly unusual,” her third brother commented wryly.

“I would not know what other demands to have on my husband or what hope I should set in this union.” The moment she had spoken those words of uncertainty, she wished she had kept them inside as she had done for months now.

“Lothíriel?” The smile had faded from Erchirion’s voice.

She felt his gaze on her profile and let her mind franticly search for words to tone down what she had just let slip out.

“Lothíriel, what is wrong?”

“Nothing. Truly.”

“You are not telling the truth,” Erchirion accused her in a gentle tone.

Lothíriel caught his glance and swallowed. She felt her poise crumble slightly under his intense scrutiny.

“I am nervous. What do you expect? In three days I am going to be bonded to a man I hardly know and whom I have not seen in nine months.”

“The fact of the matter is that you knew that when you gave your consent to the betrothal. Nothing has changed. And you enumerated several reasons why it was supposed to be a sensible decision.”

This reasonable tone of her brother was really something to get annoyed with; especially because he only repeated the words her own inner voice of reason had been telling her again and again. But that did not ease those feelings of nervousness and anxiety.

“When I gave my consent I was still under the influence of my encounters with Éomer.” That had come out somehow the wrong way, she thought. “I am not trying to say that now I regret having given my consent,” she added in a rush. “But he is rather overwhelming and . . .” She let her voice trail off into silence, wondering when she had lost the ability to express herself in plain sentences.

She heard a low chuckle from Erchirion.

“I do not know Éomer King as well as our father does, but I have seen him fight. That man is a force of nature and I suppose that is how he comes across no matter in what situation.”

“I will second that any time,” Lothíriel murmured.

“If you do not regret your decision, then what is so obviously bothering you?” Erchirion tried to probe a bit deeper.

“When I gave my agreement to Father’s plan, I was following my own feelings and wishes. At that moment they seemed most important, although of course, I wondered about Éomer’s motivation and sentiments.”

“Have your wishes and feelings changed?” he inquired carefully

“No,” she hastened to clarify. “No, not at all. But suddenly . . . No, not suddenly but gradually it has become more important to know what Éomer . . . why Éomer consented to Father’s plan and why he proposed. I am going to become the wife of a man whose reason to take me as his wife I do not understand.”

“Perhaps his reasons are similar to yours,” her brother asked her to consider.

“I do not think so.” That came out with so much conviction that Erchirion blew out a long breath of surprise.

“What makes you so certain?”

“He is a man.”

Erchirion blinked, again surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“Men are different,” Lothíriel pointed out as if those three words made everything quite clear.

“And you came to this conclusion . . . why? . . . how?”

“I had a lengthy discussion with Amrothos on the subject.”

Erchirion coughed a couple of times and then cleared his throat. “Lothíriel, I do not think that a discussion with Amrothos is the right approach to get to the bottom of a dilemma.”

She pointed a finger at him. “At least he is willing to discuss anything with me.”

“Now I am truly worried.”

Lothíriel swung around too quickly in the saddle and had to stifle a small groan. “Those were Father’s words once. And I would not have thought that you too, would knock Amrothos.”

“I am not knocking him,” Erchirion appeased her. “I appreciate our brother for what he is: probably the most intelligent and gifted of Father’s male offspring. But one cannot overlook the fact, that his perception of the world is slightly different from the rest of mankind.”

Without reflecting on his words Lothíriel just wanted to follow the impulse to defend her youngest brother, but Erchirion waved her silent.

“Let us forget about Amrothos for the moment. As I said before, I do not know Éomer King that well, but Father does and so does our liege. Over the past months I couldn’t help but gain the impression that Elessar is absolutely satisfied with you becoming Éomer’s wife. And as he had never made a secret out of the fact that he feels deeply about any of his friend’s concerns, I think we can infer from that, that this union suits your betrothed wholly. After all, he did propose.”

“After Father made an offer to him.”

“Lothíriel!” Erchirion allowed impatience to interlace his voice. “Soon you will face Éomer. Why not wait this short time, if possible without cudgelling your brain? And furthermore,” Erchirion bit his lower lip in a failed attempt to suppress a grin, “you will ask him.”

“Ask whom what?” she inquired, hesitantly because she suspected his reply.

“You will ask Éomer why he wishes to make you his wife.” He nodded with emphasis at the dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, you will! If you have a question, you will seek the answer. That is a law of nature.”

Lothíriel chose not to continue this discussion. Usually it was not like her to withdraw from an argument but the tiredness and exhaustion of her body had seized hold of her mind, which was working much too slowly and disorderly for her liking. She felt inferior to any potential verbal adversary at the moment.

Erchirion accepted her quietness. They rode side by side in peaceable silence. That was something Lothíriel appreciated about her middle brother. He did not feel the constant urge to speak, unlike Elphir who took any chance to lecture any in his vicinity or Amrothos who liked to keep himself occupied with his - admittedly - highly original verbal exercises.

Erchirion offered nothing but his presence. She was going to miss him. As she was going to miss Amrothos . . . and her father, of course. This would be a different kind of separation from her family than the one five years ago, when she relocated from Dol Amroth to the Houses of Healing. This one would be a finality. If she would be able to see her family at least once a year she would count herself fortunate. That was the fate of women. It was them who had to leave everything behind and settle in with their husband and his kin. But in this case it was only Éomer. And she could not have said if that was an advantage or rather the opposite. As she was unable to predict anything about her future life.

Lost in her train of thought Lothíriel had failed to realize that they had reached the foothills King Elessar had pointed out earlier. They followed the eroded road through a sparsely wooded forest. Although the month of Viressë had been past by half the trees, showed hardly any of the first green of spring. In contrast, when they had left Minas Tirith, the woods of Anórien had stood in full foliage.

Soon they had passed through the wood and in front of them, to their left, rose a steep hill. On its top stood a fortified dwelling with walls of granite blocks and wooden palisades: Aldburg, the first seat of Eorl the Young after he and his people had been rewarded with the province of Calenardhon. Éomer’s home as a young child, and after when he was the Third Marshal of the Riddermark.

As soon as the first riders, the standard-bearers of the King of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth, emerged into the open field, they were sighted by guards in the gatehouse tower, who announced their arrival with the sound of a horn. Lothíriel had heard a similar sound before. She had heard it in the first light of dawn when the people of Minas Tirith, after a night of fear and desperation, had already given up hope. At that moment she had not fully understood the meaning of that sound, could not have known that it meant deliverance.

Over the last half mile the Guards of Gondor and Dol Amroth, who had travelled until then in loose groups, formed themselves into a military procession. Erchirion and Lothíriel had closed up to their father and their liege and Amrothos had taken again his place on his sister’s other side, leaving an infuriated Elphir to tag along behind them.

Four horse lengths before the standard-bearer reached the gate the heavy panels were swung open, admitting the travellers inside. Lothíriel had hardly the time to admire the elaborate carvings of the gate when she found herself in the centre of a spacious inner courtyard, crowded by uncountable horses and tall blond men in mail and armour.

She had been told they would be received by the Royal Guard, but those riders did not look like a guard of honour. Even Lothíriel with her lack of experience was able to determine that those men had returned, not long ago, from an armed encounter. The horses were sweaty and dirty and so were their masters. A few of them had makeshift bandages, others were checking damaged weapons, but by and large they gave a blithe and rather excited impression. Whatever clash they had been involved in, they must have had secured victory. The calls, with which they hailed Gondor’s King, were also calls of jubilance.

“It looks as if our Rohirric friends found a way to entertain themselves whilst waiting for us,” Amrothos remarked, sounding quite envious.

Suddenly a whisper of awareness tingled through Lothíriel. She sensed his presence just before he called out.

“Aragorn!”

Lothíriel turned towards the familiar voice, a shiver going down her spine. Had she truly feared she would not recognize it just because she had not heard it for a mere nine months?

Éomer stood on the top of the stairs leading to the hall, smiling at his friend and brother. She had never seen him wearing his full armour. He looked larger and broader than she remembered, and she asked herself how he was able to walk in all that mail, metal and leather, leave alone fight. Without a doubt the warrior, from that night long ago, was back. This time, fortunately, not wounded. At least, as far as she could tell from a distance.

And the dirt was back.

Rohan’s King was definitely in need of a bath.

Elessar jumped off his horse and walked towards his friend who made his way down the five steps from the hall.

“Éomer, is there a particular reason why the Royal Guard appears to have just returned from battle?”

Instead of an answer Gondor’s King was given a tight bear hug, pressing him against his hard cuirass. The embrace looked not only uncomfortable but also painful. He freed himself with a laugh and cupped the younger man’s face between his hands, pulling him closer so that there was just a hand’s width between their noses.

“You are still not listening,” he accused with pretended sternness.

“Of course I have been listening,” the Rohír answered with a wide grin, seizing his friend’s forearms. “I did not go out on my own. I took my guard.”

“Éomer, you are a hopeless case.”

“We had to find a way to occupy ourselves. I was thrown out of Meduseld. The women folk have taken over with the preparation of the festivities.”

“And I might have escorted your bride only to find she would have to patch you up.”

Éomer smile disappeared at Aragorn’s words and detaching himself from his friend he slowly turned toward her. He did not have to search the crowd. He had known where to look for her. Suddenly Lothíriel was under the scrutiny of a pair of dark eyes and everything around her went out of focus when their gazes locked. It was too late to brace herself for the wave of excitement that always ran through her when she just . . . just saw him. Her stomach muscles contracted and her heartbeat quickened to a rate she would have considered, under normal circumstances, to be highly alarming.

Her pulse-rate was, right now, the least of her worries. He came toward her with the aggressive grace that was so much part of him, never taking his eyes off her. The intensity of his gaze held her captive until he was standing next to her. She could have touched him, but she was unable to move or to think of what else to do or to think of what to say.

Éomer looked up to her as if he was searching for something in her eyes. And whatever it was, he must have found it because his smile returned and the charm of that smile caught Lothíriel unexpectedly and warmed her like a blazing fire on a cold night. Suddenly she was filled with the most wonderful sense of anticipation, as if she were standing at the edge of something, about to embark on a spectacular adventure.

“My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards her. Lothíriel look down at it. The hand of the warrior, well-formed but also strong and rough; caked with dirt and blood. Éomer must only have realised that when he followed her gaze, and he was about to pull his hand back when Lothíriel quickly grabbed it with her gloved one. She let the reins, which she held still in her other hand, fall onto her mare’s shoulders and began to pull the glove from her fingers without letting Éomer’s hand go. He watched her manoeuvre until her bare hand lay in his. His gaze returned to her face, his eyes gleamed more gold than green. Slowly he pulled her hand to his lips and she could feel them on her knuckles, firm and warm.

“Welcome to the Riddermark, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

He had spoken loud enough for all in their vicinity to hear, but his next words came in a whisper, meant only for her.

“I have been waiting for you.”


TBC


Once again: thank you, Lady Bluejay for all your help, advice and patience


Chapter 2 - Chapter Two

To Become A Queen

Chapter 2


Lothíriel blinked.

He shouldn’t have said that. Not in that tone of voice, some kind of purr that vibrated all over her skin. Not with roughly two hundred men around them, including her father and her brothers. There had been an unmistakable intimacy in the low greeting, a dark and heavy warmth that she was certain everybody around them had picked up. Suddenly she was intensely aware of the others having watched the scene.

She had to say something; had to answer him. She couldn’t just sit on her horse and stare down at him whilst all eyes were on her. She prayed to the Valar that there would not be another flush of heat setting fire to her cheeks. With an effort, she forced some words out of her mouth.

“I thank you for your welcome, my Lord.”

Well, she would have liked to have said something more eloquent, but she simply did not know how to respond to those suggestive words. She was, on the other hand, utterly surprised how normal her voice sounded, how cool and composed. There was not the slightest hint of how she truly felt; how breathless and anxious and exhilarated, all at the same time.

For a moment she feared he would take her tone for a rebuff, but he still had her hand in his and there was a faint trembling in her fingertips. He must have felt it as his light grip changed just a little and his thumb smoothed over the inside of her wrist and came to rest on her pulse. He had held her before this way; in the feast hall of the Citadel. And as he had known on that evening, he certainly knew now, that she was hiding her turbulent emotions behind her calm façade.

“Would you like to dismount, my Lady?” There was warmth and laughter in his voice.

Before Lothíriel had the chance to give him an answer, Elphir appeared next to her mare’s head and addressed Éomer in his most condescending voice, looking pointedly at his and Lothíriel’s joined hands.

“My Lord, you must excuse my sister. She is in a feeble condition. The journey has overexerted her and she must be allowed to rest without any further delay.”

Éomer gave the Prince a look of mingled irritation and incredulity. Very much to Lothíriel’s regret, however, he did not make any move to disembowel Elphir on the spot. She stared disbelievingly down at her brother, feeling angry and embarrassed in equal measure.

Either Elphir was blissfully unaware that he was on the verge of creating a scene or that was precisely what he intended to do. His stance left no doubt that he expected the King of Rohan to move aside so that he could assist his sister to dismount. But when it came to scenes in public, he could take lessons from Amrothos at any time.

“And if you try your best not to embarrass yourself, there is always an annoying sibling waiting in the wings to do it for you,” a cheerful voice announced.

Amrothos had come up to them, smiling at Lothíriel and putting his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He bowed his head to Éomer.

“Greetings, Éomer King. You have to excuse my brother. The journey had overexerted him so that his wit, which is in short supply anyway, must have abandoned him. He has forgotten his manners and addressed the Lord of this land before he had been addressed by said Lord of the land. He sometimes still makes a slip when it comes to protocol. Please do not infer our – that is your betrothed’s other two brothers - behaviour from his. We would be most upset . . . especially me.” It was amazing, but Amrothos seemed to be able to manage this torrent of words without having to take a single breath. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder hard enough that it must hurt, whilst Elphir looked daggers at him, and began to guide him away. “Elphir dearest, I think Father wishes to have a word with you. He is over there; . . . with our liege.”

Somehow he had managed to let his last words – even though his tone was overly kind – sound like a threat, obviously one Elphir had understood. His mouth, which he had already opened to make a sharp protest, clamped shut into a firm line and he allowed his younger brother to lead him away, although his entire posture revealed his only barely suppressed impulse to throw a punch.

Éomer had studied both the retreating princes with all the enthusiasm of someone finding something dubious on the sole of their boot. He shook his head slightly as if to drive away an obscure vision, but when he looked up to Lothíriel again there was mirth gleaming in his eyes.

“Have you ever considered feeding those two hemlock?”

For a couple of heart beats Lothíriel failed to understand what he was referring to, but then she remembered her own threat against him from all those months ago and her lips twitched, the corners of her mouth struggling not to turn upwards.

“Indeed, my Lord, I have; repeatedly,” she replied in a deliberately serious voice. “But right now I feel that the quick and painless death, that hemlock provides, would be too good for Elphir.”

“You are a dangerous woman, my Lady.”

“I only believe that the punishment should match always the offense.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“You had better do.”

One of Éomer’s straight brows rose and a slow smile curved his lips, his eyes holding hers in a mocking challenge. But he didn’t go into that last remark of hers. She just felt his thumb lazily massaging her palm, sending goose-pimples up her arm. Although he had to be aware of the attention they were drawing, he seemed to be completely unruffled by it.

“Was your brother suggesting that you are saddle sore?” he asked in the teasing tone he had used on her before.

“Rather more stiff than sore, my Lord.” After Elphir’s indiscrete words there was not much use in trying to cover up how uncomfortable she felt.

“Then you must allow me to assist you in dismounting.”

Still holding her hand in his right one he ran his left from the mare’s withers along her crest, putting a gentle downwards pressure on her neck. Obediently the chestnut lowered her head.

“This is certainly not the proper way to dismount, but lean on my shoulder and swing your leg over her neck. I will support you.”

He had let go of her hand and grasped her waist. He was quite right. This was most certainly not the proper way to do anything in public. She had no idea where Amrothos had taken Elphir, but the latter should be quite likely close to having a fit right now. She just hoped her father would view the whole situation with his normal composure.

She laid her left hand on Éomer’s pauldron and, taking both feet out of the stirrups, swung her right leg over her mare’s lowered neck. Well, perhaps swung would have been too kind a description; dragged came much closer to the truth. She barely managed to hold a groan in her throat and without Éomer’s help she would have probably fallen backwards off the horse.

“In that, your brother was right, my Lady. You do need to rest.” The smile in his voice had been joined by concern. His gaze came to rest on her leg. The split skirt had become caught on the pommel and left him with the view of a long, slim leg clad in tight fitting deerskin breeches.

Lothíriel freed the skirt unconcernedly and let it fall down to cover her again. “Let me assure you, that I will be perfectly fine as soon as I have gotten off this horse,” she insisted, struggling to keep the irritability, which had been looming under her skin for days now, to surface. If people would only stop commenting of her condition.

Making no reply Éomer seized her around her waist and lifted her off her mare, setting her down very carefully and very slowly. Lothíriel realized she was holding her breath and not because she had anticipated some pain from her sore muscles. On her feet again she found herself between the horse and the man, both considerably larger than her. It felt like being caught between . . . well, between a horse and a brick wall, Éomer, in his armour, covering her entire field of vision.

He had taken his hands from her waist and wasn’t touching her any more, but he was standing so close to her that had she had a more ample bosom, there wouldn’t have been enough space for her to breathe. She could feel the heat from his body, warming her on this chilly day. Another wave of acute awareness arced through her. She better ought to be getting used to the sensation.

Her eye level was at the height of his chin and when she raised her gaze, it came to rest on his mouth, refusing to abandon that sight; beautifully drawn, firm lips framed by a neatly trimmed beard. Her stomach flipped, when she was suddenly ambushed by a blood heating desire for a kiss. She looked up and their gazes locked once more. She knew, with a certainty that was so strong she wondered if she had developed some mind-reading powers, that he was thinking about those kisses in the treatment chamber, and that he knew that she was remembering, too.

For a moment her surroundings seemed to slide away into another dimension. Lothíriel could still see the courtyard and the adjacent buildings, the men and their horses; could hear their voices; could hear them calling out and laughing. But it was all happening in another, unimportant realm. The only thing important at that moment was the look in Éomer’s eyes. She saw him open his mouth to say something, but quite another voice brought her back down to earth with a bump.

“Will you allow a friend to greet you, Éomer King?”

Her father, and with him King Elessar, had come up to them, both looking amused and at the same time intrigued. Éomer turned towards them with a wide smile to welcome the Prince of Dol Amroth. He made a move to embrace Imrahil, but then stopped himself with a self-mocking chuckle. He gestured towards the older man who, after ten days on horseback, managed to look well groomed. His own cuirass, on the other hand, was covered with splashes of mud.

“Perhaps I’d better not.”

Imrahil just laughed and caught the young king in an embrace. “If you feel you can share the honestly earned dirt of a warrior with my liege, you can certainly share it me.”

“I have to apologize,” Éomer said, letting one of his hands rest on Imrahil’s shoulder. “It was not my intention to welcome you to Rohan in such an undignified manner. I would have wished for the Lady Lothíriel to get a better first impression of her new home.”

At his words all three men looked at her, but Lothíriel had had enough time to compose herself. Her mask had fallen back into place.

“My Lord, the first impressions I had of Rohan were in the form of your kinsmen given into my care. And I can assure you, it was a favourable one.”

Once again Éomer was looking into her eyes which such an intensity that she began to wonder if he was trying deliberately to disconcert her. She averted her eyes as a precaution to prevent another blush sweeping her cheeks. They came to a rest on the right side of his cuirass, at the height of his waist, where a dark stain caught her attention. Unthinkingly she stepped closer and stroked the tips of her bare fingers over the spot. Without being aware of the surprised glances she was receiving from the three men, she lifted her hand for them to see it.

“This is blood, and it is rather fresh and not coagulated,” she stated, her eyes already roaming over Éomer’s body to search for the injury, but all the armour and mail covered him so completely, that she couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from.

“Éomer, are you wounded?” she heard Elessar ask.

“No, I am not. It is not my blood,” he hastened to assure them. “I earlier helped to carry Éothain inside the hall. It must be his.”

Lothíriel looked up to him, not aware that the anxiety written on her face was only slowly slipping away. Éomer gave her a short, reassuring smile.

“You will get the opportunity to treat me again another time, my Lady,” he teased, but somehow Lothíriel failed to see the humour in it. The last thing she wanted to imagine was an injured and bloodied Éomer under her hands. And she was not the only one.

“Well, I hope your betrothed will never be obliged to offer proof of her skills by patching you up.” Elessar declared emphatically. “Éomer, I heard the men saying you hunted down Orcs. Why the Royal Guard? And more importantly: why you?”

Lothíriel was surprised by the sharp tone in which her liege addressed his Rohirric counterpart. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw irritability flaring up in Éomer’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she felt she must have been mistaken. He gestured towards the hall.

“Let us go inside. We are in the men’s way here and the Lady Lothíriel needs some rest.”

Whilst Imrahil gave his daughter a neatly folded handkerchief to clean the blood from her hand – only her father was able to produce such after a days-long journey - Éomer waved over a stable lad who had obviously been waiting for a sign. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve years old. He took Lothíriel’s chestnut and led her away.

The two Kings and the Prince made way for her. Having been so focused on Éomer, Lothíriel hadn’t truly realized how crowded the courtyard was. Stable lads and riders were busy leading the horses away, trying to bring some order to the chaos. On top of everything, the servants from the Gondorian party were unloading the packhorses, which carried the belongings of their lords. Had she been by herself, she might have been overlooked, run into and knocked down.

When they entered the screens passage of the great hall of Aldburg they found all three of her brothers right behind the porch in conversation with Lord Elfhelm. Although the Marshal was wearing mail, it was obvious that he had not been one of the riders who had only recently returned from combat. Seeing his King and his guest he excused himself with a nod from the three princes and turned towards them. He greeted Elessar and Imrahil respectfully before he bowed before Lothíriel.

“My Lady, it is a great joy for me to welcome my soon-to-be Queen to Aldburg.”

Hearing his warm words were a load off her mind. Considering their last unfortunate meeting she had certainly not left the best of impressions on him. She had been very much relieved when she had received his prompt answer to her letter, and her correspondence with Lady Cynewyn hadn’t given her cause to assume that he had made any comments to his wife about the situation he had caught her and Éomer in. His friendly welcome and sincere smile confirmed that he had obviously no objections to his King’s choice.

“It is a great pleasure for me to see you again, my Lord Elfhelm. And I hope that now I shall be given the opportunity to make Lady Cynewyn’s personal acquaintance.”

“I am afraid you will have to wait until you arrive in Edoras. With Lady Éowyn gone to be to wed Lord Faramir this past month, Éomer King entrusted my wife to oversee the preparations for his wedding and the festivities. But if you are agreeable I would like to introduce my eldest daughter. She will be at your disposal whilst you are staying here at Aldburg.”

He nodded towards a young woman, or rather a girl, perhaps three or four years Lothíriel’s junior. She curtseyed and whilst rising gave the Princes of Dol Amroth an open smile. She had a wealth of thick, honey-coloured hair, tamed with difficulty into a slightly unruly braid, green-blue eyes and the widest, lushest mouth Lothíriel had ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn’t beautiful by common standards but without a doubt very pleasing to the eye, especially with her smile that seemed to take up half it. She was about Lothíriel’s height and promised to blossom in all the right places.

“My Lady, this is my daughter Merewyn. If you desire to refresh yourself and rest for a while, she will show you to the chamber which had been prepared for you.”

Lothíriel returned the girl’s smile with one of her own.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Merewyn. Your mother spoke of you in her letters.”

“I am honoured, my Lady. I hope I can make your sojourn here at Aldburg comfortable. All has been prepared if you wish to retire and take some time for a rest.”

Lord Elfhelm’s daughter had a lively voice and was quite able to express herself in Westron. Her offer to take Lothíriel to a chamber where she could lie down and hopefully take a hot bath was tempting. On the other hand was she intent to hear what had caused the Royal Guard to go out on a hunt for Orcs. If she had comprehended Elessar’s words of barely concealed reproach correctly then that was not their common purpose. And if those creatures were still a potential danger for her new homeland and her adopted people then she wished to learn about it.

Turning from Lord Elfhelm and his daughter she saw the other six men watching her. Well, not Elphir; he was scowling alternately at Éomer and Amrothos. Judging from the expression the men wore, obviously everybody expected her to retire and somehow that tipped the scale in favour of her body’s demand for rest. She didn’t feel up to a debate about what was best for her right now. Besides, Merewyn gave the impression of someone who knew what was going on around here and she should be willing to supply some information.

“You will excuse me, my Lords. I will make my farewell for the time being.”

The men murmured their approval and their greetings. Éomer came nearer and took her right hand, which was still covered by her riding glove. He blocked her with the bulk of his armour from the view of the others

“Rest,” he said in a low voice, “until the evening. Then the disarray, which has unfortunately greeted you, will be resolved. Then we can all sit down together for a feast in peace and enjoy each others company.”

Whilst he was speaking he had begun to remove her glove. He gave the tip of each finger a tug, and then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unashamedly suggestive, undoubtedly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do with the rest of her clothing. Lothíriel wondered when she had gained the ability to pick up such innuendos. She gasped when the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. What was he doing? They were in the company of others; of her father and the King. She tried to draw back her hand, but he didn’t let go. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a warmth that was . . . not soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Until tonight then, my Lady.”

He let go of her hand and held out the glove for her to take back. There was a smile in his eyes, which Lothíriel did not appreciate. He was taunting her. He did try to disconcert her! With an endearing smile of her own she retrieved her glove.

“Cad!” she said politely, for only him to hear and earned herself a chuckle.

Lothíriel took a step aside so that she was able to face the others in the hall. They could not have seen what had just occurred between her and Éomer but they knew that something had been going on. Unlike Amrothos, Erchirion at least tried to conceal his sly grin; – well, he could have tried more. Elphir was fuming and she was surprised that there wasn’t smoke coming out of his ears. But he refrained from saying anything because her father looked as if everything was just as it should be. She caught his gaze and Imrahil smiled at her, still amused but also knowingly. Such a smile, coming from your own father, felt somehow . . . odd.

“Rest,” he repeated Éomer’s advice from just a moment ago. “We will see you later today.”

Lothíriel nodded and bade her farewell, bowing to the Kings. “My Lords.” She wouldn’t have managed a curtsey.

Merewyn gestured politely for her to follow and led her across the hall towards the dais. Lothíriel assumed that beyond that end of the hall were the private chambers of the Marshal’s family and those for high-ranking guests.

The hall was a rectangular room, about three times as long as it was wide, and also higher than it was wide. It had a large bay window on one of the long sides, overlooking the courtyard and above the screens passage, through which they had entered there was also a minstrel’s gallery. Two steps led up to the dais where the top table was situated. Behind the table a bow door led to the living quarters.

Merewyn walked ahead of her along a narrow corridor and opened a door to a chamber of modest size but with a big and very comfortable looking four-poster. A fire had been lit in the hearth and in one corner stood a bathtub, waiting to be filled. All that looked very inviting and much better than anything else over the past ten days had. Yes, she was glad she had decided to retire and not insisted upon joining the men. She sank down on a bench that was sitting at the foot end of the bed.

“Would you like me to send for hot water so you can take a bath, my Lady.” Merewyn asked.

“Oh, yes.” Lothíriel sighed. “If there was something I have longed for from the very first day of our journey, it is a bath.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” the girl answered. “I have ridden to Edoras many times with my father, and to visit relatives all over the Eastmark. But I have never gone on such a long journey as you now have behind you.”

That sounded so envious that Lothíriel had to laugh.

“Believe me, Merewyn, it is not an experience I am overly eager to repeat in the near future.”

“Of course not. You are going to be our Queen. And you must be tired. And you want your bath. I will go and give word for the water to be brought over and make sure you get your belongings. I will be back soon.”

With this flow of words she left the chamber and the door slammed shut. The Rohirrim definitely shared certain mutual characteristics.

Lothíriel leant forward and pushing her skirt aside began to unlace her boots. She was glad nobody was with her at that moment because now she could allow herself to groan to her hearts content. Tugging the laces from the holes she wondered about Merewyn’s remark that their queen, of course, wouldn’t repeat the journey between the Mark and Gondor. How was she supposed to take that? Did the Rohirrim expect their Queen to never leave the land? Unlikely. Those words had probably no deeper meaning, and were only spoken without thinking by a young girl. And she would certainly be well advised not to take everything she heard literally. The cultural differences meant a different perception. She had a lot to learn.

She had only managed to remove one boot when Merewyn returned with several other women, all tall and blond, carrying large wooden buckets full of hot water. All greeted her respectfully, and undoubtedly curiously, by bowing their heads, before one after the other poured the water into the tub. After the last had left the tub was filled nearly to the edge with steaming water, obviously still too hot to get into immediately.

Merewyn closed the door behind the women. “The water is very hot. You have plenty of time to undress. Would you like some help? I could brush your hair.”

Lothíriel saw the girl looking at her dark braid as if it were some exotic animal. She had better get used to the fact that she would stick out amongst the Rohirrim like a donkey between horses.

“Merewyn, do you know where my father’s servants left my bags, and more importantly, have you seen a small leather chest, in which I keep certain remedies?”

Before the other could answer there was a knock at the door.

“That should be your belongings,” Merewyn explained. “I have given instructions for them to be brought here as soon as your servants have unloaded the pack-animals.”

She opened the door once more and three of the women from before came in, bringing not only her travel bags and the chest with the oils and salves but also two dresses. Lothíriel thought she remembered them from being made for her during those endless sessions with the seamstresses under the guidance of Queen Arwen. Both gowns were laid across the bed. One was a simple day dress with long, narrow sleeves made from lightweight dark-blue wool; the other was made from pearl-grey velvet, with silver embroidery on the cuffs, the girdle and the high collar.

Whilst the other women left, again wordlessly, Merewyn straighten the folds of the gowns.

“The wains with your possessions arrived in Edoras five days ago. My mother sent some clothes here because she thought you would like something to wear, at least for a night, which is not crumbled after all those days stuck in the bags.”

“That was very thoughtful of Lady Cynewyn.”

Lothíriel bent forward to get eventually rid of the second boot.

“Would you like me to help you?” Merewyn offered again. Lothíriel had to smile to herself at the eagerness in the girl’s voice. Her parents had probably entrusted her to take care of their King’s bride but there was certainly a great deal of curiosity behind her zealousness. And who wouldn’t be curious about a woman from a foreign land who was about to become one’s queen?

“It would be a great help if you could unpack the bag with the stamped in pattern. There should be a clean robe inside and a riding habit, which will be in need of pressing. I would like to wear it tomorrow on our way to Edoras. Leave the other bag; it contains only worn clothes.”

Happily Elfhelm’s daughter did as she was told whilst Lothíriel removed her other boot and began to unlace her riding dress. She slipped it off, her movements stiff, and looked down at her body with a tired grin. Her current outfit was definitely one she still had to get used to. Never before in her life had she worn breeches or a thigh-long shirt. Merewyn on the other hand seemed to be used to these kind of clothes being worn by a woman. She had taken a robe made of silk lined wool out of the bag Lothíriel had indicated to her and was trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Shall I have this pressed for you, my Lady?”

“No, that is not necessary. I will put it on as it is.”

Lothíriel hesitated, feeling quite self-conscious. She was, even after all her encounters with the seamstresses, still not comfortable undressing in front of others, and certainly not in front of somebody who had just been introduced to her. But it appeared Merewyn expected her to do just that. She held the robe so that Lothíriel could slip into it as soon as she had removed the last two items of her clothing. She sighed inwardly. Lady Cynewyn had written in one of her letters that she had – after consulting Éomer - chosen and trained a handmaiden for her. So sooner or later she had to get use to showing herself naked in the company of others.

Lothíriel’s heart lurched as a sudden image came to her mind’s eye. Soon she was supposed to show herself naked not only in front of her handmaiden.

Not really wanting to get into that train of thought, she opened the side-fastenings of her breeches, pushed them down and stepped out of them. Loosening the lacing of her shirt at the collar, she turned her back towards Merewyn and slipped it over her head and just dropped it. Quickly she put her arms into the wide sleeves of the rope, pulled it around her and tied up the belt.

“Now I shall brush your hair,” Merewyn announced cheerfully, having already picked up a brush she had retrieved from the depth of the bag.

Lothíriel tugged her braid out of the collar of the robe and couldn’t keep back an amused smile. Her hair seemed to have a considerable appeal for the girl; or rather the colour of her hair.

“If you insist upon it, you shall,” she agreed and again took her seat on the bench. Merewyn settled behind her as if it were the most natural thing to do. She untied the blue ribbon which held the plait together and with which Lothíriel had braided her hair down from her neck. Having undone it she spread the dark mass over her future Queen’s back.

“Such a beautiful colour,” she said, admiration in her voice, “and so straight and silky.”

“It is simply black,” Lothíriel pointed out. “And black is not even a real colour.”

“It is the colour of our most cherished horses; those, which Mordor took away. Only very few are left.”

Well, if you were compared to a horse, then you knew for certain that you had arrived in Rohan. And you were as well to take it as a compliment if you, were on top of everything, compared to a rare breed of horse.

The mentioning of Mordor reminded Lothíriel of the clash with Orcs the Royal Guard had apparently engaged in.

“Merewyn, some of the riders have told King Elessar that Éomer King and his guard have hunted down Orcs. What happened?”

The girl had begun to brush her hair with smooth, even strokes. She knew how to do it; it had a very relaxing effect on Lothíriel. It was certainly not the first time Merewyn had cared for somebody else’s hair. She had probably very often done it before for her younger sisters. Lothíriel knew there were two from their mother’s letters.

“Since the men have moved back our herds across the Entwash onto the grazing land of the East-Emnet, there had been trouble with Orcs. After the defeat of Mordor they went into hiding in the Emyn Muil and from there they come to raid the East of the Mark.”

“But there are no settlements in the East-Emnet,” Lothíriel recalled knowledge she had gained from her conversations with the Rohirric riders.

“No, there are not.” Merewyn shook her head, a corkscrew curl that had escaped from her braid dancing on her cheek. “Those creatures are coming for the horses, but this time not to take away to Mordor. They come for meat. The foaling season is not over yet and the dams and their foals are easy prey for them. My father has too few men at his disposal. He cannot send the riders out on patrol at random. And the herdsmen have suffered great losses during the battle at Mundburg.”

“I know,” Lothíriel said quietly. “The injured have been in my care at the Houses of Healing.”

“Yes, we have been told that you are a healer, my Lady, and that you looked after our wounded kinsmen.” The girl didn’t sound as if she found the fact that her future queen had worked as a healer and treated those men unusual in any way.

“Your father told you that?”

“He and the herdsmen who came back with the cortège of Théoden King. Ealric and Hleogar are here in Aldburg. Oh!” Merewyn called out, her mouth a bit too close to Lothíriel’s ear. “I nearly forgot! They wish to wait upon you, if you agree.”

Lothíriel withheld her first reaction – which was to put her hand over her ear. “I would love to see them, of course. How are they?”

“My mother says much better than one would have expected, taking into consideration how badly they were injured and that they are now maimed. But they are in good spirits.” Her girlish giggle showed that there was still a lot of a child in Merewyn. “Perhaps I should not tell you this, my Lady, but both – Ealric and Hleogar – thought that it is rather peculiar that Éomer . . . ah, King,” Lothíriel did not miss this late addition of her betrothed’s title, “chose you to be his bride.”

Said bride threw a glance over her shoulder at the younger woman, who was still brushing her hair contently. “They thought it peculiar that their Lord chose a bride from Gondor?”

“Oh, no! They thought it . . . well, perhaps not peculiar but they were rather baffled that it was you,” Merewyn explained, putting some emphasis onto the last word.

Lothíriel looked aghast and could not avoid her mouth falling open ever so slightly. She caught herself quickly and swallowed. “And why do they think so?” she asked.

“They told us Éomer did not behave very kindly towards you.”

Now she was lost. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, trying to call to her mind what the two men could have observed that had led them to the conclusion that Éomer had been treating her unkindly. She had met him only once in their company and as far as she remembered nothing exceptional had occurred between them. – Only afterwards. And she wouldn’t put that into the category ‘unkindness’ . . . although she had no idea in what category to put it anyway.

Belatedly, she realized that Merewyn had resumed talking.

“. . . my father said that when it comes to stubbornness you can hold a candle to him any time.”

When Marshal Elfhelm had said those words, he certainly hadn’t expected his daughter to repeat them to her. Lothíriel failed to hide her smile and the girl caught on too late as to what she had just blabbed.

“Oh, I apologize. I should not have said that. But I can assure you, my Lady, my father did not mean that in a negative sense. Quite the reverse. There are not many who are a match for Éomer.”

Probably just another Rohirric compliment - being as mule-headed as their King!

Once more it struck Lothíriel that the Marshal’s daughter casually used Éomer’s name without his title. “You do know Éomer King quite well?”

“I’ve known him since I was a small child.” She indicated her then size by holding up a flat hand about hip-height above the floor. “And he was younger than I am now.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I will turn eighteen in late summer. How old are you, my Lady.”

“Twenty. I will turn twenty-one on Midsummer Day.”

“Then you are blessed,” Merewyn stated, sounding very satisfied somehow.

“I am blessed? Why and in what way?”

“There is an old saying that those born on Midsummer Day will be blessed with many children of their own.”

“How . . . nice.” Lothíriel was tempted to ask if this old saying specified a number.

“Next year at this time you may have your first child.”

Lothíriel thought it about time to change the subject and returned to her initial question about the Royal Guard’s armed encounter. How did their conversation venture from hunting Orcs to breeding babies?

“You were telling me about the Orc raids on your herds.”

“Oh, yes. Father had ordered the herds of the dams and newborn foals to be brought closer to Aldburg. He thought the Orcs wouldn’t dare to come that close to a settlement where a full éored is under arms at all times and they had to run about seventy mile over open plain back to the East Wall of Rohan. No band of Orcs can out run an éored.”

“You said they come for the horses. Couldn’t they just steal them and ride them back to the Emyn Muil, even if they intended to slaughter them afterwards?”

“No horse of Rohan will carry such a foul creature. They slaughter them on the spot and haul the meat back themselves. Four days ago two attacks were reported; both further North and my father sent fifty riders after each of them. But then, during the night before last an even larger band of Orcs raided a herd grazing just twenty miles from here where the Snowborn flows into the Entwash. Not since the fall of Mordor have Orcs come so close to one of our settlements. The herd was guarded only by young lads. They killed two of the boys. The others arrived at Aldburg to raise the alarm only moments before Éomer and the Royal Guard appeared. They took up the chase immediately and hunted the creatures down. None of those beasts will ever lay hand on our kinsmen or our horses again.”

Whilst reporting those incidents Merewyn’s voice had become more and more passionate. She had stopped brushing Lothíriel’s hair. When the latter turned around she saw that the girl was clutching the brush so tightly that she feared it might break in those small hands. And there was nothing girlish anymore in that pretty face. Lothíriel saw a rare hate for those foul creatures, which had inflicted such suffering on her future home; and who were still causing death. Two boys had been killed. No, the war was not truly over yet. Especially not for Rohan.

Carefully Lothíriel took the brush from the girl’s fingers. Merewyn let it go without resisting.

“The Orcs are destroyed and the men have returned safely,” Merewyn said with a grim satisfaction. “They thought all riders were gone. They hadn’t expected the Royal Guard to turn up.”

“Merewyn, I saw blood on Éomer’s cuirass.” There was obviously no point in using titles. “He said it was Éothain’s whom he helped to get inside the hall. So at least his Marshal must be wounded.”

“Indeed! That idiot!”

Lothíriel blinked in surprise. “That idiot?” she echoed. “You call a man wounded in battle an idiot?”

“Well, if it was his own fault,” the younger woman replied, not at least impressed by Lothíriel’s reproachful frown.

“Sympathy is not your strongest trait, is it?” her future Queen asked with a good dose of sarcasm.

“Those were actually Éomer’s words,” Merewyn defended herself.

“Why am I not surprised,” Lothíriel muttered more to herself. “How badly is Marshal Éothain injured?”

“Not too badly, I should think. Otherwise Éomer and my father would have shown more concern.”

“I must say I am quite relieved.”

“He just has a broken off arrowhead in his . . . bottom.” Merewyn rolled her eyes and bit her lips, obviously in an attempt not to giggle.

“In his bottom,” Lothíriel repeated, keeping her voice steady. “That is . . . hurtful. Especially for a rider, but certainly not life threatening.”

“Master Berenwald is with him. The healer.” Without prior warning Merewyn reached for Lothíriel’s hair and pulled it over her shoulder so that it fell over her right breast down to her lap. “It is so beautiful. I could help you wash it. If we wrap it in a flannel whilst you rest it will be dry by this evening.”

Lothíriel ran her fingers through her hair. To wash it and have it clean again would be wonderful. Her young companion suddenly leaped to her feet, startling her slightly, and went over to the bathtub. She put her hand into the water.

“I think the temperature is fine now. You can take your bath, my Lady.”

Lothíriel sighed in blissful anticipation and looked around for her healer’s chest, when a knock came from the door. She raised her eyebrows at Merewyn who just shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps they found another piece of your belongings,” she conjectured and walked over to open the door.

Lothíriel turned her back towards the door and drew the collar of her robe closer together. But at Merewyn’s next words she came up to her feet and executed a quick half-turn on her heels.

“Éomer?” The girl sounded surprised, and then added, “Ah, my Lord,” which earned her a grin from her King, who stretched out his hand and ruffled her hair. Without hesitating she batted at his hand.

“You cannot come in here,” she stressed. “My Lady was just about to take her bath.”

“Was she, indeed?” He stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He had shed his armour and the coat of mail and was now wearing only a brown leather tunic over a linen shirt and deerskin breeches, all – like the knee-high boots – marked from a couple of days in the saddle. He let his eyes roam over Lothíriel, taking in her loose hair, the wrinkled robe and her bare feet. Then his gaze returned to hers, golden and intense. She had to fight the urge to swallow heavily. And when had the room grown so hot?

Merewyn’s eyes wandered mischievously from one to the other. Finally she addressed Éomer in Rohirric. His gaze turned towards the Marshal’s daughter, a mixture of amusement and amazement. To Lothíriel the few words of his answer sounded somehow like a friendly threat.

Learning their language would be the first thing she would do.

“Is there a particular reason, my Lord, why you have come here?” At least she could always rely on her voice. Again she had managed to let the tone of it be cool and indifferent. To her own ears it could have been the voice of another person.

Éomer’s eyes quickly moved back to her. “I apologize for keeping you from your bath.” He pointed with his chin towards the bathtub. “As you can see we do indeed have big tubs filled with hot water in Rohan.”

“That, my Lord, I have never disputed. I have only doubted how well acquainted you were with the concept of using them regularly.”

“If you are still in doubt, you are cordially invited to get me better acquainted with that concept.”

Lothíriel had a uneasy feeling that they were on their way to dangerous – and for her still unknown - terrain, and that Éomer was leading her there on purpose, because once there he would have all the advantages he could wish for. When had this turned into a contest?

“If it is necessary to draw your attention to the fact that you are in need of a bath then let me tell you, the moment has come: you should take one,” she pointed out, flinching inwardly because she had involuntarily imitated Elphir’s tone of hauteur.

“Is that an invitation?”

Lothíriel looked at him in non-comprehension. She knew he was teasing her but she had no idea what kind of invitation he expected. Éomer’s eyes held hers in a mocking challenge. Suddenly he lowered his gaze and when he looked up at her again, his smile had softened.

“Lothíriel, are you very tired?”

Surprised by the change of subject, she let out the first words that came to her mind. “I thought we had established that I am in need of a rest.”

“You certainly are,” he confirmed in a regretful tone. “I would not have disturbed you if it were not for the Marshal of my Guard.”

“Éothain? Merewyn told me that his injury was not thought to be serious. That he had a broken arrowhead in his bottom.”

“Indeed. That was what he told us . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“. . . the idiot?” Lothíriel completed the sentence which earned first, her a surprised glance, and then Merewyn a deep frown.

“Well, yes,” he went on. “If I wear only a cuirass I make sure that my coat of mail is buckled up thoroughly at the back so that - for example – an arrow cannot penetrate. And if it has happened, I do not try and pull it out by myself. So yes, indeed, he is an idiot.”

“And it did not get stuck in his bottom,” Lothíriel inquired, her professional curiosity taking over.

“It got stuck about a hand width above his . . . cleft.”

“With above his cleft you mean in his lower spine and with stuck you mean that you cannot just pull it out because it got hooked with a lumbar vertebra?”

Éomer had listened to her with a faintly amused expression. “Berenwald, the healer, put it in other words, but that sounds like what he said. He fears if he pulls the arrowhead out with force he will damage Éothain’ spine.”

“He certainly will,” Lothíriel agreed. “We have to cut it out.”

“We have to cut it out?”

“I have to cut it out.” She had not waited for Éomer’s reply but retrieved her healer’s chest from next to the bathtub and put it on the bed. She opened it and took out her oils and salves; leaving only those items in that she needed for a small operation. She congratulated herself that she had thought to pack all those instruments she might need for treating injuries that could occur on a long journey. From the bottom of the chest she pulled out a flat leather case and handed it to Merewyn.

“These are surgical instruments. Take them to the kitchen and have them boiled. Make sure the kettle is clean. And be careful, those instruments are very sharp.”

Merewyn, who had listened fascinated to their exchange, looked questionably at Éomer. He stepped aside so that she might leave the chamber.

“You better get used to do what your Queen tells you. Make haste.”

The girl giggled and once more made a remark in her own tongue, causing Éomer to give her a not too gentle shove out of the door. Lothíriel could hear her footsteps retreating down the corridor. She took the chest from the bed and handed it to Éomer.

“Would you mind taking yourself outside, so that I can get dressed?”

He took a step backwards and she slammed the door shut in his face. She doubted that anybody would feel disturbed by the bang or would even notice it.

She braided her hair, looking longingly at the slowly cooling water in that inviting bathtub. At least she would sleep in a very comfortable looking bed tonight. Slipping off her robe she took up the day dress Lady Cynewyn had sent for her from Edoras. Not bothering to search for a chemise, she stepped into it and put her arms into the narrow sleeves. Unfortunately the dress was to be laced up at the back and as much as she tried and twisted her stiff body around, she couldn’t manage to pull the laces tight. Her sore muscles simply wouldn’t comply. Out of breath she sank down on the bed. She looked around. All she could do was change into her riding habit or she could . . .

Lothíriel looked at the door. She could ask Éomer. That certainly did not comply with the proprieties, but . . . oh, bugger. She had already seen quite a lot of him and he had felt quite a lot of her, and they were going to be wed in three days time. So what did it matter if he was going to see a bit of skin whilst lacing up her dress.

She took a deep breath. Well, she had a man to treat and shouldn’t really waste any time with over-sensitivities. She slid off the bed and went to the door, putting her hand on the bolt, and taking another breath before opening it.

“My Lord.”

Éomer was leaning against the opposite wall. He raised an eyebrow when she did not step out into the corridor.

“I need your assistance before we can go.”

“Do you need me to take something else for you?” The small chest was standing next to him on the floor.

“No, there is nothing else to be taken.” Her eyes stayed uncomfortably on the chest. “Ineedyoutolaceupmygown.”

“I beg your pardon?” He asked, obviously unable to make sense out of her muffled words. “There were times when you pronounced yourself better.”

Lothíriel cleared her throat and pointed with her fore finger over her shoulder. “My gown,” she said, now with deliberate clarity. “I cannot lace it myself.”

He looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You wish me to lace up your gown?”

“Precisely.”

Éomer pushed himself from the wall. “Out here, in the corridor?”

Lothíriel just shook her head and retreated into her chamber. Éomer followed her pushing the door shut behind them. She had stopped just inside, her back towards him, facing the bed.

“May I?

She felt his knuckles against the small of her back, pulling at the laces, wandering slowly further upwards. She wondered if it was really necessary for his fingers to brush against her skin all the time. The seamstresses had managed to lace the dresses without doing that. On the other hand it was not an everyday task for him to lace up gowns – at least she hoped not.

Finally he arrived at her neck. She felt him tying the bow. That one of his fingers slowly slid up her neck afterwards was definitely not necessary. Quickly Lothíriel stepped around him and made to escape through the door but he just turned on his heels and reaching over her from behind kept the door closed by leaning with an outstretched arm against it.

For the second time in her life Lothíriel found herself between a hard surface and Éomer and her heart made its utmost attempt to escape from its traditional location up through her throat.

“Lothíriel.”

He just stood in front of her, not touching.

“That day, at the Houses of Healing . . . My conduct that day was too unrestrained. I should not have done that. I had no right.”

What was he saying? That it hadn’t been right to kiss her? Or that he hadn’t the right to kiss her? She looked up at him. His mouth curved into one of his slow smiles.

“But I am not saying that I have no inclination to do it again, as soon as I have the right.”

His hands found their way to her shoulders, sliding slowly along them. He laid his hands very carefully around her neck and used his thumbs to tip up her chin. Bending his head, he planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. He hesitated for just a heartbeat before he put his mouth on hers. Gently, this time. Persuasively. Not with that abrupt and shocking flash of heat that, before, had slapped all those sleeping urges awake; but with a slow and shimmering warmth that patiently unknotted every snag of tension inside her; loosened her until her bones felt like melting wax.

When he drew back, his hands were on her face, calloused fingers skimming over her cheekbones, then down, trailing lightly over her throat. She was half surprised her legs didn’t collapse. Without her back against the door she would have probably sunk down to the floor in a puddle.

“I have been waiting for you, Lothíriel.” He was using that voice again, that warm, low purr of a cat . . . of a very big cat. Did lions purr?

“I have been waiting for you for all these months.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth, actually to allow her neglected lungs some air, but her tongue began working on its own account.

“If you have been waiting for me, you could have had said a word in all these months.”



TBC
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