Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Cushions (#4504)
Author: curiouswombat
Chapters: 20

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: In a time of legend, Éomer thinks he has seen a genuine fairy-tale character... An Éomer/Lothiriel story.
Published: 07 Sep 2014
Updated: 08 Mar 2016
Warnings:
Type: Romance
Characters: Éomer; Lothiriel


Chapter 1 - A Tiny Incident

It is surprising how often major life changes can be traced back to a tiny incident; or, perhaps, it isn’t as it seems to happen so very often.

In this instance the tiny incident was the delivery boy’s dog frightening the cook’s cat so that she shot from the yard right into the kitchen with no care for where she was going. And where she was, unwittingly, going was right under the feet of both Cook and Princess Lothíriel, who had come down to the kitchen to discuss the upcoming evacuation.

Cook, realising she was about to step on the cat, twisted to avoid this, lost her footing, staggered a few steps, and fell onto the princess trapping her against the iron door of a very hot oven. By the time the delivery boy and the scullery maid pulled the cook off Lothíriel the damage was done, and she had suffered very embarrassing burns to the backs of her thighs and her buttocks.

The presence of the delivery boy prevented anyone doing the obvious thing, namely dousing the princess’s posterior with cold water. By the time she reached her own rooms, and her maid pulled up her clothing, the skin was badly blistered and it was clear that, embarrassing though it would be, a healer must be called.

The princess spent the next ten days lying on her stomach, on her bed, with cool damp dressings being reapplied at regular intervals throughout both day and night. Outside the town house of the Prince of Dol Amroth there was much activity as more and more of the women and children were evacuated from the city, and more and more of the fighting strength of Gondor was gathered within it. Inside the house the princess lay on her bed, in pain, and frustrated by her inactivity.

Prince Imrahil worried that Lothíriel would not be able to sit on a horse to leave the city, and the healers confirmed that riding would, almost certainly, break down any new skin that formed and allow infection which could prove fatal. She could be moved, they said, only if she could lie down on her stomach for the journey.

Now Dol Amroth is, of course, a sea-faring princedom, and there were Dol Amroth ships still at Minas Tirith’s river port of Harlond. Prince Imrahil sent a message to the captain of the ‘Mithrellas’, which was still unloading food to be carried into the city for the defenders, and so would be the last to leave. When the last wagon came up to the city it was to carry the princess back to the ship where she could travel back to Dol Amroth lying on her stomach.

By now the household staff, apart from Lothíriel’s maid and the cook, had been evacuated overland; the maid would travel with her mistress, and the cook had chosen to stay to keep her lord and his sons, and others of the Swan Knights, fed. Lothíriel was visited daily, still, by one of the healers. She felt bored, embarrassed, worried for her father and brothers, worried for her uncle and cousins, but mostly she just wanted to be on board ‘Mithrellas’ and heading for home.

More days passed and now it was two weeks since the unfortunate incident. Although not yet allowed to sit Lothíriel was, by this time, allowed to walk and to put on a dress. Soon the cart would come to take her and her maid to Harlond; all her belongings were packed, and the mattress was ready to put in the cart for her to lie upon for the first stage of the journey. Then came shocking news.

‘Mithrellas’ had sailed without her.

Lothíriel could tell, by the tension around his mouth, how annoyed her father was, although he tried not to let it show. Her brother Erchirion had pieced together what must have happened; it had been a misunderstanding caused by a problem on board another vessel.

‘Hiril Vuin’ had brought up foot soldiers from Belfalas but had developed a problem with her rudder which had taken some days to repair. ‘Mithrellas’ had been ready to sail before then and, knowing that the princess was to leave on the last ship, her captain had, it seemed, decided that this now meant the ‘Hiril Vuin’. Except that the captain of ‘Hiril Vuin’ had been given no orders to send for Lothíriel before he sailed…

And so the Princess of Dol Amroth found herself still in Minas Tirith as the siege of the city began.

…………………………..

Much has been written of the siege of the city, of the retreat from Osgiliath in which Lothíriel’s cousin Faramir was stricken by The Black Breath, of the despair of her uncle Denethor that caused him to perish in flames at his own hand – almost taking Faramir with him. Much, too, has been written about the horrors visited on the people of the city before the siege was broken in the great battle when the Riders of Rohan, and the ships that were not full of Corsairs, arrived. The death of Théoden King, and the slaying of the Witch King in return, by his niece and a hobbit, are written and sung about throughout much of Middle Earth.

And so there is no need to dwell upon those topics here. Instead we will go to those few days between that great battle and the departure of the Army of the West to go into the very jaws of Evil as they rode into Mordor.

In the Houses of Healing men lay on every bed in every one of the healing rooms, and there were the sounds of sorrow and of pain, mainly muffled as men tried to hold themselves in check, and a sense of almost perpetual motion as the healers moved amongst them doing all they could. But, in the wing where the wealthier residents of Minas Tirith were usually tended, all was quiet and calm as two rooms housed but one patient apiece.

Lothíriel wanted to make herself useful, but had little skills in the healing arts, and could do little practical to help Cook feed the Swan Knights filling the town house. Her maid’s sister worked in the Houses of Healing and Lothíriel had been happy to let the maid go to help with such basic tasks as washing men and carrying bedpans. Her father, she knew, would be shocked should she volunteer her own services in the same way and, to be honest, she wasn’t sure she would be much help anyway.

But, in one of those two private rooms that still held only one patient each, her cousin Faramir lay. And all that was required, her father said, was someone to sit with him, speak reassuringly to him when he woke and help him take cooling drinks, for his throat was still too sore, from inhaling smoke, to eat. This was a commission which Lothíriel could happily undertake, thus freeing up a skilled healer for other tasks.

Her own healer made a couple of stipulations but otherwise agreed it was ‘a good use of available resources’, and so Lothíriel stationed herself, for much of each day, at Faramir’s side, quietly reading some of his favourite poems to him even when he seemed to be unaware.

In the only other single room, just across the corridor from Faramir’s, resided Éowyn of Rohan, also recovering from The Black Breath (which sounded like something from a story book – but, then, so did the person who had cured the sufferers). A low male voice could sometimes be heard from the room of the warrior princess, if both doors were open, talking in the unfamiliar language of the Horse Lords. This man was, according to one of the healers, their King himself.

She had caught a glimpse of him once or twice; as tall as her father and brothers, at least, though broader. He had fair hair left unfashionably long – well down his back – and wore a plain-spun tunic and well-worn boots. Truthfully, Lothíriel was not surprised that he did not wear silken robes and fashionable shoes – a warrior king seemed best in these days.

…………………………..

Having dismissed her maid to tend to the wounded, or at least to their faces, hands, and bladders, Lothíriel encountered an unexpected problem. She could not dress herself. Every dress had many small buttons up the back, impossible to fasten for yourself. She could not go down to the kitchen in an unfastened dress, to ask Cook for help, for fear of meeting one of the many men in the house along the way.

Eventually she found that two of her evening gowns, cut with a lower neck to display her ‘décolleté,’ and with front laces to tighten them under her breasts, could be buttoned first and then pulled over the head before being properly laced. They were really much too formal, her everyday dresses would have been more suitable, but she wore a shawl over the top and decided no-one much would be looking at her anyway.

But it was very hot in Faramir’s room in the Houses of Healing – a well fed fire was kept burning there because the Black Breath had chilled him to the bone and it was felt necessary to keep him warm – so the shawl was quickly discarded. And, should Faramir notice the amount of cleavage Lothíriel displayed, she did not mind because she had wanted him to notice her as more than a child these past three years!

She did feel silly having to use the footstool but balanced as she was, at her own healer’s insistence, on a pile of three or four down cushions to protect her healing skin, she felt it likely that without the footstool she would slide onto the floor. She had tried with only one cushion but realised her healer was right, it was not enough on these hard, wooden chairs and, as the only people who would see her were her family or the healers, she remained perched on her softly padded tower.

…………………………..


Éomer would remember, until the end of his days, his emotions when he had not only known his uncle dead, and what this meant to him, but thought his sister also perished.

Even when he knew that Éowyn lived it seemed as if she was half-way to being a wraith; and, when Aragorn called her back to the world, her brother felt that she yet needed his presence to keep her tethered there. But he had other duties, and so a healer sat in Éowyn’s room, and Éomer came and went as often as he could. Natural curiosity, and the well schooled need to be aware of his surroundings, meant he looked through every open door he passed.

Across the passageway the son of the self-immolating steward lay, recovering from the same malady of soul that Éowyn had suffered, but beside him sat the strangest sight Éomer had ever seen; even in this time of strange sights and walking legends.

He was not sure what it told him of the people of Minas Tirith that at Faramir’s bedside sat a woman who personified the childhood tale of The Princess and The Pea.

………………………….. To be continued.............................


Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.


Chapter 2 - A small misunderstanding and a burgeoning romance...

On the march to the Black Gate of Mordor the evenings were worse than the daytime. During the day you could see what was around you, and concentrate on staying in your place in the column; even needing to concentrate on your horse as the atmosphere became heavier with the sense of evil and foreboding that made even well trained warhorses skittish.

But at night there were no such distractions. Men sought comfort, by the light of their small fires, in speaking of everyday pleasures and memories of more innocent times. Many a tale was told of escapades, pleasures, and even of remembered childhood punishments for the escapades when discovered.

Éomer sought, most often, the company of Prince Imrahil and his sons for he found their tales held his interest more than those of the Riders he knew well, yet were easier to relate to than those of Aragorn, or the other members of the Fellowship, who still rode near him and sat with him at night. And so he learnt of Imrahil’s daughter; a much loved baby sister who wanted to ride, and play with a sword or a bow, like her big brothers, and was indulged, but still cried over dead kittens and admitted to enjoying weaving tapestries. She sounded like an enchanting child.

He spoke, himself, of a childhood spent in the stables when he wasn’t running free – although, when questioned, admitted to time in the classroom. Éowyn, too, had wished to learn the sword and bow – and rode before she could run. But amusing anecdotes of her, and of home, from more recent years were scarce and he entertained the others, rather, with tales of Rider training, his first hangover (shared with Éothain), and his introduction to sex – most certainly not shared with Éothain.

Of the stand of the Army of The West at the Black Gates of Mordor many have written; of victory plucked from the jaws of defeat, the coming of the eagles, the freedom of all won at the hand of a hobbit. Much has been written, too, of the reception that brave hobbit and his companion received on the Field of Cormallen. But for the others who were there, in many ways, those days after the great victory were not unlike the ones before it.

Men still gathered in small groups around their camp fires and spoke of their families and homes. The difference was that, now, they did so with the expectation of seeing those family and friends again; of there being a future for them all. To Éomer came the full realisation that he was no longer just the leader of an army, riding to almost certain death, but of a whole people who would look to him to ensure their survival in the peace.

In the evenings he found refuge from his worries, more than once, back in the company of Prince Imrahil and his sons as they spoke of childhood pranks, of plans for the future, and how good it would be to see those they had left behind. He wished his own sister was still a child, like theirs, so that she would not have been targeted by Grima, or have ridden to war in desperation over loss and unrequited love, even though she helped to save the day.

Aragorn, also newly come to kingship, treated him as a brother might, but he could only fully return the sentiment when Legolas explained to him, one evening, that Aragorn was betrothed. As an honourable man Aragorn could have done nothing other than reject Éowyn’s tentative advances and so send her despairing into battle seeking an end to it all.

Doubtless it would take her time to recover from the bruising to her heart, as well as the effects of the battle, but once they returned home, Éomer decided, she would find plenty to occupy her, and some Rider or another would eventually win her heart.

……………….

Lothíriel was bored. She knew that she should greet each day with a merry heart, and relish every moment of these first days free of the threat of Mordor. But there were no brothers to joke with, or to ride out with; no friends, either, for all the other young women of the Steward’s court had found refuge away from the city.

She had hoped to spend time with her cousin, and to continue her efforts to remind him that she was no longer a child but an eligible young woman. She had made the acquaintance of the Princess of Rohan, Éowyn, and would have been happy to show her the best of Minas Tirith left undamaged by the siege.

But in both these aims she seemed to have been thwarted. For Faramir had introduced Lothíriel to the Lady Éowyn as ‘my young cousin’ and, after thanking her for releasing a healer by sitting at his bed, had said very little to her at all. In fact he paid almost no attention to her as he spent much of his time being The Steward. And any time that Faramir was not readying everything in the city for the return of the King (a phrase she associated with her Uncle Denethor; but she doubted he would actually have welcomed being here to see that moment…) he spent with Lady Éowyn.

He certainly seemed to look at her as if she was a full grown and eligible woman. This was, Lothíriel thought, grossly unfair as Éowyn of Rohan was only three years older than Lothíriel herself. And, when Faramir and Lady Éowyn were together, Lothíriel soon found she was ignored as if she was no different to the statues in the garden where they met. Whereas if she tried to spend time engaging Lady Éowyn in conversation, whilst Faramir was administrating, the Princess of Rohan either brought the conversation around to Faramir, or slowly let conversation peter out and then sat gazing out the window either dreamily or moodily – it was hard to be sure.

Then Lothíriel found she had a fellow in boredom for not dissimilar reasons. The hobbit, Meriadoc, must have expected that Lady Éowyn would enjoy his company and help him fill his time; they had, after all, ridden together in the host of the Rohirrim, and each kept the other’s presence secret, and then fought together to defeat the Witch King; or so Lothíriel had heard. Recovery from the Black Breath, too, was something that Lady Éowyn shared as much with Meriadoc as with Faramir.

But the Lady of Rohan seemed to react to the hobbit’s presence much as she did to Lothíriel’s. His boredom must be even worse than her own, she realised, as he had neither a home in the city nor any other hobbit to talk to.

‘What’s more,’ she thought, ‘he probably gets even more fed up than I do with being thought a child.’

And so the two paired up and soon became firm friends. Merry told her about The Shire, Rivendell, and his time in Fangorn Forest in the company of Treebeard. In return Lothíriel spoke of Dol Amroth, and the sea, and introduced him to her family’s cook who was thrilled to meet a Halfling and overjoyed that here was someone who thoroughly appreciated her cooking and ate everything with gusto.

Merry it was who heard first of the wagons being readied to go to Cormallen, and determined to go with them to be reunited with his friends. Lothíriel decided to go too. Her healer agreed that, as long as her seat was well padded, and she walked a little way each hour to take the pressure from her newly healed skin, there was no reason for her not to go. And Faramir, as her nearest relative and the de facto ruler of the city, nodded his agreement without, she knew, ever hearing what she had said; so occupied was he with ruling and mooning.

……………

Lothíriel did ask Lady Éowyn whether she wanted to join the expedition and so be reunited with her brother.

“I think not,” she had answered. “I have spent enough time, recently, sleeping under canvas or without even that over my head. I will remain here, for Éomer will surely return with Arag… um, your new king.”

Lothíriel might have been surprised at the warrior princess of Rohan being such a… a… girl about the camp at Cormallen if she hadn’t noticed Éowyn’s eyes sliding past her to Faramir, whose footsteps she recognised coming through the door behind her.

And so Lothíriel, knowing that they would soon have forgotten about her, went to finish her packing.

Father would certainly have decent tents, she knew, and would doubtless be able to provide her with a camp bed, but they would not have spare bedding. If she turfed a brother off a camp bed he would probably do the same to his esquire, and so on, until eventually someone would end up on the ground, but they’d all need their own bedding; she took the thick feather quilt, from her own bed, which could go under her as well as over. Then she added two large feather-filled blue silk cushions, from her own small sitting room, as she was mindful of her healer’s instructions.

Her maid would accompany her, of course. Fewer men now needed basic help in the Houses of Healing and the maid had returned to the family house. There might be a need for her to offer such help at Cormallen but, mainly, Lothíriel would need someone to sleep near her, for propriety, and so that she could wear her normal clothing into which she needed lacing or buttoning!

Merry, as he had asked her to call him, seemed to have little more than what he stood up in. Lothíriel decided to take him in hand. Her nephew’s clothes, left behind, were much too small for him. Her brothers’ clothes were all too big. Lothíriel’s seamstress had not yet retuned to the city. She sent a messenger to her father’s elderly tailor and, by the time the wagons were ready to leave, Merry had a number of clean changes; Father’s account was larger but, Lothíriel was sure, he would agree that she had done the right thing.

The long train of wagons took some time to reach Cormallen. Lothíriel did as her healer had instructed and walked regularly, without difficulty, as the whole procession moved at a very sedate pace. She slept at night on her stomach, wrapped up in her quilt, and was very glad that she had brought it.

The closer they got to their destination the more excited both Lothíriel and Merry became. She really wanted to see for herself that her father and brothers had survived, relatively unscathed, and Merry was desperate to see his cousins and Sam, not to mention all the other members of the Fellowship that had adventured together and to whom, Lothíriel knew, they all owed a great deal.

And then they were there. There were so many men, horses, large tents, smaller tents, bivouacs of branches and blankets, that it was like a small town. Lothíriel stood on top of their wagon and eventually spotted the great blue and silver banner that must mark her father’s tent.

And then closer at hand, approaching to help supervise the unloading, a familiar figure.

“Erchirion!” Lothíriel called in a rather unladylike manner, “Erchi!”


Chapter 3 - Éomer is Embarrassed...

Within a couple of hours after the long train of wagons arrived at Cormallen Éomer had finished yet another meeting with Aragorn, and their senior officers, and witnessed the joy of the hobbits’ reunion.

He had asked Merry about Éowyn and been reassured that she was recovering. He had wondered why she had not come with Merry but, as the only other females he had seen were healers or some who seemed to be, to put it politely, camp followers, he assumed his sister had not been given the opportunity.

Éothain was organising the distribution of stores amongst their men and Éomer felt he could take up Imrahil’s offer of a hot meal. There would be hot food amongst his own men, of course, but one of Imrahil’s foot soldiers was a member of the Dol Amroth kitchen staff in ordinary circumstances and this showed in the food served to Imrahil and his officers!

As Éomer approached the circle of large tents around the Dol Amroth banner he was surprised to hear a laughing feminine voice in the tent shared by the princes Erchirion and Amrothos – surely they were not entertaining one (or more!) of the camp followers so early in the evening, and so publicly?

Then, just as he decided it might be better to quietly leave, he found Imrahil at his elbow urging him towards the table where food was already in evidence.

‘Either,’ he thought, ‘Imrahil doesn’t realise there is a woman, or more than one, in his sons’ tent or he is able to maintain a dignified silence better than any other man I have met!’

……………….

Éomer was glad that he did not still have his pre-puberty tendency to blush for, if he had, then his friends from Dol Amroth might have realised all too easily the number of times he felt embarrassed during the next hour.

Firstly came that moment when he thought the younger friends might be found with a woman in their tent by their father. Then he had felt almost as embarrassed when Prince Imrahil had smiled in that direction benignly before commenting that he hoped they would soon be finished and ready to eat.

When the two sons in question arrived to eat, with a smiling, dark haired, young woman walking between them, Éomer was at first embarrassed that they had brought a camp-follower to share the meal, and then that he had mistaken the young woman’s status as she was clearly better dressed than an army prostitute would be.

‘Maybe,’ he thought, ‘she is one of the healers that came with the wagons and they are acquainted with her.’

As the oldest of the three princes approached, and the young woman ran to him and threw herself against his chest, Éomer then decided she must be Elphir’s wife about whom he had heard much during those evenings around the fire.

‘How odd,’ he thought, ‘I thought she was in Dol Amroth with their small son. It must have been something of a major undertaking for her to get here.’

When Imrahil then introduced the young woman as his daughter Éomer was embarrassed to think that he had not realised that there was an elder princess as well as the young child about whom he had heard so much. After that, as he registered that this was Princess Lothíriel, his confusion would most certainly have embarrassed him if he had not been so surprised that he actually said nothing more than ‘Hello.’

The whole group stood, talking together, as they waited for Imrahil’s servants to set out the food. Éomer’s emotions were still running a gamut; for a start, the princess was not, perhaps, a classically pretty young woman but she was certainly pleasant on the eye, and had a ready smile that reached her own eyes. She looked vaguely familiar, he thought, but decided this was because she was quite clearly her brothers’ sister.

He was still embarrassed by his misunderstanding of her identity, as the conversation went first to her own health (much improved, it seemed, although he could gain no clue as to what had been wrong with her), and then to the health of her cousin Faramir, and it became clear that she had spent time in the Houses of Healing.

“May I ask if you have news of my sister?” he ventured, worried that Éowyn had not also come to Cormallen, if it had been possible for Lothíriel to do so.

The reply, “She is well recovered from her malady, your majesty,” embarrassed him further. In part because he was still unused to the form of address – his own men’s ‘Éomer King’ no longer sounded odd as it did, at least, start with his given name – but ‘majesty’…

Mainly, though, the embarrassment came from the conversation that followed his immediate response of, “Then surely room could have been found for her also to accompany the wagons, if there was room for you to come to see your brothers?”

When Lothíriel looked embarrassed by this Éomer felt both slightly guilty and also annoyed, as he had obviously been correct, and a princess of Gondor could be accommodated whereas one of the Riddermark could not.

Except that Lothíriel answered, “Of course room could have been found. I am sure my cousin, the Steward, would have arranged a wagon for her personal use had she wished to come. But she chose to remain in Minas Tirith.”

There was something in her voice, an undercurrent perhaps, which earned her a slightly puzzled glance from her father; Éomer wished he knew what that was about. And he still couldn’t understand why Éowyn would chose to remain in the cold stone of Mundburg when she could have been here, in the open air, with him.

A member of Imrahil’s company announced that the meal was ready and Éomer was distracted from his puzzled speculation by Imrahil asking Lothíriel if she would be able to sit at table.

‘What a very strange question,’ Éomer thought, even as the princess reassured her father that she would be quite all right on one of the canvas campaign chairs.

Conversation around the table turned to people that Éomer didn’t know and he applied himself to the meal. Fresh food had come on the wagons in large quantities; no matter how mad the old Steward seemed to have been, at the last, he had clearly been very well able to organise his lands to keep the city well stocked in readiness for a siege. Éomer feared that the apathy that had struck his uncle, under the invidious influence of Saruman’s tool Wormtongue, had prevented such provision being made at home. He sank deeper into his own thoughts.

Éomer was only stirred from his reverie by Prince Imrahil suggesting that they go and sit by the fire whilst the table was cleared, and again asking the princess if she would be able to sit easily. She shuffled a little in her seat and then gestured towards another female, a little older and dressed in plain grey, who Éomer had not noticed before; clearly her maid.

The maid went to the tent where he had heard Lothíriel’s laughter earlier and Éomer realised that Erchirion and Amrothos had clearly been moved out of their tent to make room for their sister. Obviously they had taken their usurpation in good part for they were making jokes about it as the party relocated.

Only when the maid returned carrying two thick cushions and put them down for the princess to sit on did it finally occur to Éomer, with a sense of shock, just why his friends’ sister, described as always wanting to be one of the boys, looked familiar. When he had thought, back in those dark days in the Houses of Healing, that he had seen the personification of the tale of the Princess and the Pea, he had actually been right about the ‘princess’, even if he had no way of knowing whether her pile of cushions had protected her from a pea.

Éomer spent the rest of the evening, and much of a sleepless night, trying to unravel the puzzle of how the person in the luxuriously embroidered silk dress, sitting on her pile of cushions with her feet on an ornate footstool, could be the same tomboy sister described by the younger princes of Dol Amroth, or even the sensibly dressed young woman who chose to come to Cormallen and sleep in a tent when his own sister had chosen not to.

……………….

The king of Rohan was rather stern, Lothíriel thought. He had frowned at his plate more than once over the meal although, she decided, it was probable this was not actually at the standard of the food, for it had been very tasty. Perhaps he had not approved of the lightness of the conversation, or of her own presence; although he seemed surprised, even angry, that his own sister had not come out to the great camp. Particularly when he thought his country had been slighted.

Father had asked her more about that.

“She said she’d spent enough time sleeping under canvas, or without even that, to want to come,” Lothíriel had answered.

“Strange…” her father had mused, “for I had the impression that she was certainly no delicate flower, and that she and Éomer were very close, being orphaned as children. I would have thought she would have come to support him.”

“Perhaps,” said Lothíriel, thinking of that stern face, “she thought he would be very angry with her, if she rode to war when he thought her safe at home.”

“Perhaps.” A pause. “But I sensed something more when you answered Éomer’s question.” He paused again. Then he tilted his head slightly and waited.

Lothíriel gave in. “My cousin is spending a lot of time with Princess Éowyn…”

“That’s very kind of him,” her father answered, “but I’m not sure that would have prevented her travelling with you. Unless… you were also friendly to her, I hope?”

“Oh yes, Father, I invited her to stay in our house, once the healers said she could, but she preferred to stay in the Houses, probably because…” she faltered. Father could always wheedle information out of her; it was unfair, really.

“Because?”

“Because the Steward’s offices are closer to the Healing Houses than they are to our house.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I will say nothing of that to Éomer for it may come to naught; it is their business, not mine. Although it would be a very acceptable connection…”

And, with that, Lothíriel felt her own last hope of being wed to Faramir slip quietly away.

……………….


Chapter 4 - Gathering Intelligence

Chapter Four

There was, Éomer thought, a sense of being outside time here. A pause, before Aragorn took up his burden of kingship – and Éomer would have to do likewise. Granted he had been recognized as Éomer King from the very day Théoden King had fallen, but so far he had only had to lead an army; once he returned to the Riddermark he would have to lead a whole people.

The enormity of the task was only now beginning to dawn on him.

The Rohirrim had left their own large tents and pavilions behind at the great muster, for speed had been of the essence, and survival to use them after battle had seemed unlikely. By now, however, Éothain and his lieutenants had procured a very suitable substitute over which flew the white horse banner of the House of Éorl.

Grateful as Éomer was, for their determination that his position be acknowledged, there was still the odd night when he took his bedroll from the camp-bed and ‘sneaked’ out amongst the men because, alone in that tent, he found his responsibilities weighed too heavy on him for sleep. On a couple of nights he had moved within earshot of one or another of the elves, as they sang quietly by a fire, until his mind was calm enough to let him finally drowse.

But tonight he had a new puzzle to occupy him. As he tried to make sense of all the disparate facts he now had about the Princess of Dol Amroth he drifted off to sleep more easily than he would have expected. Next morning all he could remember of his dreams were that they had involved a lot of cushions.

In fact it was a couple of days later when next he saw the young lady in question, at a meeting where a banquet in honour of the hobbits was being planned, which she attended accompanying her father. She was quite quiet during the meeting although her father spoke quietly with her a couple of times, presumably seeking her opinion on various issues, before adding to the discussion.

This banquet was to be a surprise for the guests of honour but, as Éomer left Aragorn’s ‘command post’ in the company of Prince Imrahil and the princess, Merry fell into step just behind him as befitted an esquire. Imrahil engaged Éomer in conversation but his attention was elsewhere. He realised that the princess was clearly well acquainted with the hobbit and, shamelessly, he listened in to their conversation.

“How are you? Are you able to sleep more comfortably than you could in the wagon?” asked Merry.

“I’m well, thank you,” Lothíriel replied. “I have a bed and my maid and I have a tent to ourselves just as I predicted. Amrothos and Erchirion did not really mind – they have just moved into another tent. And it is really good to see Father. How are your friends?”

Ah. Although they had both travelled in the train of wagons from Minas Tirith Éomer hadn’t realised, until now, that the princess and the hobbit clearly had spent time together on the journey.

Imrahil pointed out to Éomer someone of whom he had spoken earlier, distracting him for a little while, and it was a few minutes before the King of Rohan could resume his eavesdropping on the conversation behind him.

“We were discussing cooking, and rations and such like…” Lothíriel was saying. “But, to be honest, I am no expert on cooking at camp. On the occasions when my brothers and I did any camp-fire cooking, I was hardly ever allowed to do anything more interesting than gather fire-wood, because I was the youngest. Although Elphir did show me how to gut fish… ”

Merry answered that he’d had the same role when he was with older cousins and also that he wondered why, if there were discussions involving food, none of the hobbits had been asked to attend. Lothíriel deflected the question quite skilfully and their conversation turned to other matters.

Éomer thought of those stories of young Lothíriel wanting to do whatever her brothers did. Clearly there had been some truth to them, which he had doubted since he had recalled his first brief encounter with her, and yet… her maid had been waiting, a cushion in her arms, outside the meeting tent.

That night, as he settled to sleep, Éomer considered whether there might be a hint of truth in the children’s tale of the princess and the pea. After all, many other children’s stories had begun as retellings of real events. Perhaps Gondorian princesses always sat on thick cushions, and slept on piles of downy mattresses, as a sign of their rank.

His last thought, as his eyes closed, was that perhaps that was why Éowyn had chosen to stay in the city; she had developed a liking for cushions!

Next morning the subject of the cushions still kept drifting into his mind, when it should have been on more immediate concerns, and he decided to ask someone. But who? He didn’t feel he could ask Imrahil, or his sons, nor Aragorn even though he might well know the answer; if it really was simply something to do with Gondorian custom he didn’t want to appear stupid by not knowing.

No point in mentioning it to Éothain and asking him to make enquiries; not only was he busy enough already but he would surely make a joke out of it.

Pippin? He held some sort of rank within Gondor. Except that he had held it for hardly any time, and may not have met any princesses at all. Were there any other princesses of Gondor, these days, besides Lothíriel? Éomer wasn’t certain but suspected the answer was no. Perhaps there would be little point in turning to Pippin.

Merry! Merry was an esquire of Rohan and so it was certainly Éomer’s right to ask him questions – and the hobbit knew the princess remarkably well. And if he didn’t know the answer it was the sort of thing he would certainly be able to find out; hobbits were very good at engaging people in conversation and finding out much that the other person didn’t even realise they had been asked. Éomer decided to ask Merry.

When he did broach the subject with the hobbit he almost wished he hadn’t. The question made Merry blush so deeply that Éomer was tempted to glance down to see if it really did spread from his toenails to the top of his scalp.

Finally Merry blurted out that Princess Lothíriel’s need for soft cushions to sit on was “to do with the um… the err… the… the indisposition that had caused her to be under the care of the healers, and it was why she wasn’t evacuated from Minas Tirith with most of the other women.”

Éomer nodded and allowed the embarrassed hobbit to escape.

‘Must be women’s troubles, then,’ he thought. ‘But at least it means we won’t have to have any new mattresses made for Éowyn.’


Chapter 5 - Various Thoughts About Elves...

The celebratory feast for the hobbits was a success, even if the guests of honour had seemed embarrassed by the whole thing… at least until there was food to eat rather than speeches to squirm through.

Senior officers of both armies ate at the tables within the great pavilion, but food was also sent out to all the men. Of course kings, princes, and a princess had seats at the top table, alongside the guests of honour, as did the other members of the Fellowship.

Éomer found himself seated with Sam Gamgee to one side and Princess Lothíriel to the other. To the far side of the princess sat one of the Sons of Elrond. Although they didn’t seem to use titles Legolas had explained to Éomer, one evening, that they were princes by rank, in their own right, as well as being Aragorn’s foster brothers.

It seemed to Éomer that the elf, with his long shining black hair, deep grey eyes, and no sign of evening shadow on his chin, would be most attractive to a young lady. He resigned himself to seeing little more than the back of Lothíriel’s head and turned to his other side. Attempts at conversation with the hobbit, however, were met with one word answers accompanied by ‘Your Highness’, ‘Your Majesty’, and even ‘Your Kingship’. Sam’s sigh of relief when the food arrived actually was audible.

It was almost as great a relief to Éomer, then, when Lothíriel drew him into her conversation with the elf. Actually, she was explaining with some amusement that she was sitting between ‘two rohirs’, so it was clearly Elrohir on her far side. Knowing that would certainly make conversation easier.

In fact the conversation flowed easily between the three, with an occasional aside from Elrohir to the man on his other side and an even more occasional few words from Sam, mainly to request that ‘Your Royal Kingliness’ pass him some food item or another. Once or twice during the course of the evening Éomer’s hand came into contact with Lothíriel’s and each time he found himself very conscious of the contact. He was certain that he felt no such tingle when he touched Sam’s hand as he passed plates or bowls…

That night Éomer’s dreams were, again, full of cushions, grey eyes and long black hair. He was certain, next morning, that the grey eyes and the long black hair were definitely not those of Elrohir.

……………….

In the histories of Middle Earth, when the War of the Ring is described, there is always mention of the field camp at Cormallen. Rarely is it covered in great detail, however, although that night of feasting usually is included. What no-one ever seems to say is that, the next day, it rained. Heavily. All day.

Lothíriel could see no pleasure in getting wet and so sat, in the open doorway of her tent, watching life go on outside it.

Her father and brothers pulled their cloaks over their clothes and moved around the camp, visiting their injured troops still in the care of the healers, and stopping to talk here and there. Other figures could be seen, similarly covered, although she saw no sign of the hobbits, Gimli, or the new king of Gondor.

Legolas however was out in the rain, seeming almost oblivious to it, although he stopped to speak when he saw her and told her how happy the trees around them were to feel the rain. She watched him as he continued on his way; his height and his uncovered blond head made him fairly easy to follow by eye. At the edge of the field he approached one of the Culumalda trees, reached up, and swung himself into the branches and out of sight. In her mind’s eye Lothíriel imagined him sitting, face turned up to the rain, like the lizards at home basking in the sunshine.

The thought made her smile, but also made her homesick for Dol Amroth. Her mind drifted to images of the sun glinting on the sea, flowers in the walled garden her mother had loved, large dogs shaking themselves after swimming in the sea… What?
Why in Middle Earth had she thought of…

Ah! Éomer King stood near her father’s tent, shaking his head of thick blond curls before entering, and throwing off a spray of water – Lothíriel smiled even more. He was, she thought, really quite good looking and, compared to her dark haired family and most of the nobles of Gondor, rather exotic with that colouring.

She wondered if he also had blond chest hair… and then pulled herself up short in surprise. She had never wondered about the chest hair of any other male.

‘Ah, but I know all those other people’s chest hair would be dark,’ she told herself.

However she was not really convinced by her own argument. Apart from anything else, she had never felt so very conscious of the contact when any other male’s hand had accidentally brushed hers, as Éomer King’s had last night. She rather hoped that, even if the first contact was accidental, the subsequent ones had not been.

……………….

Éomer was getting restless. They had camped here for three weeks now; he was ready to move on. There was little to do apart from wait for the healers to declare most of their patients able to travel; the men were as comfortable as they could be in a camp, there was enough food, word of the battles and those lost had been sent to The Mark, but he could do little to help those who had lost their menfolk until he returned home. Éothain had taken over the day-to-day organisation of watches, and even pointed out that, as king, Éomer should let someone else feed and care for his mount. Not that he objected to that, when Firefoot had spent time rolling in the mud at the side of the river, but Éomer felt he was left with too much time to do anything but talk and think.

And his thoughts were drifting rather too frequently to the Princess of Dol Amroth.

On the day of the rain, after the great feast, he had gone to see Imrahil. At least that is what he had told himself. But he had not been perturbed to find the males of the family all missing and also to find the princess sitting just inside her tent. He had been happy to accept her invitation to join her and wait, and they had spoken together for perhaps half an hour before her brother Erchirion returned. They had been in full view of anyone passing the tent, and chaperoned by Lothíriel’s maid; had it not been for those two facts, Éomer thought, he may well have given in to the definite desire to kiss her.

As it was, he was spending too much time thinking about whose advice he should seek on the finer points of courtship amongst Gondorian nobility. Then in chiding himself because he would have so much to do once he could set off for home, he most certainly did not need a Gondorian wife, she would never settle to life in Edoras (even in a tent her bed was covered in cushions and dark blue silk bedding!), and many other reasons why he needed to shake his head and shake such ideas right out of it.

Anyway, the sooner they could leave this camp and make their way to Mundberg, the sooner he would find out just how Éowyn was, and just why she had chosen not to come to Cormallen to be with him.

……………….

Preparations were being made to leave the Field of Cormallen and return to Minas Tirith. Presumably, Lothíriel thought, Cousin Faramir must have things well under way for the coronation of King Elessar despite spending so much time with the Lady Éowyn.

Actually Lothíriel did not really mind that the Rohirric princess had stayed behind as she had come to the conclusion that, had Éomer King been the one who had remained in the city for any reason, she might have chosen to stay there too. And, had his sister been here, he might not have spent so much time with Lothíriel’s father and brothers, thus giving Lothíriel more chances to admire him.

Currently she was in her father’s tent discussing the journey back.

“I am sure I will be able to ride, and I brought my habit for riding astride, so you will have no worries about me being unladylike!” She grinned. Her father knew perfectly well that she wore old breeches of Amrothos’ to ride on the sands when in Dol Amroth.

“I will ask for a healer to examine you and confirm that you will come to no harm,” Father said.

“No! I really do not need one of the army healers examining my… my… injury.”

Despite being meant to remain silent about their patients, Lothíriel was sure that someone examining parts of Gondor’s only princess, parts that should be seen by no-one but her maid and her husband, would eventually become common knowledge.

Some of this must have been evident in either her face or voice as Father did not reply immediately. When he did, however, Lothíriel was almost aghast!

“I can understand your reluctance, in view of just where your burns were,” Father said, “Especially as you do not know any of the healers here. Perhaps we could ask Aragorn to give us his opinion. He is, after all, a renowned healer; you know about ‘the hands of the king’ and all that...”

Lothíriel wanted to reply “No! I cannot let my king look at my bottom!” but instead settled for “I’m sure he is much too busy, Father.”

“I am certain that he wouldn’t mind,” said Father, “but, if you don’t want me to ask the king, I will ask one of his foster brothers. They are also most skilled in the healing arts.”

That was even worse! She simply could not countenance Elrohir, or his brother whose acquaintance she had also made, seeing her with her skirts drawn up and no drawers on. She would never be able to look at either of them again. She would have to spend all her time in Dol Amroth and never go to Minas Tirith again in case they were there! And… and… they were both friendly with Éomer King and so even if she could marry him and go to Rohan they might visit…

She was momentarily distracted by that thought of marrying Éomer King, but made herself concentrate on the discussion at hand.

“No! Father, really, I do not want to have my… skin examined to check that it is healed.” A sound behind her warned her that someone was approaching and, unwilling for such a private conversation to be overheard, she brought it to a close by saying “I would much rather not ride, but travel in one of the wagons.”

The conversation ended as Imrahil’s adjutant announced, from the tent entrance, “Éomer King of Rohan wishes to speak to you, my Lord.”

.................


Chapter 6 - Avoidance?

The trouble with travelling in one of the wagons, Lothíriel thought, was that you felt every stone and rut in the road; she was glad of her cushions. But she did, almost, wish that she had agreed to have one of the army healers examine her newly healed buttocks and thighs; she was fairly sure that she could have ridden part of each day, at least, and it would have been smoother than the wagon-ride.

She had good company, however, as the four hobbits travelled in the same wagon as Lothíriel and her maid. Merry, Pippin, and Frodo all commented that they would have preferred to ride – if only someone had thought to bring ponies for them. Lothíriel was tempted to bemoan her own lack of a mount as well but, as it was clear that there were spare horses, she knew she would then have to explain why she was in the wagon. So she said nothing on the subject.

They were not short of other interesting company, either, as Gandalf, Legolas with Gimli behind, or even the new King of Gondor, often rode alongside them giving Lothíriel the chance to come to know these great heroes better. One or another of her own family often rode beside the wagon, too. All in all, the first day’s journey was not unpleasant… apart from the stones and the ruts.

At night she ate with her father and the King, as did the members of the Fellowship. Éomer King had chosen to eat with his own men, which was understandable, but, from Lothíriel’s point of view, a little disappointing.

On the second day of the journey Éothain rode up to the wagon, a little after they had set off, with a request from Éomer King that Merry should come and spend the day riding on Firefoot with him. Merry was happy to comply and they saw no more of him for most of the day.

“I wonder why Éomer did not simply come to collect Merry himself?” the king mused from his own position near the wagon. Lothíriel wished she knew – she realised she would very much have liked his company, even if only for a short while.

It took almost three days to reach Minas Tirith, at the careful pace of the wagons, and Lothíriel saw no more of Éomer King on the rest of the journey than she had on the first day. She told herself it was because he needed to ride with the Rohirrim. She did not totally believe herself.

………………….

“You’re moping!” Éothain said.

“I am not!” replied his king.

“You are so!” Pause. “My Lord.”

“My Lord?” Éomer questioned. “Since when have you called me your lord in private?”

“Since you became King and I became fed up watching you moping!”

“I am not moping.”

“Huh.”

The two friends glared at each other.

“Éomer, you are moping. You have been moping since the night before we broke camp. Whenever no-one is talking to you, you are gazing into nothing with a glum expression. Even, quite often, when someone <i>is</i> talking to you. And,” Éothain went on, “you are avoiding your pretty princess.”

This time Éomer wasn’t sure what to deny first; the moping or that he was avoiding Lothíriel, or that she was in some way ‘his’ princess.

Change the subject, he decided.

“I worry about Éowyn,” he said.

Éothain just looked at him.

……………………..

Less than twenty-four hours later Éomer thought he might, after all, have some sense of foresight.

When he had last seen his sister she had been pale, listless, lying on a bed in the Houses of Healing. Although he knew that Aragorn had lifted the deadly curse of the Black Breath from her she had shown little will to eat, drink, or rise from her bed. She had also admitted to him that she had been on the battlefield because she had no hope for her own future as Aragorn had rejected her advances.

Seeing her waiting to greet them as they rode into the Mundburg, colour back in her cheeks, the light back in her eyes, had gladdened Éomer’s heart, for he had feared that, despite what Lothíriel had said, Éowyn would still be little more than the shadow of her old self. Instead she looked like the young woman she had been, not only before the events of the last few months, but before Grima had cast his shadow over her.

He had even been pleased to notice the son of the late Steward there to welcome Aragorn, his King Returned, when Faramir had been pointed out by Imrahil. The man had clearly recovered from his wounds, the lungs full of smoke, and that same Black Breath as Éowyn.

But by the end of the welcoming feast (and, not for the first time, Éomer was impressed by the amount of food available in a city so recently under siege) Éomer was a good deal less pleased.

He had been pleased to have Éowyn as his partner over dinner. Pleased not to be near Princess Lothíriel as he had told himself, firmly, that he had nothing in common with a princess who preferred to travel in a wagon rather than riding. Nothing at all. Best not to give her, or her family, the wrong impression.

He had been amused to notice the eyes of the new Steward resting often on Éowyn. Well they might, Éomer had thought for, even though she was his sister, he could see that she was prettier looking than all the other women in the room. (‘Almost all…’ a small voice muttered somewhere inside. ‘ALL!’ he told it firmly.)

But then he realised Éowyn smiled back at the steward every time. And her own gaze lingered on Faramir even when he was talking to someone else.

No-one had ever accused Éomer of being overly diplomatic or of excessive caution in broaching any subject. He was quite proud of himself for waiting until they were out of earshot of the man in question before asking Éowyn what was going on.

“We are… close. We shared the experience of the Black Breath. He helped me recover.”

“How close? It looked to me as if he would wish to be very close indeed. He hasn’t bothered you? Forced himself into your affections? I will warn him off.”

“No. No. There is no need. He would think you a boor and uncivilised. And I would be most displeased.”

“What? Don’t tell me you welcome him making eyes at you? It’s only weeks since you gave your heart to Aragorn. Or is that why? Do you hope to make Aragorn jealous when he sees another man look at you that way? There is no need, for Legolas told me Aragorn is betrothed, and so you do not need to use his steward in that way.”

“DON’T BE STUPID!” Éowyn emphasised each word by stamping her foot. On STUPID she only just missed Éomer’s own foot by an inch. He did wonder if that had been her intention, or whether she had miscalculated; and, if so, in which direction.

……………………..

Lothíriel sat in a chair by her bedroom window, looking out over the White City, clutching a cushion to her chest.

As a child she had owned both a much beloved doll and an equally beloved cloth cat known, unsurprisingly, as Beruthiel. One, or both, had accompanied her to bed and been her companion in sorrows, in this very chair, throughout childhood. But both doll and cat lived now, in honourable retirement, in Dol Amroth.

She pulled her knees up, tucked her feet under her, and cuddled her cushion.

At least she no longer had to sit on it. The senior healer who had treated her burns, almost three months ago, had visited and examined her before declaring the skin healed enough for her to undertake ‘normal activities’. So much had happened since the day of her injury that she almost wondered what ‘normal activities’ might be.

It seemed as if they did not include visits from the King of Rohan.

Father had told her, as the lady of the house, that he intended to ask Éomer to dinner. Father and Éomer King had become good friends; he had spent much of his time at Cormallen with Lothíriel’s brothers, and been very happy to eat at Father’s table there. But he had sent his apologies. Not just for last night, but for the whole week; inviting, instead, Imrahil and his sons to join him in an early morning ride.

And so Lothíriel sat in her chair, in her window, watching her father and brothers ride out with a party of Rohirrim whilst she cuddled her cushion and wished she was out there with them. Especially with Éomer.

……………………..

They had been in the city for a week now. Éomer wished he could gather his men and begin the journey home. To allow for those who were still recovering from injuries, and not to over-tax horses who had already given much, the journey would take a couple of weeks; and the sooner they started the sooner he could begin to take stock of the state of his kingdom. But he had promised Aragorn that he would stay to see him crowned, and it seemed this could not be arranged at short notice; Éomer was stuck here for at least another two weeks.

Mundburg did have its attractions. There were one or two taverns that served tolerably good ale, and the landlords and patrons could not tell one Rider from another, so he could leave kingship behind for an hour or two and enjoy the evening with his friends; he could never be that anonymous at home.

Now that the members of the old steward’s court were returning, to form the court of the new king, there were many females all too happy to be friendly towards him; but he was well aware that anything more than a chaste kiss on the hand would be seen as tantamount to a proposal of marriage, and none of them appealed <i>that</i> much. He certainly had no time for courtship, and no wish to take a member of the Gondorian court back to Édoras to be his queen. Any such thoughts he may have had, fleetingly, at Cormallen were the result of too much wine. Definitely.

The attractions were outweighed, though, by having to watch Éowyn either making eyes at Faramir, or moping if Éomer insisted she spend her time with him, Éothain, and the other commanders.

‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘if Éothain wants to accuse anyone of moping it should be Éowyn, not me. I am completely over whatever fleeting attraction Imrahil’s daughter had for me.’

‘Then why are you avoiding meeting her?’ that small voice in his head muttered.

‘I am not,’ he answered it firmly. ‘I simply have other engagements.’

To which the small voice replied ‘Huh!’


Chapter 7 - Dinner - With Some Dancing....

He’d thought about this carefully. Now was the time to speak.

“You will have to propose to her,” Éomer said.

“Are you joking? Me propose to Éowyn?”

“Well who else is there in the room that I could mean?”

“Éomer,” Éothain retorted, “there is no possibility that I am going to propose marriage to your sister. I have as much desire to marry Éowyn as… as… as I have to marry you!”

“But it would solve the problem of her… dalliance with this Faramir. She can marry you, you can both live in Édoras, and Éowyn can be the Mistress of Meduseld.”

“No. She wouldn’t wish it, I wouldn’t wish it…”

Before Éothain could continue Éomer interrupted. “She was love sick for Aragorn barely two months ago. Now she believes herself in love with this Gondorian. It would take little for her to believe herself in love with you instead!”

“Hmm – she would sooner have one of those elven ‘brothers’ of Lord Aragorn’s, I would think; she seems to prefer her men dark-haired. But that is not my main reason for refusing your kind offer of your sister’s hand… Or have you forgotten Cwengyth?”

If he was being completely honest Éomer would have had to admit that he had, indeed, forgotten her. Well, forgotten that his friend had spent the last few hours, before they had ridden to the muster, in the company of Éowyn’s childhood friend. The same young woman who had joined in with Éowyn when the two young men had taught her how to handle a sword.

What he actually said was “Ah. Cwengyth. You are serious about her?”

“We are betrothed. Or we will be when I get home. She has agreed, although we have had no time to talk to our families, and so it is not official. And, my Lord King, do not even think of telling me that if it is not official it doesn’t count.

“Firstly I want to marry her, not Éowyn; secondly, I value my balls; and, thirdly, Cwengyth is no respecter of persons, so if she knew our betrothal was broken at your behest you would also need to keep your hand on your own balls at all times, or it might be the end of the House of Éorl.”

Ah well, Éomer thought, it had been a good idea but… he burst out laughing.

“Best we both keep our manhood, Éothain,” he managed when he stopped laughing. “So… who else do you suggest?”

………………………………….

It really wasn’t Lothíriel’s fault that she overheard the conversation between Father and Faramir. The weather was warm enough for her maid to have thrown open the windows of Lothíriel’s bedroom and, despite herself, she was drawn to it to watch her brothers ride out, as they now did most mornings, with the King of Rohan. If Father and Faramir decided to have a conversation on the terrace, just below, it was hardly Lothíriel’s fault, and it might have been rude to draw their attention and embarrass them.

“I really don’t know what to do, Uncle Imrahil,” Faramir said. “I am sure that I wish to marry Éowyn, but there are so many uncertainties. We are both in mourning, and so we cannot even consider a betrothal, but should I make no move to ask her to be my wife she may feel that I do not care for her.

“If I am to ask her, then I must also ask her brother, and there is no certainty that he will agree to my suit. Once Aragorn is crowned, after all, I will have no official position. It would make it harder for me to ask for her hand in future if it has been denied once. And I am not sure that Éomer approves of me at all; I think he would rather she marry one of her countrymen.”

‘How strange,’ Lothíriel thought, ‘that, only a few months ago, hearing Faramir fret over proposing marriage to another would have been such a disappointment to me. And now I can only feel sympathy for him – and, perhaps, even a little fellow-feeling. These Rohirrim have certainly stirred our affections!’

Father was speaking. “Are you certain of your own feelings, Faramir? Emotions have been running high recently and you must consider whether this is a woman whose face you would wish to see at breakfast for the rest of your life. Can you see her as the mother of your children?”

Lothíriel considered her father’s words, just as Faramir seemed to do. Yes, there had been a lot of emotion in the air when she first saw Éomer, but she had not associated any of it with the remote figure sitting at his sister’s bedside. Probably there had been a lot of emotion in the air when the camp at Cormallen was first set up; but by the time she arrived there the emotional level didn’t seem to have been particularly high.

The thought of eating breakfast with him every morning, however, was most agreeable. The ‘having babies’ took a little more thought. But then there was more to it from the female perspective, and being the mother of Éomer’s children sounded preferable to being the mother to anyone else’s, from what she understood of the process.

“Yes,” Faramir answered Father. “Yes, I am certain of my feelings; I have never felt this about any other woman and, yes, the prospect of both breakfast and babies fills me with longing.”

“Then I would suggest you ask the lady if she is happy to consider a betrothal once the period of mourning for your father and brother, and her uncle and cousin, is complete. And that you get to know her brother better. He is a good man; the boys and I grew fond of him during the time we spent together before and after the fighting at the Black Gate.”

‘Perhaps,’ Lothíriel thought suddenly, ‘that is why Éomer is avoiding me! Perhaps he wishes to propose and cannot for he is still in mourning. I suppose I am, too, for both Uncle Denethor and Boromir!’

But she wasn’t totally convinced by her own reasoning and thought Faramir’s contention, that Éomer might wish Éowyn to marry one of her countrymen, might be something Éomer would also apply to himself.

“You need to get to know Éomer better,” Father said to Faramir. “In a less formal, family, setting. I suggest that I invite him and his sister to dine with my family tomorrow evening; for we already know that Aragorn intends that, as it is the last evening before he is crowned, he will spend it with the members of the Fellowship and his foster brothers.

“And, as my nephew, you will, of course, be one of the family; I would have invited you in any case.”

As the two men walked out of earshot Lothíriel smiled and hugged one of her cushions to her chest. She was almost certain that Éomer could not refuse Father’s invitation without being rude. She must make sure she looked her best.

………………………………….

Seating arrangements were never a problem when only the family were at home; people sat beside whoever they had been conversing with before they went into the dining room.

As this was meant to be a family dinner this tradition would still be followed despite the two guests. However there seemed to be something akin to a complicated dance going on in the reception room which, had she not been an interested party herself, would have amused Lothíriel greatly.

Faramir was trying to speak to both Éomer and Éowyn, which should have been fairly easy as Éomer seemed determined to stick to his sister like a burr, except that Éomer seemed to be trying to steer Éowyn away from Faramir. Éowyn gave the impression that she was trying to escape from her brother but not, of course, from Faramir.

Lothíriel’s sister-in-law, Miraina, was also part of the party, having arrived from Dol Amroth to attend the coronation. She seemed to be gently trying to move Lothíriel closer to Éomer. Lothíriel had no problem with this, of course, but she did wonder whether it meant Miraina had guessed that she found him very handsome, or whether she simply thought it would make for a more even sitting arrangement, closer to that of a formal dinner.

Whichever it was, it seemed as if Éomer, having greeted her briefly on his arrival, was more intent on trying to keep his sister and Faramir apart than on talking to Lothíriel. He didn’t even seem to be trying to actively avoid her; he just seemed to be ignoring her.

Lothíriel thought that might be even worse than being avoided.

Father seemed to be taking little notice of the machinations of his dinner companions and yet, somehow, he managed to steer everyone into the dining room in such a way that Éomer ended up sitting between Faramir and Lothíriel, with Éowyn opposite them, beside Father. This meant that the King of Rohan really had to talk to either Lothíriel or Faramir.

Faramir more or less solved the dilemma by engaging Éomer in a conversation about tomorrow’s ceremony, and how it might differ from Éomer’s own forthcoming coronation, before going on to discuss the return of the wounded Riders to Rohan. Lothíriel wasn’t sure this were quite the sort of conversation Father had in mind, when he suggested the two men should get to know each other better, but she supposed that it was, at least, a start.

Éomer did look almost longingly towards Lothíriel herself, after a minute or two, but then turned resolutely towards Faramir leaving Lothíriel to her own devices as Amrothos was talking to Erchirion about tailoring. She decided to leave Éomer to Faramir and began to talk, across the table, with Éowyn. She was actually quite surprised when the White Lady of Rohan happily picked up on her overture and, by the time the meal was over, the two young women moved into the withdrawing room together.

………………………..

It was a more complicated coronation than Éomer expected his own would be, once he got back to Edoras. Still, if you only had one every nine or ten centuries or so, he supposed you might want to make it something of a major event. And, of course, the people of Gondor were not mourning the death of their previous king, whereas coronations in The Mark were usually within days of the death of a monarch.

Even so the coronation of King Elessar was a bit too fancy for Éomer’s tastes; even the food at the banquet was rather too fancy, although very good. Éowyn tried to impress him with the information that Steward Faramir had done much of the organising, with some input from Gandalf, but she was not terribly successful. Éomer was not going to be sweet-talked into agreeing to his sister marrying the man just because he could organise such an event; it was hardly a skill that would be called for very often.

That Aragorn believed him worthy of a Princedom was a greater commendation.

Thoughts of Princedoms brought Éomer’s mind to his friend Imrahil. Actually Imrahil seemed to rate Faramir highly as a skilled leader of men although, as he was Faramir’s uncle, he might be slightly biased. Imrahil, in full regalia, looked very impressive, followed by his sons, with his daughter on his arm. Éomer was pleased that Éothain had insisted on him having new clothes made, his hair and beard newly trimmed, and his breastplate polished otherwise he might well have looked like a poor relative at a feast.

Princess Lothíriel looked quite beautiful. Dressed in silver and blue, the colours of her house, she had a silver device of swans worked into her hair. It was such a beautiful colour, Lothíriel’s hair – so black it shone. Théodred once rode a stallion that gleamed like that and Éomer had wanted one like him. But almost all the black horses had been taken by the Enemy in the past two or three years…

She had a good figure, he thought, almost as tall as Éowyn, breasts just big enough to form a shadowed valley between them, nice hands. Her hands looked as if they would have a good feel for the horse she rode. Except that she didn’t ride. He had heard her, himself, say that she “would much rather not ride, but travel in one of the wagons.”

Éomer turned determinedly away from his perusal of the Princess of Dol Amroth and allowed himself to be distracted by another dark-haired beauty of the court of Gondor, but somehow her dress was just a little too low, her hair was not quite such a perfect black as Lothíriel’s, her voice just a little too high. He would be glad to get away from this place and go home. Where he was sure he would soon forget any desires he might have for Imrahil’s daughter.


……………………….


Chapter 8 - Who's That Girl?

Éomer might have thought to begin the ride back to the Riddermark straight after Aragorn’s coronation but it was not quite that simple in practice. At least half the Rohirrim in the city would have been too hung over to even mount a horse the next day, apart from anything else, and also there were formalities to go through and farewells to be said.

All in all it took almost a week before the chosen morning saw the éoreds mounting and gathering outside the city walls.

In that intervening week Faramir had sought out Éomer. Probably he had been tipped off as to her brother’s whereabouts by Éowyn, as the King of Rohan had been doing his best to avoid such an interview. The outcome was an agreement so diplomatic that Éomer knew both his uncle and his cousin would have been impressed, and a little amused, by his negotiating skills.

Faramir had agreed that no formal betrothal was possible between him and Éowyn, at this time, as both were in mourning. Éomer had agreed that, should Éowyn still wish it, a betrothal between her and the Prince of Ithilien could be announced once Théoden King was entombed. Éomer had made clear, in a less formal conversation with Éowyn, that he needed her to return home with him and, as Faramir was required to stay in Gondor, any courtship over these next months must be done in writing.

With these agreements reached, Éomer thought, he had a good chance of seeing this romance fade away. Éowyn would be at home, surrounded by her own kind, and free to court any Rider who managed to catch her eye. And her brother knew well how much she disliked writing; likely she would need to use a scribe so that her own hand did not disgrace her to the more scholarly Faramir. He reckoned it would take only a month or two for her to tire of such a courtship…

……………………….

In the days between the coronation of King Elessar and the departure of the Rohirrim, Lothíriel and Éowyn formed the friendship that Lothíriel had made tentative overtures towards back in the Houses of Healing.

Being totally honest with herself, Lothíriel thought this was now more to the benefit of both; she could not deny (privately) that she found Éowyn’s brother very attractive and Éowyn, with an eye to a marriage with Faramir, would find a friend in Minas Tirith helpful. But in fact both found that they had more in common than they had expected.

Both had older brothers and a tendency to emulate them when possible, and older male cousins of whom they were very fond; both had been brought up motherless. Éowyn’s uncle sounded more approachable than Lothíriel’s had been, but Lothíriel had always had her father. Éowyn’s past few years had been more shadowed personally than Lothíriel’s, but there had been the ever-increasing threat of Mordor here in Minas Tirith, and raids by corsairs when home in Dol Amroth.

They had their differences as well, certainly, but discovered that they could laugh together very easily; although watching some of the aristocratic women making eyes at Éomer amused Éowyn more than it did Lothíriel!

It was this burgeoning friendship that was to shake Éomer’s carefully constructed reasoning as to why he was in no way attracted to the Princess of Dol Amroth.

………………..

“If you haven’t ridden outside the city walls for so long,” Éowyn said, “why not join your father and brothers, and Aragorn, as they escort us on the first few miles of our journey? To be honest I would be glad of your company to distract me as we ride out, across what was the battlefield, especially as Faramir is not part of the escort but is kept back, by duty, in the city.”

This sounded so much better than simply standing near the city gates, waving in a genteel manner, that Lothíriel asked her father’s permission to do what the Lady Éowyn had suggested. This time, since her healer raised no objection, Prince Imrahil welcomed her company.

………………..

It was good to be in the saddle knowing that they were on their way home. Mundburg might look impressive, but now, even though it would not be a purely joyful home-coming, he longed for a glimpse of the sun catching the roofs of Édoras. He would think of the widows, the orphans, and the weight of kingship later, though; today he would enjoy riding with his men and, he smiled in her direction, with his sister.

The éoreds were forming and Éomer, with Éowyn beside him, made his way to their head. The men looked well. They had all made an effort to look their best, armour and weapons polished, even though it might not be the beautifully matched equipment of the Swan Knights who were forming part of the guard of honour through which they would all ride as they began their journey.

Éowyn had discarded the borrowed armour and helm, in which she had ridden to war, and wore a Gondorian-styled riding habit. It certainly made her look a lady through and through. Éomer reckoned it might last the day, but would lay money on it being replaced by a pair of breeches by the morrow.

Ah – here came the Gondorian royal escort, Aragorn behind them with the princes of Dol Amroth at his side in their house colours of blue and silver, and…

“Lothíriel!” Éowyn called, in a slightly less than lady-like fashion, waving at the young woman at Imrahil’s side. A young woman who was keeping a fine-looking gelding well under her control despite the cheering crowds and the multitude of other horses.

Éomer blinked a couple of times but the figure was still there and still seemed to be Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

Aragorn’s escort joined the ranks of Swan Knights whilst the King of Gondor, himself, rode to Éomer’s side; accompanied by Legolas with the ever-present Gimli behind him. Beside Legolas rode the twin sons of Elrond, who would not turn back with their foster-brother, later in the day, but continue with the Rohirrim, for they were heading back to Elven lands and their route took them in the same direction.

Hardly had Éomer welcomed this group when Prince Imrahil and his family approached. Her father and brothers all seemed to think Lothíriel being on horseback was perfectly normal. Aragorn greeted her by name with no expression of surprise; as did the elves, although they rarely seemed surprised by anything. One of the identical twins spoke to her, admiring the gelding, and her answer implied she knew the horse well. It was very strange.

There was no time to consider the puzzle further – the éoreds were ready to move, and it was time to head for home. Éomer waved an arm and began to make his way between the lines of knights and guards; Aragorn at one side, Éowyn at the other.

They rode slowly across the Pelennor Fields and, as they passed the place where Théoden had fallen, and Éowyn and Merry had stood against the Lord of the Nazgûl, they paused briefly and bowed their heads. Éowyn moved Windfola so that he almost touched Firefoot and Éomer reached out and took her hand in his. Then they moved on, and soon the formal order began to break apart, with people moving to ride beside first one person, then another, as conversations sprang up.

Éomer hung back a little allowing Éowyn to ride ahead accompanied, now, by Lothíriel. This manoeuvre was, of course, simply so that he could discuss with Éothain a couple of practical things to do with the setting up of camp. It certainly had nothing to do with admiring the back view of the princess as she rode. Despite what Éothain said.

“She has a good seat, your princess.”

He was still so puzzled by that very thing, and rather taken with admiring the way in which Lothíriel moved with her horse, that he simply agreed and only a few minutes later did he realise he had forgotten to deny that she was his princess.

………………..

Lothíriel really enjoyed that day in the saddle even though she knew she would suffer for it, the next day, as she had not ridden since before her accident. The sound and sight of hundreds of men and horses riding together would remain with her for a long time. Flowing manes and tails, and a fair amount of flowing blond hair, sunlight glinting off metal armour and weapons, the jingle of tack, the whickering of the horses, and the cheerful conversation (once past the Pelennor Field) were all new to her. Of course she understood little of the conversation, as it was in the tongue of Rohan, but she liked the rhythm and the rise and fall of the words even so.

Éowyn insisted they ride together and Lothíriel wondered whether Éomer would avoid them both. At first it seemed he was trying to, as he moved from one éored to another, but then, to her surprise, he joined them as they rode with Elrohir and Elladan. And, even if Éomer’s conversation revolved mainly around the twins’ fine black mounts, he smiled at Lothíriel and included questions about her own horse as if he expected her to know about the gelding’s blood-line, and the ways in which her saddle differed from a Rohirric one, and nodded with the hint of a smile when she answered.

An hour or two after noon the company halted by a small stream and very soon tables and chairs were set up, for the two kings and their guests to dine, and a fine repast was set out. This would be the parting of the ways. Éomer and Éowyn, at the head of their people, would continue onward; the Gondorians would turn back to Minas Tirith.

This was the last chance for conversation and everyone seemed to be taking advantage of the opportunity. Whilst the King of Gondor spoke quietly to his brothers, the King of Rohan was talking to Prince Imrahil, and Éowyn was bemoaning, to Lothíriel, that she had spent too long out of the saddle and would be stiff by night-time.

“You should have asked Lothíriel if you could borrow one of her cushions, before we left the city, as she no longer needs so many.” Amrothos had joined them unnoticed.

Lothíriel managed to combine her giggles with a sisterly glare in his direction. Éowyn simply replied that she was sure she would find something soft for the night, and then the conversation moved on to the terrain ahead, and where the Rohirrim would be likely to reach before the need to make camp, as Amrothos, of course, knew the area well.

But before the meal ended Éowyn brought up the subject of the cushions. She hoped Lothíriel didn’t mind her asking, but she had wondered why Lothíriel had carried them with her when they had met in the Houses of Healing and, as a bond of their new friendship, Lothíriel told her of the embarrassing, and painful, injury that had resulted from what was, in hindsight, an almost amusing incident.

Éowyn was still laughing at the image Lothíriel had painted verbally of the cat and dog careering through the kitchen, upsetting everything in sight, when Éomer joined them.

“It is time for farewells, Éowyn, Princess Lothíriel, for we must be on our way.”

He held a hand out to Lothíriel and she proffered hers for him to shake. But, instead, he lifted it quickly to his mouth, kissed it fleetingly, and then spun around and moved on.

All the rest of the day, and even as she lay in bed that night, Lothíriel thought that she could still feel that fleeting touch.


Chapter 9 - Homecoming

The first few days back in Édoras passed in a haze of mixed emotions.

Although, before he left Gondor, Éomer had longed for a glimpse of the sun catching the roofs of Édoras, now he had to think of the widows, the orphans, and the weight of kingship.

He had not been sure what sort of welcome to expect. The names of those known to have died in the battles and those known to be alive, whether injured or whole, had been sent back to the Riddermark, of course. Sometimes, when he thought of this homecoming, he imagined cheering crowds, but in the darkest hours of the night he occasionally awoke to the image of people weeping and blaming him for the deaths of their loved ones.

The men who had accompanied him had easily accepted him as their leader but, for those left behind, the loss of Théodred as heir was still very recent, and he had been better known to the people of Édoras than Éomer. To many of the Rohirrim, Éomer knew, he had simply been the hot-headed son of the King’s sister, the Third Marshal, who spent most of his time at Aldburg away from the court. Would the people of the Mark have doubts about his kingship?

Béma knew, he sometimes had them himself…

But from the first village they passed through he realised it was not quite that straightforward. Some people cheered, some threw themselves at one rider or another, almost pulling them from their horses, so desperate to feel that solid body against them. But others stood pale faced and silent – scanning the riders just in case, he realised, the beloved face was actually there and the person who had compiled the lists had made a mistake.

On arriving at the gates of Édoras it had been the same but twenty or thirty times over. By the time he reached the steps to Meduseld he could only hope that no small children had been caught up in the crowd of people and horses and trampled underfoot.

He was glad Éowyn was with him as he was confronted by a wave of people, each asking him to make a decision on this or that, from the minute he passed through the great doors and into Meduseld. She coped with whether he should sleep in the King’s Chamber, Théodred’s Chamber, or the room he had always used; should there be a feast tonight or tomorrow; and half a dozen similar queries, without seeming to be in the least perplexed.

“His own room for now, he has not yet been crowned King,” she said to one person. “Tomorrow at the soonest. What provisions have we available?” to another, and so on.

Not that this left Éomer with few decisions; far from it. Before he had a chance to wash, or to take his jerkin off, there were any number of Advisors requesting his approval of decisions made whilst he was away, consideration of the appointment of new door-wardens, the question of pay for the Riders, and what should be done about the farms of those who had been lost.

Up until now he had given little thought to who had run the country whilst the army was away, nor thought of needing advisors other than Éothain, Erkenbrand, and Elfhelm. The herd of them he now seemed to have made him wish he could go straight back out and battle orcs…

……………………….

By the second day Éomer realised that many of those who had remained were aware that Éowyn had been tasked with running the country, at least in part, by Théoden King. Some seemed to have been unsurprised that she had, instead, gone into battle; her deeds on the Pelennor Fields were already being sung of by the bards. Some gave the impression that there would have been no need for her to be at Édoras anyway, whilst a number of others made it clear that they were disappointed by her ‘abandonment’.

The latter group had worried him at first, for he dearly loved his sister, and, although he would have tried to forbid her riding with the éoreds had he known, he did not want her to feel anything other than welcome amongst her own people. Apart from anything else, making her feel in any way guilty was, he thought, likely to encourage her dalliance with Faramir of Gondor when it would be better for it to die a natural death.

But then he realised that the complainants were those who had not been able to gain power through Éowyn’s absence; those who felt it had improved their own standing were happy to applaud her decision. The ordinary people, when he got the chance to speak to any of them, seemed proud of their shield-maiden and, if he didn’t have to worry about them, he realised it would be easy to stop complaints from any members of the court by favouring the others.

Again he found himself thinking, wryly, that he had greater diplomatic skills than anyone would previously have guessed. If only, he thought, solutions to some of the other problems facing him could be found as easily.

The feast for those who had returned, and to honour the fallen, was meagre when he compared it with the food provided at almost every meal in Gondor. But Éowyn told him that even putting that much food onto the tables of Meduseld had left little in reserve for them to feast when he was crowned and, if the stores and pantries were anything to go by, he could well find himself looking forward to a winter of poor rations. This, she said, had been confirmed by conversations with the women of the kitchens.

So it was that, by the end of the first week in Édoras, Éomer was in discussions with his unofficial advisors, Éowyn and Éothain who was his friend from boyhood, about two main things. Firstly which of his other advisors to listen to, and how to get rid of those he didn’t like or didn’t trust to tell him the truth? Secondly how to determine just what state the country was in, and whether it was possible that the people who had survived the war might not survive the first winter of the peace.

“Reduce the advisors to only three or four, and tell the others their wisdom is needed, now, outside Meduseld in other parts of the Riddermark,” suggested Éowyn.

“Sister, I should make you my senior advisor,” Éomer said, “As that is the best piece of advice I think I have had all week.”

“Then send men who have no family that wish to cosset them for a little, and who know something of farming and the land, out to each area of the Mark to talk to the farmers and the landholders. Give them time to make a proper assessment of what we have, and use the advisors you have kept to decide how we will keep the people fed,” Éothain recommended.

“I will ride myself to Harrowdale,” he offered, after a pause.

“Ha!” said his king. “I wondered how long it would take before you set off in pursuit of Cwengyth!”

“It is not pursuit,” Éothain replied. “I do not need to pursue her. But her father should have arrived home by now and so, as is only proper, we can ask her parents together.”

The conversation turned back to the need to fully assess the state of The Mark and it was only afterwards that Éomer realised Éothain had not taken the opportunity to tease about Princess of Lothíriel.

‘Good!’ he told himself. ‘Éothain has cleared his head of his notions about her and me. That is a real relief for, although she does sit a horse well after all, I really have no time for romance.’

But that night his dreams were full, once more, of cushions. Only this time they were scattered all over the floor of Meduseld, and there seemed to be a dark haired young lady riding around amongst them. He awoke next morning strangely flustered.

……………………..

Only a week after the Riders’ return to Édoras came the first of the newly arranged regular messengers from Minas Tirith. Éomer was not so distracted by the missive from his brother monarch that he did not notice there were three for Éowyn. Either there was more than one person writing to his sister, or Faramir was both more ardent and less busily employed than expected! He still very much doubted Éowyn would write more than three lines in reply.

He would have been surprised if he had read either the letters or the replies.

Two of Éowyn’s letters were, indeed, from Faramir. One had been written the evening after Éowyn and the others had left Minas Tirith, the other the evening before the messenger had done so. His handwriting was firm, she thought, a man’s hand; more regular than her own and with no sign of mistake or corrections. But she had promised she would reply, and reply she would.

His first question, though, surprised her. ‘I did not think to ask you before you left Minas Tirith, does your brother read your letters? In Gondor it would not be unusual for the head of the house to read everyone’s letters and I wonder if the traditions of your people are different? Not that I would write anything I would not be happy for him to read.’

Read her letters? Why would he do that? She would be most displeased if Éomer thought he had any such right! Not that it was a question that had ever arisen before; letters were not all that common in The Mark. She decided not to mention it to Éomer in case he felt it was something he ought to do…

Faramir’s first letter went on to say that although he had known her for such a short time, he already missed her ‘golden presence’ from the city. His second letter was equally polite, and spoke of social events he had to attend, and some of the works being done to repair the city.

Éowyn pondered her reply. She would not get the scribe to help her; her uncle had insisted she learn to write Westron and whilst she thought it a chore, in most circumstances, here was a reason to apply herself to the task.

Of course Éomer does not read anything which is addressed to me, she wrote, hoping this may make his next letter a little less prosaic.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she then thought, ‘does this mean that Faramir will wish to read everything written to me, once we are married?’ Best not to ask at the moment. Not that she could imagine getting many letters, or them containing anything that terribly private, but it was a matter of principle.

It is good to be back amongst my own folk, but it would be better still to be where you are, she wrote. She wondered about writing about the low food stocks and the crops which had not been planted, or had been trampled and burnt by orcs, but it seemed disloyal to Éomer.

She sucked on the end of her pen, thoughtfully, for a few minutes and then went on, Already we are looking to the bloodlines to replenish the herd for so many horses were lost to the enemy, or in battle. We are choosing the best mares for Firefoot to cover as he has proved himself in battle, and hope that Gandalf will allow Shadowfax time to do likewise.

That this might not be a suitable subject for an unmarried lady to discuss with her ‘almost betrothed’ did not occur to Éowyn at all. And this was one of the reasons that Faramir loved her…

Éomer would have been more surprised had he realised who Éowyn’s other letter was from, but he was too busy with too many things, at least at present, to even think about it after his initial fleeting observation.

My dear Éowyn, I hope you are not too busy to have time to read my letter. I know there will be so much to do that the menfolk will not have considered, even though they appreciate good food on the table and a warm bed.

I am doing as you asked, and rescuing Faramir from the clutches of the most predatory women of the court. The very same ones that my brothers tell me pursued my dear cousin Boromir scarce months ago. Of course many of them also make eyes at His Majesty and I smile since you told me that he is already betrothed. I have told Faramir that I know this, and that if he wants any feminine advice on preparing for the, as yet unannounced, royal wedding I will be happy to give it.

He seemed surprised that I knew but it will become general knowledge, I daresay, soon enough. I hope to have a new gown for it as I did not have one for the coronation. It must surely be planned for a time when you are here for His Majesty says he sees Éomer King as a brother and so you must be as a sister to him!

Éowyn was so glad that she had asked Lothíriel to write to her; a female viewpoint on what was happening in Mundburg (…she really should try to call it Minas Tirith, Éowyn reminded herself) gave her so much more information. As she thought of that line about being like a sister to Aragorn she could feel her cheeks burning, but it told her that her brief infatuation with Lothíriel’s king was not common knowledge in Mund… Minas Tirith… and that it had been nothing more substantial than the shimmer in the air over the grasslands in summer.

She took up her pen again and began to write. It was less taxing to write to Lothíriel, oddly, and she even found herself discussing the problems of food stocks as Lothíriel had mentioned them first.

As she approached the end of her letter Éowyn found herself remembering Éomer kissing Lothíriel’s hand in farewell and it occurred to her that the Princess of Dol Amroth might make a very good sister-in-law….

...............................


Chapter 10 - Ladies of Letters

My dear Lothíriel, thank you both for writing and for protecting Faramir from those women. I do not think he would be tempted by them, but he does seem very busy and they would take up his time.

Lothíriel found herself smiling even before she read any further. She didn’t think Faramir even noticed the way some of the women were already making eyes at him, despite him still being in mourning for his brother and father. Being dedicated to his work, and so clearly starry-eyed over Éowyn, were sufficient ‘protection’ in their own right.

She smiled too, at the realisation that only scant months ago she would have been offering to accompany Faramir into dinners, and to dance with him, because she wanted him to see her as adult… and desirable. Now she realised that blond hair, a tendency to wear green, and a voice with just the hint of a Rohirric accent when speaking Westron, were all required for a man to be truly desirable.

She returned to the letter.

You must forgive my hand and the likely blots, I am not a good penswoman. We are a people who use our memories and voices to record things, for the written word is flat and cannot be warm or cold, fast or slow, like spoken words. But I do realise writing is the only way to converse over the distance between Édoras and Minas Tirith.

Éomer says I can ask the scribe to write for me but if I write my words to you on my own I hope my hand will improve faster. I know it is a skill I will need when I marry your cousin. And my brother is very observant; if he saw I wrote to Faramir in my own hand, but not so to you, he might wonder what I do not want to tell the scribe.

Lothíriel found her smile getting wider. She was going to enjoy this correspondence with Éowyn for her new friend wrote just as openly as she spoke. The next words, though, brought a serious expression quite quickly.

You are right that the men do not usually think how the food gets onto the table, nor who makes sure their beds are clean. But it is clear to Éomer now that whilst keeping those who dwell in Meduseld fed and warm is my place until I wed, or he does, as our king he must be concerned about how the people of the whole Mark will survive.

I found our pantries here bare of much, for food stored last year has been eaten by those who sought refuge within the walls, and the lands which should be planted by now have not been, for only old men, boys, and women were here to plough. And ploughing is not usually women’s work, it is thought to bring poor luck and a poor harvest. Planting seed is men’s work, for the soil is like a woman’s body that nurtures and bring forth from the seeds delivered into it. The women see to the use of the crop once grown, just as they see to the upbringing of the child once born.

The women took up the plough anyway, but did not venture beyond running distance from the walls until the éoreds returned, for the defeat of the Evil One did not mean no more orcs in the Mark.

It will be worse away from Édoras. The orcs despoiled much of the land, and the wells. And so many men are dead or unfit that I cannot see how we will have enough food for even those who have survived.

Éomer is sending riders out through the land to report on who lives, and how much food they can produce for, even though it is still spring, he fears people will starve come winter.

I know you have helped run your father’s household, and that your own people at the coast have suffered at the hands of the corsairs, so I know you will understand and I feel better for telling someone my fears.

Lothíriel thought first of what Éowyn said about the different roles of the men and women when it came to producing food. She didn’t think the same beliefs held in Gondor – but she could understand them, and it would make for a fair division of work.

But she hadn’t thought of the effect on the food supply of the orcs who had roamed Rohan; nor that of so many of the men coming to the aid of Gondor when they should have been seeing to growing food for the coming year.

She wondered if King Elessar had people checking the food supply of Gondor? Probably that was part of Faramir’s role. But, as far as Lothíriel could see, Minas Tirith wasn’t all that short, and fresh food was coming into the city regularly. Would it occur to Faramir, or the King, that Rohan might have fared worse? Would Éomer King tell them? She thought he probably wouldn’t, even if the two kings saw each other as brothers.

She glanced through the rest of Éowyn’s letter and then set off, wearing a very determined expression, to find her father.

……………………………………

Some of the self-appointed ‘advisors’ had seemed less than enthusiastic when told that their king wanted them to leave Édoras and use their skills elsewhere in the Mark. But Éomer had applied equal measures of flattery and authority and most of them, it seemed, had realised he was already in command and not a yearling to be broken to their will.

Those who were slow to understand this, and continued to bluster, were told that, if they felt no need to now return to their families’ lands, those lands could be better managed by others. They saw his point, then, remarkably quickly.

Now he had four men left who had been members of Théoden’s council until Wormtongue had seen to their removal, whose advice he trusted, as well as Erkenbrand and Elfhelm. Éothain would be given the role of King’s Adjutant. The new council, whilst pointing out that this was not a traditional title, seemed to understand why their young king might wish a friend at his side and made no further comment.

The new King’s Adjutant arrived back in Édoras with the tidings that Cwengyth’s parents approved the match, as did his own mother (his father had fallen beside Théodred, at the Fords of Isen), and they would wed once Théoden King was laid in his barrow.

“Make it sooner,” suggested Éowyn, “and she can ride with us to Minas Tirith to bring him home.”

Éothain considered the suggestion.

Éomer considered that his sister now called Mundburg by its Gondorian name…

Éothain, like the other riders Éomer had sent out, also had other, less welcome, news. Harrowdale had lost many men, its lord included, and some farmsteads were no more; others had nothing to plant, or few to do the planting. They could, however, hope for fish from the Snowbourne.

As other riders returned it was clear that the Westmarch was no better, and much of the Westfold had been burnt, although families were making their way back and already rebuilding. Some families still had a cow or two, and houses and barns still standing, but few were lucky enough to have these and also menfolk who had all returned whole and hale.

The riders from the Eastfold and the Wold would take longer to survey and report back, but Éomer could see that his fears had been well founded.

……………………………………

Éowyn was trying not to suck the end of her pen – a mouthful of feather was not conducive to looking ladylike and there was always the possibility that she might inadvertently suck the wrong end! Not that she needed to look ladylike at the moment, as she wrote her letters in her own chamber, but once she went back out to their guests… Ink stained fingers would not be good either, but she so wanted to get this letter finished.

…Elves! So many of them, too. When Éomer first told me of their coming I did not know where we would be able to house them all, nor how I would be able to feed them all. I did not even know what elves eat. I knew Legolas and the brothers Elladan and Elrohir ate what we ate, but they seemed…

She wasn’t sure how to put it politely. They seemed like normal men but she had been scared of meeting these visiting elves because they were led by the Witch of Dwimordene and her consort? She crossed seemed out and rephrased what she wrote.

…but they had spent time amongst men. However I need not have worried for the elves brought their own pavilions, and not only their own food, but gifts of food for us! The Lady Galadriel (She was proud that she wrote that first time, rather than ‘the Witch of Dwimordene’ – this diplomatic stuff was getting easier!) said that they knew how badly The Mark had suffered and it would have been wrong to expect us to provide for them. They brought smoked meats and dried fish, as well as baskets of fruits and nuts, and recently caught game – so we were able to feast together.

I do not expect you or Faramir need advice about what foods to serve elves, having Aragorn and Legolas to answer your questions, but they seem to be happy to eat most things, and do not need anywhere near as much food each as a hobbit does.

The elves had some wonderful horses, all perfectly configured, with such good temperaments, even those ridden by the warriors that are clearly trained as war-horses. Many of the elves ride without tack, others with only a simple saddle and halter.

When we admired them Lord Celeborn told Éomer that, knowing how badly our herds have suffered, he will leave a score of mares of breeding age with us when they pass on their way back to Dwimordene, for these will be much more useful to us than stallions. It is very hard to believe that Lord Celeborn is grandfather to Elladan and Elrohir, for he looks no older than they do. He is also much more…

What was the right word? Solid? Sensible? Normal? Ah…

…much more practical than I would have expected. And he is so good looking that he is not greatly outshone by his wife, at least not to my eyes, even though she really is as beautiful as Gimli said.

We have also met your new queen. She is very beautiful too.

She wondered whether to add Éomer’s opinion of Aragorn’s prospective bride to this letter but, in view of Éowyn’s conclusion that Lothíriel would make him a good wife, perhaps his admiration expressed when he was alone with Éowyn and Éothain was best not mentioned. Although, there again, that he thought Arwen more beautiful than the positively ethereal Galadriel, boded well as Arwen was dark haired like Lothíriel. In fact Éothain had said he could see a resemblance, and laughed…

The Lady Arwen seems to be a very nice person, too.

Actually Arwen had even said she hoped they could be friends, once Éowyn married Faramir, as both would be a long way from their own people and familiar things. Hopefully no-one would ever tell Lady Arwen of Éowyn’s infatuation with Aragorn for the memory of it now made her squirm.

Time to draw the letter to a close in time for the messenger to take it, Éowyn decided, rather than waiting for it to go with the guests themselves. She sealed it, then tidied herself, and return to the Hall.

……………………………………

Lothíriel read the letter happily. She couldn’t wait to meet such a cavalcade of Elves. She smiled when she read the detailed description of the horses, which was accompanied by such a fleeting description of the elves themselves. But for the elves to donate mares, to help replenish the herds of Rohan, was a really good idea.

Merry had told her a good deal about Master Elrond, and the Lady Galadriel and her husband, anyway, and Lothíriel would have the chance to actually meet them soon, so she could form her own opinions of them. She was sure that her father would ask her to accompany him to all the official celebrations; she would make sure he did!

Thinking of Father, she looked back at the letter thoughtfully; smoked meats and dried fish, as well as baskets of fruits and nuts…. Yes, those were all very good ideas.

……………………………………

My dear Lothíriel, thank you so much for writing to me with the details of the wedding. Faramir did so as well, but without your letter I would only know how he and Master Elrond’s advisor sorted out the order of precedence, and that he liked the wording of the ceremony so much he hopes we can include some of it into our own vows. Which is very romantic, of course – I mean the vows, not the order of precedence.

Your new queen’s dress sounds lovely. I hope you are right and she will set a new fashion so that we may all wear similar clothes to formal events in Minas Tirith, as the dresses worn by some of the ladies of the court look most uncomfortable to me.

And imagine the hobbits playing such a trick! And Aragorn says he is sure Legolas and his own foster-brothers were party to it? I still find it difficult to believe such behaviour from elves.

But mainly I am writing to say that I am sure you must have had a hand in the train of pack horses bearing supplies that arrived today, for you are the only person I told of my worries, and I cannot imagine Éomer admitting such worries even to Aragorn.

The sides of bacon will add such taste to any root crops we harvest, and be such a good flavouring for pottage, and dried fish must surely have come from your father’s lands. Dried plums and apricots will be such a treat, too; our head cook says if we boil them gently we can not only eat the fruit, but the water will also be tasty and could be used to make a sweet gruel.

We will not keep it all in Édoras, but send most of this bounty out to the places that are in greatest need.

……………………………………

My dear Éowyn, I am glad that the food is going to be of use. I did suggest to Father that Rohan would benefit greatly from such help – I read him a sentence or two from your letters, I do hope you do not mind; but it was, as you can tell, in a very good cause.

I do not think he told King Elessar exactly what I had said, just asked the king whether he knew how our Rohirric allies fared, as what he had heard of your losses, and the way the Enemy sullied so much of your land, led him to wonder if you would be able to have a full harvest this year.

‘Ha!’ thought Éowyn, ‘I like Prince Imrahil more and more! I suppose he learnt how to be diplomatic when dealing with Faramir’s father.’

She read on.

But we cannot claim all the credit for the supplies, for King Elessar then spoke to Queen Arwen’s kin when they arrived, and I have the impression that both his foster-brothers and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel (and you are right – they are both almost too beautiful to look at, yet remarkably sensible) gave him very detailed descriptions of the ravages wrought on your people.

But Father and Faramir were quickly able to suggest what we had that we could share and how it could be sent, for they had already been thinking of it. And you and I can, quietly, take some of the credit because I do not know if the elves would have pointed it out to the king if he had not asked, following Father’s conversation with him.

I do hope your brother does not mind Gondor sending aid in this way, for I know he is a proud king. Perhaps it is best that he thinks it due only to the intervention of the elves.

Perhaps Lothíriel was right about that. Pig-headed would have been a better word than ‘proud’ to describe Éomer when it came to asking for anything – or, rather, not asking for anything.

‘Now,’ thought Éowyn, ‘how do I persuade him that one thing he should definitely ask for is Lothíriel’s hand?’


Chapter 11 - ...and Back Again.

Chapter Eleven

It seemed as if they had hardly been home in Édoras for any length of time, and now they were setting off to return to Mundburg.

Although both Éothain and Cwengyth were technically in mourning for family members, and for Théoden King, they had agreed to Éowyn’s suggestion that they marry so that Cwengyth could join the party. Truth be told, there were many weddings happening all over the Mark; it was summer (although Éomer thought midwinter might have its attraction for a wedding night…), there was a need for joy amidst the sorrow, and such relief that each couple were both alive that it seemed unnecessary to wait.

And, of course, a good number of the brides wished to have their weddings before their bellies got too big to dance the night away. A lot of babies had been conceived in the last night or two before the éoreds had ridden to Gondor; some in tents at Dunharrow, some in a rapid farewell in cottage, manor, or barn. There had been no time for wedding vows, even when such had been planned for the future, and few would gainsay such a comfort when they may never meet again.

Éomer was well aware that if he had not been too caught up in what had gone before, and was to come, to even recognise the two or three offers made to him until he thought of them later, he may have spent that night in Dunharrow in exactly the same way. Probably as well he hadn’t, he thought now.

Éowyn had been the one to bring to Éomer’s notice the plight of those who were pregnant from such a farewell but whose man had not returned. Fortunately ever-sensible Éowyn had suggested a solution; clearly she had given it some thought. Where the woman named the father of her child and at least two others agreed it was likely, either because the couple were known to have been courting or they had been seen to share a tent, she would be treated as his widow and the child as his.

Éomer put this to his advisors in such a way that they could do little but discuss the logistics and they granted that, although there was room for disagreement and perhaps some dishonesty, generally the people of The Mark were both honest and pragmatic; and this solved far more problems than it created. He was sure, he told them, that they could sort out any such problems in his absence.

He really would miss Éowyn if she persisted in her idea of marrying Faramir and moving to Gondor. He wondered if seeing Éothain and Cwengyth together would make her more inclined to pursue her plans, or make her realise how much better it would be to marry a Rider.

Although he had to admit it would be hard to find one who would measure up to her. One or two, he had noticed, looked at her with some longing, but seemed afraid to approach her (and what use would such a man be to Éowyn?), whilst others, she said, saw her mainly as a means to gain Éomer’s ear. These she herself gave short shrift to and, if she hadn’t, Éomer would have done so anyway.

At least Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, fell into neither camp.

Then, at his last meeting with his advisors before leaving to retrieve the body of Théoden King, Éomer found himself wishing that he had never brought the subject of women and babies to their attention. For they pointed out to him, firmly, that once his uncle had been laid in his barrow it would be an essential part of Éomer‘s kingship that he choose a bride, as quickly as possible, and get on with producing an heir.

…………………..

“Well, just ask your Gondorian princess when we get to Mundburg,” Éothain replied, as if it was the obvious answer, when Éomer told him what the advisors had said.

“She is not my princess!” Éomer retorted.

“Well, she would be if you asked her to get married to you.”

Éothain’s logic was irrefutable but, as Éomer explained, it was not that simple. Lothíriel may well already be betrothed to a Gondorian by now, she would doubtless not want to come and live so far from her family, she wouldn’t speak Rohirric, and there were other reasons too.

“Other reasons? Éomer – the girl is nice to look at, it’s plain to see that she has curves in the right places, she didn’t seem to smell, and you didn’t get your cock damaged in battle – did you? So you shouldn’t have any problems!”

Before Éomer could decide what was the correct response Éowyn joined them and he could change the subject. But the problem, he thought later, was that in basic terms Éothain had a point.

…………………..

The Rohirrim were coming! Lothíriel was quite possibly more excited this time than she had been when that had been the cry at the time of the siege. It had seemed so unlikely, then, that their arrival could be more than a temporary respite. This time it held very different connotations.

Of course this contingent were coming for a solemn reason; to retrieve the body of their dead king and return him to his own land for burial. But the people of Minas Tirith still had that sense of pent-up joy and relief at the end of a long, grim, war that saw anything associated with their allies as a reason for celebrations. King Elessar and his Queen were holding a great banquet to honour Éomer King, various members of the nobility (including Lothíriel’s family) were planning to do something similar, and further down the city plans were afoot to entertain whatever Riders would accompany the king.

But for Lothíriel it was certainly more personal. She was looking forward to seeing Éowyn, after the intervening months of letter writing but, even more, she wanted to see Éomer. So many times she had remembered that kiss on her bare hand (and been grateful that she had taken her gloves off to eat – and that this hadn’t stopped him as it might have a Gondorian noble), remembered the firm warmth of his lips, and the sensation as his beard had touched her skin.

She remembered, too, the fleeting glimpse of admiration in his expression. She tried not to remember the way he had avoided her for much of his last stay in the city, although she wished she knew why that had been so, and hoped against hope that he would kiss her properly on this visit.

At least she knew that he had not become betrothed to someone back in Rohan for Éowyn would surely have mentioned it. Instead she had the impression that Éomer had been much too busy to even think of such a thing although, it seemed, the redoubtable Éothain had become not just betrothed but wed in that short time.

When she found herself wondering about the usual length of Rohirric betrothals she shook herself firmly and reminded herself that the main source of her anticipation was seeing Éowyn again. It was not a terribly convincing argument…

…………………..

The journey had been enjoyable. Despite the solemn reason for this return to Minas Tirith, this time there was no need to hurry, and no worries about what they would find on arrival. Well, very few worries. Cwengyth was a good addition to the party, from Éowyn’s point of view, for some conversations were easier between two females – especially two who had known each other from childhood.

Conversations about such subjects as Faramir; especially whether he would still want to become betrothed now he had had time for further consideration. His letters were reassuring, but would he find Éowyn less attractive now that the aristocratic young women of the Gondorian court had returned to the city? Would he find her uncouth by comparison? Not feminine enough?

“Of course he won’t,” Cwengyth reassured her. “After all, he could have married one of them at any time. Or at least got betrothed when they knew battle was imminent. But he didn’t, did he? And if he <i>was</i> to decide you weren’t ladylike enough then it would just prove he was the wrong man for a shield-maiden and you’d be better without him.”

She paused only briefly before going on, “So why don’t we concentrate on the important things? Is he handsome? Does he have good arms and well-muscled legs? He is a fighting man so I expect he has. Do you think he is lusty? How tight do they wear their breeches? Tight enough for you to judge what’s under them? If he hasn’t got good strong legs and arms, and a lusty appetite, it would be better for you not to get betrothed anyway…”

Éowyn actually found herself blushing. But she reassured her friend that Faramir sat a horse well, and was acknowledged to be skilled with both bow and sword, so he doubtless had good arms and legs… and when she found out about the lusty appetite and the contents of his breeches she would let Cwengyth know!

…………………………………

Next day Cwengyth was able to judge for herself whether or not Faramir was handsome, at least, as he was in the forefront of the party who met the Rohirrim about mid-day to ride the last miles to the city with them.

Possibly she might have worried on Éowyn’s behalf, when she saw a young woman riding close to him, until Éowyn greeted Lothíriel by name almost as soon as Faramir had formally welcomed Éomer King on behalf of King Elessar. It wasn’t long before the two parties mingled and Faramir could explain to Éowyn that Aragorn had sent him, rather than coming in person, to allow him to see Éowyn more quickly.

One of Lothíriel’s brothers, as well as one of Queen Arwen’s brothers and Legolas, were also in the party. All seemed to be making sure that Faramir could easily ride with Éowyn by distracting Éomer in conversation. It was good to know, Éowyn thought, that they had such allies.

Lothíriel, having greeted Éowyn and been introduced to Cwengyth, left her cousin and her friend together and rode to join her brother in the group around Éomer. Éowyn was not so distracted by Faramir that, having decided Lothíriel would be a very good sister-in-law, she didn’t keep looking to see how the two got on together.

…………………………………

By the time they had been in Minas Tirith for a few days Cwengyth was happy to agree with Éowyn that Faramir was handsome, in a dark sort of way, and looked as if he was certainly well enough muscled not to be easily worn out in bed-sport. Éowyn had little to report on the possible contents of Faramir’s breeches – but, on the couple of occasions that she and Faramir had evaded Éomer’s eagle eye, and found a little privacy, she thought his kisses suggested that there was no need to worry about whether he had a lusty appetite.

Talking of Éomer’s eagle eye, Éowyn was sure that she had seen her brother’s gaze following the Princess of Dol Amroth, more than once, as she danced with other people. Lothíriel, too, seemed to look on Éomer most favourably.

However, Éomer didn’t seem to be doing anything about courting the young woman. They would be leaving again in only a little over a week… Éowyn decided she really should give her brother a firm push.


Chapter 12 - Oh Éomer!

Having made the decision to give Éomer a firm push towards Lothíriel, Éowyn found herself frustrated the next day as Aragorn, Faramir, and Legolas had arranged that both the royal Rohirric siblings ride to Ithilien with them. Along with a dozen Gondorian guards, Éothain (with half a dozen of Éomer’s personal guard, not to be outdone), Cwengyth to prevent Éowyn being the only female in the party, and then, when the Lady Galadriel and her husband asked if they also could come, half a dozen Elven warriors.

The sons of Elrond appeared, as the party left the city, and one of them commented that they thought they would cope without personal guards as they expected everyone else would be willing to share. A number of remarks in the language of the Elves greeted this and Faramir explained that Aragorn had suggested that they were well able to care for themselves, their grandfather had agreed, whereas Legolas had promised that, should anything untoward occur, they could always hide behind him…

It occurred to Éowyn that she would probably need to learn Sindarin if she was to make her home here. About five minutes later Éomer pointed out the same thing to her with a rather smug expression; she chose not to rise to the bait, simply nodded and changed the subject.

The ride was a pleasure in itself as, once away from the city, they were able to let the horses gallop for a little. There was a degree of impromptu racing as Elven steeds were matched against Rohirric ones. Whilst Éomer’s riders, and the Elven warriors, were not in the least nonplussed by this behaviour from those they were meant to keep safe, the Gondorian guards looked rather surprised. Especially when their king urged his mount forward.

As they approached the crossing point of the river the party reformed and slowed to a walk. Éowyn was amused to see a number of interactions where money changed hands; even the serene Lord Celeborn seemed to have been wagering on the outcomes – and won.

Ferrying the large party across the Anduin took some time but, once they were all across, Faramir formally welcomed Éomer and Éowyn, and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, to his princedom. Éowyn looked around her; at the cluster of buildings at the ferry point which would, no doubt, soon become a flourishing village again; at the undulating ground and the clumps of trees; the more distant hills and dark patches of woodland, and thought it different to her home, but a place where she could breathe more easily than in Minas Tirith.

They stopped for lunch – a rather pleasant picnic – and then rode on.

That the land had suffered was clear as they continued. The Elves spoke quietly to themselves, even the warriors joining in the conversation at times, pointing at small discoloured streams, broken trees, and other signs of damage. Éomer fell into conversation with Aragorn about the similarities and differences between the damage here and within the Mark, Éothain and Cwengyth rode close to each other, deep in conversation, and Éowyn got a chance to talk, almost privately, to Faramir.

They spoke of their feelings; unaltered, nay, stronger than ever. Of how this land would need nurturing; the Princedom would not just be a courtesy title but would require Faramir’s presence here.

“Excellent,” Éowyn said. She added that she would be much happier here than in Minas Tirith, although she would do her utmost to ensure that she did not make him ashamed of her in court.

At that last remark Faramir returned to words of love, and reassurance that he could never be ashamed of her, and Éowyn basked in his compliments and barely notice the land around them until, as they approached the crest of a hill, he nudged his mount even closer and then stopped.

Below them was a camp. A very elegant camp. A camp already bustling with servants. And a little beyond the camp was a building site.

In this glade the party would spend the night and here, too, Éowyn and Faramir would spend much of their future lives. Here there had been a manor house, in years gone by, and it was being restored and rebuilt for the Prince and his bride.

Éowyn looked at the setting, the building beginning to take shape, and thought it would make a very good home. She wanted to get down there and look at the layout, the plans for the house, and make sure the design included a suitable stable block. She also hoped Faramir wasn’t expecting to wait until the house was ready before they married.

Later, when they had eaten and Ithilien was tipped with silver – truly the land of the moon – Faramir took her hand and led her away from the fire and the lanterns. Éomer could not have objected, as they were still within the confines of the camp and the guards, but he was deep in a conversation with Lord Celeborn and his grandsons and didn’t even seem to notice. Éowyn wasn’t totally certain but she thought Lady Galadriel not only smiled, as they drifted away from the others, but made a small ‘shooing’ gesture in their direction; an unexpected ally, but a welcome one.

Later still, and Éowyn retired to the tent she would share with Cwengyth. Her friend joined her only after Éowyn had washed and dressed for bed. Cwengyth had reassured her that she didn’t mind sharing with Éowyn whilst Éothain shared Éomer’s tent but she admitted, to Éowyn’s amusement, that it was as well that Éomer had not chosen to retire early…

And then Cwengyth sat on Éowyn’s bed and demanded to know all about her tryst with Faramir. Cwengyth only retired when she had been reassured that the Prince of Ithilien was a most accomplished kisser and, although both he and Éowyn had remained fully clothed (there were guards on patrol, after all), his caresses had certainly made Éowyn short of breath. And, under his tunic, his riding breeches were certainly tight enough for Éowyn to be able to say, with some certainly, that what lay within seemed of adequate size and responded clearly to Faramir holding her close.

In fact, between caresses, Éowyn had made it clear to Faramir that she hoped his plans did not include a betrothal that would last until the house was finished. She would, she told him, prefer to live in one of the tents, than wait that long before sharing his bed. He seemed a little taken aback by her forthrightness - but it had most certainly not dampened his ardour.

……………………

Éomer had not been unaware of his sister disappearing from the group around the campfire with Faramir; he was, after all, primarily a warrior and aware of his surroundings. But there was no point in trying to prevent the couple spending time in some degree of privacy. This was not a place to make a fuss; it was Faramir’s fiefdom not Éomer’s and, truth to tell, had it been a Rider who was courting Éowyn they would certainly have spent a lot more time alone together by this stage.

The period they had spent apart, and her involvement with running The Mark, seemed to have done nothing to reduce Éowyn’s determination to leave home and marry the new Prince of Ithilien. A few more months spent at a distance from each other might achieve it, possibly, but Éomer was beginning to doubt this. He could better imagine his sister running a household in this place than in Mundburg; making decisions concerning the people who would live in Ithilien, talking things through with Faramir just as she had with Éomer during these last months… and he felt a pang of envy.

It became more than just a pang when he was pulled back into the conversation around him by the words of one of the Sons of Elrond (Elrohir, Éomer thought, as he had heard the one in the grey shirt addressed as Elladan by Lord Celeborn, and he should know).

“…well she is rather beautiful, she speaks Sindarin, and there is said to be elven blood in her line.”

What? One of the Half-Elves was interested in Lothíriel? But… but…! She’s mine!

He was surprised at how vehemently that thought had come to him. He had been sure that he had successfully schooled himself to ignore her beauty (and her personality, and her riding skills) because his duty to his people, and the House of Éorl, meant that he simply could not marry her. But the very idea of her being courted by Elrohir… he resisted the urge to punch that rather ethereal face but it took him a little while to shake the image of the two of them together from his mind.

Of course, had he been as good as reading Elven faces as his fellow monarch, and less distracted by what he had heard, Éomer might have noticed the nods and slight smiles that passed between the twins, and even their grandparents, as he tried to pull himself together and take part in the conversation, which had moved on.

……………………

They did not arrive back in the city until the next evening. Éowyn had been reassured by the trip to Ithilien, but it had brought her two days closer to the date when the Rohirrim would leave to return to Édoras, and she still hadn’t worked out how to nudge her brother in the direction of Princess Lothíriel.

Lothíriel was also counting the days down until the guests would leave. She couldn’t quite decide whether she wished the day of their departure was much further away, or that it could just be tomorrow and be over.

A couple of times she had noticed Éomer looking at her when he thought she was unaware, but he had said nothing to her that he could not have said to her sister-in-law or, for that matter, to any of her brothers. If he were to remain in the city for longer, she thought, perhaps she could be like some of the other young women of court and flutter her eyelashes at him whilst hanging on his every word.

Mourning for Boromir (people seemed to prefer not to think about mourning her uncle), and an innate sense of decency, prevented her wearing dresses cut so low that her nipples were barely covered and then, as some of the others had resorted to, pushing herself as close to Éomer King as possible. But, to be honest, those devices did not appear to be successful anyway.

If he simply went away, quickly, and never returned, then in time, she thought, she might no longer go to sleep thinking of him and might eventually begin to feel something for one of the noblemen who looked at her covetously.

On the day after the party returned from Ithilien, Éowyn and Lothíriel had a chance to catch up with each other, as they were both invited to spend the day with Queen Arwen and her grandmother, whilst the two kings, the Steward, and the Prince of Dol Amroth spent the day discussing politics.

Lothíriel rather liked Queen Arwen. Even though the elleth was centuries old she was new to both married life and Minas Tirith and, whilst Lothíriel could give no advice on the former, she was happy to answer any questions about the latter.

In view of that recently married status, and the relationship of Éowyn and Faramir, the subject of romance, courtship and marriage cropped up in the conversation alongside other subjects, such as Legolas’ plan to bring Elves to help restore Ithilien and how quickly the land of the Mark, as Éowyn called her homeland, would be able to sustain the population again.

“It is so often the womenfolk who need to make adjustments,” Lady Galadriel said. “Doubtless even now there are women, in the farms of both Gondor and Rohan, who are taking up tasks that have always been men’s work to make up for the loss of so many men. On the farmland of the Pelennor I see women mending fences and even turning their hand to thatching.”

She paused, seemed to gaze at nothing for a moment, and then continued. “And we so often leave our own lands, our own kin, when we marry.”

Lothíriel thought this remark must surely be about Queen Arwen but, it seemed, it was more general and yet also more personal.

“Look at me,” her ladyship went on, with a slight smile, “I am part Noldor, part Teleri.”

Éowyn looked as if this meant nothing to her, and Lady Galadriel must have noticed as she added, “My father’s people are miners and metal workers, builders in marble… my mother’s people live by the sea and spend much of their time in boats.

“My beloved, however, is a Sindar and, as such, has an affinity with the land, especially with forests… And so I am now known to all as the Lady of the Golden Wood.”

That small smile again. Then she continued, “I am sure you will cope well, my dear,” nodding at the queen, “and, in your case, Aragorn also has to learn a new way of life. Together you can ensure that you do not let the old ways of those who have ruled for many years stifle you both. And you will have Éowyn for company for I see that you will do well together.”

She turned to Éowyn, “Ithilien will suit you well,” she said. “And there are times, in such a court as this, when an icy look down your nose will remind those who forget that you are the sister of a king, the granddaughter of a lady of this very court… and the Slayer of the Witch-King.”

Lothíriel felt a little slighted that the Lady did not seem to think she would be good company for the queen. She was only a little younger than Éowyn, and knew more about court intrigue from her uncle’s day than that uncle, or her father, might have suspected.

But then Lady Galadriel turned those almond-shaped eyes in her direction and seemed to study her for long moments.

“You will adapt well, I think, when you leave your father’s house for somewhere so very different. It is, perhaps, not altogether a bad thing that Éowyn will not be at your side… for you will find your feet in your own way. Yes – I think you will love and be loved, and be happy amongst your husband’s people.”

Before Lothíriel could think of what to reply, her Ladyship had completely changed the subject.

“Arwen, dear, ring for tea. Do you have any of the cake that Sam Gamgee was teaching your pastry chef to make? I must ask him to teach Gollwen.”

And the moment had passed.

…………………..

‘Well nothing could have been clearer,’ Éowyn reflected as she dressed for dinner. She had learnt not to think of Lady Galadriel as the Witch of Dwimordene, but she had no reason to doubt that Her Ladyship had mystical talents, and she clearly predicted that Lothíriel would marry Éomer. She had better get on with giving him a nudge.

‘Perhaps I misunderstood,’ Lothíriel was thinking at much the same time. ‘I heard what I wanted. She might have simply meant that my husband’s people will live in the hills twenty miles from here and so be nowhere near the sea. She might have meant that I would not have someone I already knew to be a friend, and so be unlike Queen Arwen and Éowyn, rather than mean Éowyn herself. She might have meant… But oh I hope her fabled foresight means I might get what I desire… If he would only ask me!’

…………………..

“Come in, Éomer,” Éowyn called, when he knocked on her door to escort her down to dinner with Aragorn and Arwen.

“Now – sit!” And like a well trained dog, he did. For about two seconds before he realised he had, and objected.

“No,” Éowyn said. “Just sit right there, for one minute, and tell me what you think of Lothíriel.”

The question was so unexpected that he almost blurted out an honest answer. But blustered instead about not understanding why she might think he thought anything of Prince Imrahil’s daughter.

“Éomer,” his sister said, giving him a stare so reminiscent of their mother that he felt like a small child, caught out in some wrongdoing. “Éomer, she is a beautiful young woman, she has a good seat, and I have seen the way you look at her. Why do you not think of her as a future wife?”

Her reasons were so like, but unlike, Éothain’s reasons why he should consider Lothíriel as a future wife that he almost laughed. Trying not to meant that he stayed silent for a second too long to stop his sister, and she went on.

“She knows how to order a household – and she understood exactly which supplies we would find most useful… oh! I didn’t mean to mention that. But anyway – she would be a perfect wife for you.”

Éomer could see an escape. “What do you mean about supplies?”

“Nothing. I will tell you later. But only if you tell me why you don’t think Lothíriel would make you a good queen.”

“Even if I was to think her desirable, which I am not admitting…”

“Éomer. I have seen you find Alfilda desirable, and even I can tell that Lothíriel has a more womanly body, a nicer voice, and she doesn’t smell of stale pee!”

He was caught between denying that he had ever tried to seduce the flat-chested daughter of the tanner, defending Alfilda who couldn’t help that she lived on top of her father’s workplace so always did have a faint aroma of the tanning lye, and admitting that Lothíriel was, indeed more desirable.

“Lothíriel…” Éowyn prompted.

“Éowyn, she probably wouldn’t want to leave Gondor and her family, she doesn’t speak our language, she is used to this sort of court with formal clothes and formal dancing, buildings of stone with marble floors, and rooms that are as big as the great hall of Meduseld with nothing in but statues, and silk cushions…”

His sister gave him the look which said that he was being stupid – she had it perfected.

“She doesn’t actually live in the King’s house. You’ve been to their house here – it feels like a home. And she is used to moving from the city to Dol Amroth anyway – travelling between Édoras and Dol Amroth might take longer but I’m sure she’d cope – and she can learn our language. Probably much easier than I can learn bloody Sindarin! As for cushions,” she rolled her eyes, “if she didn’t like the ones we have she could bring her own. And if she really doesn’t want to move to the Mark she can just tell you so, and turn you down.

“But I am sure she would say yes if you were to ask her. You look at her as if she is a beautiful filly and I have seen her looking at you in much the same way. Well, not as if you were a filly, but certainly as if she wouldn’t mind riding you… oh! That’s not quite… um…”

‘Aha!’ thought Éomer, seeing a chance to escape the conversation. Except that the sudden mental image of lying naked with Lothíriel above him was too distracting for him to think quickly enough.

Éowyn charged on quickly, presumably to distract him from that very thought.

“So why don’t you think she would make you a good wife and be a good Queen for the Mark?”

He gave in.

“Éowyn, you are right.”

That took her by surprise anyway.

“I cannot think of anyone I have yet met who I would rather have as a wife than Lothíriel. But I have a responsibility to the House of Éorl; I will need an heir. And so I dare not ask her to marry me.”

Silence. For almost three heartbeats. Then an explosion.

“Éomer Éomundsson what on earth are you talking about? Why would Lothíriel not be willing to bed with you and give you heirs?”

“Her women’s problems, of course.”

“Her what?”

“I know she was unable to leave the city, when all the other women and children did, because she was confined to the Houses of Healing with women’s problems. How can I marry someone who is probably barren when I am the king?”

He actually heard a faint catch in his own voice as he said those last few words. He hoped Éowyn hadn’t noticed. Or if she had that she would realise how hard it was for him to not fall deeply in love with the Princess of Dol Amroth.

Except that Éowyn looked as if she might laugh.

“Who told you she had ‘women’s problems’?” she asked.

Éomer thought about it. “Merry.”

“Merry? Are you sure?”

Éomer cast his mind back to that conversation at Cormallen. He remembered that when he asked the hobbit about Lothíriel’s pile of cushions he had blushed so deeply that Éomer was sure even his toes were red. And then…

“Um - Merry said that Lothíriel had been indisposed so badly that she couldn’t sit down. And he blushed. He stuttered. What else could it have been other than women’s problems?”

“Oh, Éomer,” his sister said, “have you really been trying to ignore her attractions all this time because you were putting the continuation of the House of Éorl before yourself?”

He decided not to mention the weeks when he had incorrectly thought Lothíriel unsuitable primarily because she didn’t ride. Éowyn could just assume it had always been to do with needing a fertile wife.

But rather than being sympathetic Éowyn began to laugh.

“Oh Éomer. You stupid, stupid, man. Imagine asking a hobbit. If only I’d been there…”

As that sounded almost like an apology he wondered why she was still trying to laugh and talk at the same time.

“Lothíriel did not have ‘women’s problems’, you great lump. She had a badly burnt backside!”

………………..


Chapter 13 - 'Apologise' isn't on the list, but....

Éomer recognised the sensation – it was simply not one he had expected to experience in his sister’s bedroom. It was the sensation you got if you were careless when sparring and received a solid blow from the flat of a sword to your head.

Things spun around, nothing was quite where you thought it was, you knew you would survive, but other than that you couldn’t think at all.

He hardly noticed Éowyn taking him by the arm and walking him down to the receiving room where she steered him into a conversation with Legolas before abandoning him. Forever after he had no idea what he had spoken to Legolas about or whether he had made any sort of sense at all.

It was not to be a grand, formal, dinner involving the whole court – that was planned for the last night before they began the slow journey home with the body of Théoden King – but there were some twenty to thirty people in the room. Éomer was vaguely aware that he recognised them. Arwen’s family, the Fellowship, Imrahil’s family, Faramir. He tried to spot Lothíriel, and tried not to catch Merry’s eye.

Whilst successful in the second endeavour he failed in the first. Lothíriel was not a tiny young woman but she was not tall enough to be easily spotted in the present company; the only dark heads he could see were those of Elves or men.

Eventually he became aware of Legolas moving, in a manner that implied he expected Éomer to follow, and realised the Elf was speaking.

“… not formal, Elbereth be thanked, although I expect there is some court official whose entire purpose in life is to work out the order of precedence of every male and female to ensure we always enter everywhere in pairs in order of rank. But, honestly, how do you decide? You would doubtless outrank me, as you are a King, but does Lord Celeborn, as the Queen’s grandfather, outrank Master Elrond, as her father? Or Imrahil as a Prince?”

Éomer realised that they must be moving towards the dining room.

Legolas continued, “And all the women would be clumped at one end of the table. You would have to spend all evening making conversation with Her Ladyship, but by the time it got down to me there would be no females left and I would always be stuck with a hobbit and a dwarf – or one of the Elrondionath.”

Mention of the sons of Elrond reminded Éomer that he may well have a rival for Lothíriel but, before he could get together a battle plan, the sudden realisation that he might have to spend all the evening of the forthcoming formal dinner conversing with the Lady Galadriel sent a chill down his spine. There again, she seemed fairly knowledgeable about horses…

………………..

Lothíriel was trying to describe the sea to Pippin. Eventually she suggested that he come to visit Dol Amroth as her father’s guest. It would, of course, have to be some time in the future as the hobbits were to begin their journey back to The Shire as part of the large group who were travelling with Théoden King’s funeral cortège.

“By the time we might come back,” Pippin said, “you’ll probably be living somewhere else with a husband.”

“Perhaps,” she answered. Just at the moment she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to marry anyone but the King of Rohan, and he didn’t seem to want to marry her.

Then there was a movement into the dining room and Lothíriel found her arm being taken by Éowyn, in a friendly manner, but by the time they sat down she found herself between Éomer and Legolas, with Éowyn on the far side of the Elf.

………………..

‘Bema,’ Éomer thought. ‘How did Éowyn manage that?’

Left to himself he would have avoided Lothíriel whilst he thought about the implications of what Éowyn had told him. He really hadn’t had time to adjust to the way his sister had made his whole world spin around. Yet here he was, sitting right beside Lothíriel, before he had had time to think.

He wasn’t even sure how you set about wooing a princess of Gondor. At home whilst he was still just the youngest Marshal, even though he was the king’s nephew, it would have been fairly straightforward. Dance with the young woman if there was dancing, take her for a walk to get some fresh air, talk to her about her family or your most recent patrol, kiss her if she seemed willing. If she seemed to enjoy that then kiss her again… If you were still interested you might ask her to go for a ride with you, some time, preferably somewhere quiet. Then, if you were courting her seriously, there would be evenings spent with her family, and with yours, and so on.

But he had no idea what was the normal procedure here; in fact he really wasn’t sure any more how, as King, he would even woo a girl of the Mark. This was without the added problem that he was due to leave Mundburg in five days’ time.

Éowyn was already deep in conversation with Legolas. This was, clearly, a ploy on her part as Faramir was to her other side but she was ignoring him. Either that or the Steward had upset her… no, Éomer didn’t think there had been time for such good fortune. She was distracting Legolas on purpose.

The princess was trying to appear interested in the floral arrangement in front of her. Was this because she was avoiding speaking to him? Perhaps, Éomer thought honestly, it might be because they had had little conversation since he had arrived and she expected he would turn to his other side instead. Beyond her he could hear Éowyn mention Ithilien in her conversation with Legolas. He grasped at the subject.

“I was sorry, my lady, that you did not accompany us on the trip to Ithilien.”

Lothíriel looked quite startled that he had spoken to her at all, but answered in quite a composed voice.

“I would have enjoyed it, had I been invited, but it was to have been purely a trip for you and Éowyn to see Ithilien in the company of Faramir and Legolas. Although, I understand, the company expanded somewhat. And once King Elessar chose to ride with them, of course, Father could not invite himself, as he then needed to stay in the city, and so I could not beg to accompany him.”

He hadn’t taken into account the need, at least at present, for Imrahil to stay in the city if King and Steward both excused themselves for a couple of nights. The Mark was certainly an easier place over which to reign.

At least he had found a subject for conversation.

“Ah. I thought perhaps you felt that you had spent enough time sleeping in a tent after your visit to the Field of Cormallen.”

She smiled. “Oh no, my lord King, I enjoyed my time there. There was such a sense of joy at our victory, despite the number of injured, and it was so good to spend time with Father and my brothers, and you…” she suddenly seemed to realise what she had said, and stumbled slightly, “…um, you others,” she corrected.

Éomer was sure she was beginning to blush. He began to feel surer of himself and smiled.

“I would have liked your company on the ride to Ithilien,” he said, “for I seem to have had so little time to talk to you since I arrived.”

He knew that the obvious answer to this would have been “And whose fault is that?” But he was pretty confident that Princess Lothíriel was too polite to say it, even should she think it, and he was right.

“I am sure you have been busy, my lord King,” she answered.

“I have, but even so...” he paused briefly and then changed the subject. “I am sure I recall that at Cormallen I asked that you use my name, as do your father and brothers.”

“You did, my lord King, but the circumstances there were somewhat informal. You seemed to become more formal when we began the journey back to Minas Tirith and so I assumed you would no longer wish me to be so familiar.”

‘Ouch!’ thought Éomer. ‘She obviously did notice that I tried to avoid her when I thought she preferred not to ride. Would it be best to be honest, I wonder?’

He had time to think on this a little longer as a servant interrupted to place plates in front of them. After a couple of forkfuls of the appetiser, which was a small pastry filled with eggs and vegetables, he came to a decision.

“I owe you an apology for my behaviour on that journey. I am not sure that over dinner is the best place for it.” He looked around, and no-one seemed to be listening to them, but Elves, he knew, had keen hearing. “But… Actually, can we talk after dinner? In the meantime, as not only am I on first name terms with your brothers, but you are likewise with my sister, may I please call you Lothíriel?”

She didn’t answer immediately and he began to feel he might have said the wrong thing.

“I would like us to talk together after dinner,” she said. “Although I don’t think there is anything to apologise for; you were busy on the journey back from Cormallen. And I would be happy for you to call me Lothíriel, Éomer King.”

“Éomer King?”

“Éomer King. We are in company and it would be rude for me to ignore your rank.”

She sounded quite certain.

“Well, I suppose at least you are using my name,” he said. “I just hope that, when I explain why I need to apologise, you do not feel you must return to calling me your lord King; if, that is, you continue to speak to me at all.”

This earned him a rather quizzical look – but also a smile.

“In the meantime, as Legolas seems to be determined to talk to Éowyn,” ‘or probably the other way around,’ he thought, “it is clear that we must converse with each other for entertainment.”

There may not be dancing, but he seemed to be doing all right.

………………..

Lothíriel found herself, within minutes of moving from the dining room to a pleasant salon, standing on a small balcony with Éomer who had suggested she might like a little fresh air. All the floor-length windows of the room were wide open, as it was a warm evening, and all had these small balconies; visible to anyone in the room, but not really big enough to encourage others to join them.

She thought it likely that Éomer was very skilled at cutting a particular horse out of the herd. Or a mare.

“Lothíriel,” he began, “I really do want to apologise to you, because… because I would like us to get to know each other better but you need to know how stupid I can sometimes be.”

She wasn’t sure quite what she ought to answer at this point – but he didn’t give her all that long to think about it before he continued anyway.

“I saw you sitting at Faramir’s bedside before we rode to the Black Gate of Mordor – and I thought you were like the princess in a story my grandmother told me about The Princess and the Pea.”

She hadn’t realised that Éomer had even noticed her; he had seemed so worried about Éowyn. But if he had seen her, in an evening gown, perched on a tower of cushions… she couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing.

“Oh my goodness,” she said once she got her breath, “I know the story – and you are quite right! But that really isn’t anything to apologise for.”

“Um, no, that isn’t what I need to apologise for… rather that I was intrigued when I realised, at Cormallen, that the sister my new friends had spoken about, who would enjoy spending time in a tent, was the same person.

“After a few days I decided that their description fitted you better than my first impression in the Houses of Healing. I thought that I would like to get to know you better, but I was still trying to cope with being the king. I sometimes felt dizzy with everything that I needed to know, all the things, and people, I was responsible for. But, even so, I should have found more time…”

He broke off and put a hand onto her arm. His hand was warm, and the contact sent a little shiver of pleasure down her spine.

“Lothíriel,” he said, and this time his voice was a little lower and sent a shiver all of its own down her spine chasing the previous one.

“Lothíriel, I didn’t only want to get to know you because I had become friendly with your father and brothers but because, under other circumstances, I would have wanted to court you.”

Oh!

She knew she should remain ladylike and just nod gently, or something along those lines, but “So why didn’t you?” just burst out.

Éomer looked slightly taken aback but then he smiled. He did have a lovely smile. And very nice teeth.

“That’s what I need to apologise for,” he answered. “Partly it was because I was frightened by the weight of the kingship. When it seemed all I had to do was lead the éoreds to certain death it was pretty simple. But having to rule a whole country? I tossed and turned at night fretting over it and wishing Bema had better guarded my uncle and my cousin.

“But there would have been plenty of time to talk to you, to find out what you thought of me, and whether there was a chance of us being suited to each other, on the ride back to Mundburg – if I had not been so stupid and tried to put all such thoughts from my mind by keeping away from you.

“And,” he went on, “from something you said earlier I know you were aware of this, and that it was hurtful of me. This was then, in part, the stupid thing I did for which I need to apologise.”

“In part?”

Truth to tell she wanted just to say that his apology was accepted, and ask was he still interested in the courting he mentioned, but appearing too eager was unladylike – and she was intrigued to know what the other part was.

“In part. This is where I embarrass myself even more by admitting that I jumped too quickly to a conclusion.”

“Quick decision making is good for a warrior,” Lothíriel said.

“Only if it is based properly on the evidence…. You see, I accidentally overheard you say you would prefer to travel in a wagon and, when I saw you doing just that, I decided you must not enjoy riding and therefore you would be totally unsuited to life in the Riddermark. So I tried to ignore you. I was most surprised when I finally did see you riding.”

She remembered. That day, as the Rohirrim left to return home, he had spoken to her by choice for the first time in ages, and there had been that kiss to her hand that she had dreamed about since.

He was still speaking. “You see how stupid I was? It had simply never occurred to me that you were in the wagon because of the… injury… that had led to you being in the Houses of Healing. So I owe you an apology for ignoring you – for being ignorant in fact…”

She found herself smiling at the slight play on words.

“… and also for doubting that you could ride, when you have a beautiful seat.”

She wondered if that play on words was also intentional. But didn’t need to wonder for long, as he pointedly glanced over her shoulder towards her derriere and then added, “Both on and off a horse!”

“You didn’t have to apologise, Éomer,” Lothíriel said, purposefully using only his given name, “but your apology is accepted.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and the hand on her arm slid down to her hand, which he lifted to his mouth and kissed just as she remembered – but this time his lips lingered a little longer, and he kept hold of her hand.

“I should have written,” he said. “Éowyn found time to write, and I should have done, too. But a written apology would have been cowardly, and writing without apologising for being so rude would not have been right either. And I have been so busy that I was easily able to brush thoughts of you from my mind… most of the time.”

He looked a little embarrassed for a moment and Lothíriel found herself considering what the circumstances might be under which he wasn’t able to easily forget her. She was afraid she might be blushing. A good thing it was dusk, she thought.

“And now,” Éomer said, “I have wasted the time since we arrived back in Mundburg with meetings, and official engagements, and it only really occurred to me how quickly the time was flying, and how very much I wished I had spent more of it with you, when we were in Ithilien.

“There is too little time left for courtship, but I wonder if you would write to me over the next few months, as well as to Éowyn? And in the few days we have left would you do me the honour of riding out with me? And possibly dancing with me if we get the chance?”



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As always, feedback is much appreciated, and do, please, point out any errors.


Chapter 14 - Five Days Is Not Enough.

Éomer had been quite right when he had said that five days was not long enough for a courtship. Especially when the fifth was the day you were beginning the journey home. Although he knew there had been some equally short, or shorter, courtships before the éoreds had left for war this was a different situation and Lothíriel was a Gondorian princess.

For that matter, Éomer was a king; and although some might think this would mean he could do what he wanted, he knew this was certainly not true. He did manage to spend some time talking with Lothíriel, when they rode out across the recovering Pelennor, but it was not the most romantic of trysts as they were accompanied not only by half a dozen members of his own éored but also by Amrothos. Not that Éomer had anything against Lothíriel’s brother, he was good company, but his presence made for restrained courtship.

But at least, he thought afterwards, they had spoken of her family, and his too, so he could cross that off his mental ‘wooing’ list.

Dancing, too, could be crossed off the ‘to-do’ list. It had been a moment, oddly, to remember again that he was here to collect the body of his uncle; for it had been Théoden, son of a lady of Gondor, who had insisted that Théodred and his cousins learn something of the dances of that country.

He had hoped that Lothíriel might be persuaded to join the entourage of the King and Queen of Gondor as they accompanied the Rohirrim on this journey to take Théoden home. To be honest he didn’t think she would take much persuasion. But Aragorn was leaving Imrahil in charge of Mundburg, and his daughter-in-law had returned to Dol Amroth with her husband and so, even had Lothíriel wanted to come, she was needed to act as her father’s hostess.

Éomer would happily have suggested that Aragorn leave his Steward to oversee Gondor, and bring Prince Imrahil and his family along instead, but Aragorn seemed to positively encourage the relationship between Faramir and Éowyn. It had been his decision that Faramir should be a member of the party who would travel to Édoras as, he said, it would be good for Faramir to see something of his future wife’s homeland.

Then on the last afternoon before they would leave, when Éomer had planned to have a few quiet words with Imrahil, he was, instead, waylaid by Éowyn and Faramir who had come to see him together. Mindful of the need to escape them so that he could seek out Imrahil, Éomer agreed, with very little argument, to them declaring their betrothal in Édoras once Théoden King was laid in his barrow. (Ever afterwards Éowyn thought the obvious love between herself and Faramir was behind Éomer agreeing to this so easily when, previously, he had wanted them to wait for at least a year… Éomer never disillusioned her; she got on well enough with Lothíriel that she needed no extra reason to like her!)

The conversation with Imrahil was, of necessity, short.

“I do not want to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Éomer said almost at the beginning, “for we of The Mark believe a couple should come together to ask the blessing of their parents on any betrothal, and so the agreement is first reached between the two involved.”

Imrahil did not look particularly surprised by this fairly blunt introduction of the subject and so Éomer continued.

“But I have come to realise in these last few days how much I would like the opportunity to court Lothíriel. If it is normal in Gondor for your permission to be required for this, then I am asking for it, my friend.”

Imrahil smiled slightly. “Requesting such permission is usually considered polite… And, provided Lothíriel is happy, I will willingly give it.”

“Thank you. To be perfectly honest I have made some shift towards courting her already, and she seems happy enough. I was more worried that, if I didn’t have time to talk to you about it, some noble or another might ask you for her hand before I got the chance. And I know little enough of such things here that it occurred to me you might accept on her behalf if it seemed a good offer.”

“Such a way of arranging the marriage of eligible daughters is not unheard of,” Imrahil said. “But, personally, I would ask Lothíriel’s opinion should such an offer arise. And, knowing you want the opportunity to court her, I promise you I will not encourage any other suit.”

The prince picked up the glass of wine he had poured at the outset of the interview and raised it to Éomer.

“I can think of no better prospective son-in-law. As a mere prince it might have been less than diplomatic of me to turn down the king of our closest allies, if you had asked me for Lothíriel in marriage, no matter what her feelings on the subject. But, in this, I think the ways of Rohan have much merit and I wish you well in your courtship. It will give me great pleasure to agree should you and my daughter ever stand together before me to ask my permission for your wedding.”

“Thank you,” said Éomer, more relieved than he hoped he appeared. “Although when I will get the time for this courtship I don’t know – but it is reassuring to know Éowyn will not read out a letter from her friend telling of her impending marriage to someone else.”

………………..

Éomer had been quite right when he had told Lothíriel that there was too little time left for a courtship before he would return to his own lands.

But, after the conversation on the balcony of The King’s House, they had ridden together, danced together, and found time to walk together simply talking. In fact Éomer seemed to find quite a lot of time to spend with her. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he had devoted so much of his first two weeks to official business. That was, more or less, the reason he had given for hardly speaking to her during that period, despite no longer thinking her averse to riding.

But she had her doubts. She wondered if there was someone in Rohan he would prefer to marry but she would not be an acceptable queen, and so he had decided to court Lothíriel as a reasonable substitute. Or whether he had been warned against marrying someone from outside Rohan, as his grandfather had, but had found her so desirable he had decided to defy such advice.

She wasn’t sure which would be the better reason. Either would mean some people in Rohan being unhappy about their courtship. There was, however, no point in worrying about problems that may not exist, she told herself, firmly. Better to remember the look on Éomer’s face this morning when she had stood with her father to see the cavalcade set off.

Better still to remember his kiss last night.

After the formal dinner during which they had been seated together, to Éomer’s apparent amusement, he had exhibited, again, his skill at cutting his chosen mare from the herd. Despite about half the females in attendance trying to waylay him, and her proceeding around the room in conversation with Elrohir, Éomer had approached them near an open door and, in no time, she had been walking arm in arm with him along a quiet corridor.

At this point in reliving the moment it occurred to Lothíriel that Elrohir was one of the tallest people in the room apart from his fellow elves; he could easily have kept an eye on the direction Éomer was taking…. (About this time, too, on the road away from Minas Tirith, Éomer was thinking something similar and concluding that perhaps he had a friend, rather than a rival, in Elrond’s son.)

As most people who moved away from the main rooms were going outdoors, to admire the city by moonlight, the corridor leading towards the royal chambers had not been busy. Along it were alcoves with seats in them where attendants could be within reach whenever they were called upon.

“Lothíriel,” Éomer had said, taking her hand and drawing her down onto one of these seats, “when we say goodbye in front of a multitude of people tomorrow I have no right to do more than kiss your hand. But I would rather have more than that to remember over the next months.”

Sometimes there was no advantage to being coy, Lothíriel had thought, so she had moved her face a little closer and said “Me too.”

The kiss had been most satisfactory. She had been a little unsure how you knew whose nose would go where but it proved no problem and, when his hand had moved to her back to pull her closer, it had been only natural to put her own arms around his neck. And, although she hadn’t been sure about the concept, when her sister-in-law Maraina had mentioned it, her mouth had opened naturally so that their tongues touched.

Definitely something much more memorable than the polite touch of lips to hand, witnessed by what felt like half the inhabitants of the city, this morning, although the way his eyes had lingered on her had been very satisfying.

‘Now,’ she thought, hugging a cushion to her chest, ‘would it be unladylike to write just yet, or should I wait for a letter first?’

………………..

A bundle of letters arrived with the first messenger from Édoras since the departure of the great procession of kings, lords and ladies, both of the First-born and the Second-born. They were taken, of course, to Father first but, only a little later, a servant arrived with two for Lothíriel; one was many pages long, the other much shorter. The thicker letter was addressed in Éowyn’s familiar hand.

Lothíriel studied the other for a moment or two. The writing was firm, unembellished, but looked confident. The seal of the royal House of Rohan was unbroken; Father was clearly happy for Éomer to write to her.

On having read it, Lothíriel was less so.

Dear Lothíriel,

I hope this letter finds you somewhere more comfortable than I am.

We are still on the road to Édoras, we move slowly. Éothain takes his role as my adjutant seriously and had made provision for me to write as we camp, and Éowyn pointed out that we will soon meet the message rider.

We approach the border between Gondor and The Mark and soon I will welcome my brother-in-arms to my lands as a fellow king. It would have been good to have you riding with us, to also welcome you to The Mark, although I hope to do so in the future. Both you and your esteemed father, of course.

Once we reach Édoras we will lay Théoden King in his barrow, which lies ready, then I will be crowned. It will be a simpler ceremony than Aragorn’s but I would have liked you to have seen it. I think I will be the first King of The Mark to have elves at his crowning.

I am glad to look back on the time we had in each other’s company in Mundburg. I hold such memories of you and your family dear.

Yours, Éomer.

‘Really,’ she thought, ‘he could have written that to Amrothos! I suppose he is not used to writing for, as Éowyn told me, the Rohirrim prefer the spoken word as it can convey meaning better than lines on a page. Perhaps I am meant to read more into his wishes that I was there to see him crowned, or that he will remember time spent with me – and my family.’

However, Éowyn’s letter, although it must also have been written in camp, was much thicker and might make up, in part, for the scant words her brother had written. In this, Lothíriel was quite right, there were three pages written in her friend’s hand. But as she unfolded them more pages, folded separately, lay on top. These were addressed to her in the same firm hand as the letter from Éomer! Strange…

She opened them first.

My dear Lothíriel,

Éowyn tells me the heads of Gondorian houses open all the letters that come in and that I should be careful not to write anything to you that your father might not approve, or he may not allow you to read them. However, she also tells me your father does not read her missives to you.

She says this is because she is trustworthy and, when she weds your cousin, she will be one of your close family. I think it more likely that he finds her hand distressing to read as he is such an elegant gentleman. However, she suggested I might wish to take advantage of this and, of course, I do.

I find I wish to be honest with you, and hope that you are not insulted; remember we are but simple folk in The Mark and prone to saying what we think.

‘Ah,’ thought Lothíriel, ‘this is more like Éomer’s voice. Although I do not really think he is in any way ‘simple’ when it comes to expressing himself. I wonder what he is going to write that he fears might insult me?’

She read on.

Éothain tells me I am fortunate to have a tent to myself. Éowyn, he says, suggested I should share one with your cousin that we may get to know each other better. Fortunately Éothain dismissed the idea as being unsuitable to both my station, as King, and Faramir’s, as Prince of Ithilien, for I have no wish to get to know what the Lord Steward wears in bed, nor whether or not he snores. But it is a large tent for one and I thought, last night, that had you ridden with us I would have happily shared it with you!

Oh. Oh my! Lothíriel had never read a letter that made her blush… until now.

See. I will have shocked you. But not too much I hope. If I get no reply, or one written formally from the Princess of Dol Amroth to the King of The Mark, I will know that I have insulted you. But I hope not. For you may know that no-one in Édoras will read our personal correspondence; should any advisor attempt it he will be reduced not to stable-hand, for that is a position of honour, but to collector of the night soil of Meduseld.

Lothíriel laughed out loud. Yes, she had been a little shocked, but only that he felt free to put such a thought in writing. Knowing he had thought it actually made her happy, and feel wanted. There would certainly be no stiff formal letter of reply.

As I said in my official letter to you (which was harder to write than is this one), we travel slowly. I know, from a slip of Éowyn’s tongue that I did not forget, that we have you to thank for this. For, after dire threats on my behalf, she explained why she had mentioned you and ‘supplies’ together.

I should be insulted. But my people need food to survive the coming winter and a king must sometimes swallow his pride.

If she had needed any reassurance about this man who was courting her, Lothíriel thought, that sentence would have given it.

And so we travel at the pace not of our riding horses, nor of the team we brought to pull the wain that carries Théoden King home, nor even at the pace of the horses pulling the wains that carry our last few wounded home who cannot sit a horse, poor men. No. We travel at the pace of the oxen that pull the wains loaded with supplies and the string of cattle that follow behind them. And Éowyn tells me she had a conversation with you about our need for breeding stock…

However, consider my pride swallowed, for Théoden King would not have seen our people starve to maintain the dignity of his burial procession.

Oh my goodness! When she had suggested to Father and Faramir that they send oxen to pull the carts, which could then remain in Rohan, she hadn’t thought their presence might be an insult to the dead Horse Lord!

And, anyway, we leave them to the end. But they are well guarded by the rearguard for they are most gratefully received and will do much to deepen the friendship between the people of The Mark and Gondor. Although I do not see them as weregild, my people may well. And will see this as an honour paid to the fallen. Perhaps I should also look on them in that way. I know not.

Enough of such solemn thoughts. I will close this letter in memories of the kiss we shared, which makes me smile. I hope it has the same effect on you.

Your Éomer.

Lothíriel went back and re-read four more times before turning to Éowyn’s letter.

That night she slept with one of Éomer’s letters under her pillow. It was not difficult to choose which one.




...........................................................................................

Sorry for the delay - I've had a major computer disaster....

Also - comments, no matter how short, are much appreciated :)


Chapter 15 - The Passing of Winter

Dear Lothíriel,

So we have laid Théoden King in the barrow of his fathers and I am crowned king. For those of my people who had not been to war this was the moment when the crown truly passed to me. Perhaps I should feel different, in some way more the king, and yet I don’t. I think the reality of kingship hit me when I returned to Édoras the first time and was assailed by so many who either thought I should know everything that needed to be done, or that they should tell me how to do everything.

I was moved more by the singing of laments over my uncle as he was carried to the barrow and laid there. Éowyn led, as is our custom, but then our elven guests joined their voices to those of the women and I felt I could see my uncle and Snowmane galloping across sunlit green plains towards a great hall, and hear the voices singing a welcome to him from within.

See! The elves have managed to make even me wax lyrical.

Lothíriel smiled. The traditions of Rohan might be purely oral, but his uncle’s insistence on some formal education meant that Éomer had proved to be at ease with the written word since their correspondence had begun, and she thought it owed little to the elves. At least, his writing flowed when he did not have to worry about who might read it. That first, formal, letter amused her once she realised that it had been written with such care. She had replied to his query about her father reading all her letters by saying that she shared correspondence with him by reading out the parts she thought he would find of interest.

There had been some discussion as to who should place the crown on my head. Gandalf had suggested that Aragorn do it but some of my advisors thought it would make it seem I was nothing but a Petty-king. Then the bards said that Théoden had been handed the crown by his mother, the queen and widow of Thengel King, and placed it upon his own head. As my aunt was not alive to do this, I stood on the steps of Meduseld, where all could see, and I asked Merry to bring the crown forward, he gave it to Éowyn, and she then gave it to me and, in placing it on my own head, I accepted the weight of the Kingship of the Mark.

What a fascinating way to be crowned, Lothíriel thought. But, there again, coronations were not really something of which she had a great deal of experience. Even so, she liked the idea of Éomer’s grandmother passing her husband’s crown to her son. She thought Merry would have been happy to be part of Éomer’s coronation. She wished she had been there to see it.

I am afraid we used some of the supplies from Gondor to celebrate the life of my uncle, but it would have been very wrong to let him go to his fathers with no recognition of his worth.

Our elven guests leave us soon. Gandalf and the hobbits leave with them. I shall miss them – but I think our supplies may not have lasted had we the feeding of four hobbits until next harvest. Legolas and Gimli will accompany them for the first miles of their journey, as will Aragorn.

Queen Arwen will not, though. She is to stay with us until Aragorn returns. Her brothers, I think, are torn between her and their father and grandparents, but have decided to accompany their father home. I am glad Éowyn and the Steward are remaining here for I think they will be better company for her than I would be. We have announced their betrothal.

This afternoon Lord Celeborn and I are going to discuss the mares he is to gift us – one or two have come into season since they left their home, and have been covered by their own stallions – he says he is happy for them to be part of the gift, so we will have even more new blood in the herds. The horsemasters who keep the stud rolls are already both pleased and worried about this for it is a new situation for them. It is a new age, I tell them. New blood will be good, and you can find new ways to record these mares if the old ways do not suffice.

Lothíriel smiled. You could tell so much from Éomer’s letters that he did not say in words. Should they wed, and she thought it very likely, horses would be a large part of their lives; it was a good thing she was happy about this! She could see that his court would probably be less formal that that of her uncle, or of her new king, because of this; neither Éomer nor Éowyn found the breeding of horses an unsuitable subject for a letter to an unmarried princess. It was also clear that he was happy with his new authority, even if he had not expected it. And he was still not terribly happy about his sister and Lothíriel’s cousin getting married!

She read to the end of his letter and then turned to Éowyn’s with interest.

Éowyn described her brother’s coronation much as had done himself, adding only how honoured she had been to fulfil her role as the late Théoden’s nearest female relative, before going on;

We are betrothed! I am so happy. We will not wed just yet, though. As your culture regards a year’s betrothal as usual, Faramir is not upset that we will wait until spring.

But I would have wed him sooner. Amongst our people the betrothal is usually just the length of time it takes to organise a place to live, decide what each will bring to the marriage – dowry and bride-price – and organise the wedding feast.

We are to wed in Minas Tirith, which I don’t mind as we had our betrothal feast here with my people. To be honest Éomer is happy with this for, although we are now sure that with care no-one will starve before the next harvest, we may not have food enough, come spring, for the feast he would wish for me. Not that he has said that to anyone but Éothain and to me. And I suppose, by waiting so long, Faramir can also fulfil the tradition of the Mark because he says that, by spring, he will be able to take me to our own home, in Ithilien, rather than to the house he still associates too closely with his father.

Lothíriel could understand how her cousin felt; her uncle, like his predecessors, did not inhabit the king’s rooms in the Citadel but lived in the equally imposing Steward’s House. Father said it had always been a dark house to live in, as the public rooms caught the best light, but after the death of Aunt Finduilas her husband had had dark drapes made, and dark covers for the furniture, so that the building itself had gone into mourning.

She hoped Éowyn would set to and redecorate. She would have suggested Faramir did so whilst he awaited his bride, and offered to help, but she thought he would be too busy and as for herself… She picked up her pen to write her replies to both Éomer and Éowyn.

… Father and I will go home to Dol Amroth as soon as the King and Faramir are back in the city. I am looking forward to it, I have been away for so long and it will be good to get away from the formality of the court, and away from the city as well. It will also be good to see Elphir, Miraina, and my nephew again.

Dol Amroth is, of course, smaller than Minas Tirith and the whole town is less formal as we have fishermen, and merchant ships, coming and going.

She hoped that would reassure Éomer that she would not miss Minas Tirith so very much if he was to ask her to be his wife.

And, although it might take longer for our letters to travel backwards and forwards if they are to come to the city first, and then down the Anduin by ship, they will still arrive regularly and, perhaps, it might be possible to open a route between Dol Amroth and Édoras. Not just for our correspondence, I am not quite that selfish, but both for trade and so that, should the need arise, our people could more easily come to each other’s aid.

That was something to talk to Father about, she thought, even though she knew he would be well aware of her, more personal, ulterior motive.

…………….

And so the correspondence between the King of Rohan, his sister, and the Princess of Dol Amroth continued throughout the winter.

Éowyn wrote of snow, and Lothíriel was quite envious; snow rarely lay deeply in either Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith. Lothíriel wrote of Yule traditions, and new dresses, and Éowyn wrote asking to know more so that she might not appear an outsider next year.

Lothíriel wrote of riding along the beach, and of high winds and storms, and Éomer wondered if she would miss these, then thought that the wide spaces of the Mark, and the storms that rolled across the plains, might well be a reasonable substitute; he hoped so.

Éomer wrote, sometimes, of things that worried him, because it helped to put them on paper and he would not give Lothíriel a false impression that life as King of the Mark was nothing but riding and feasting.

Éomer also wrote, once, that thoughts of their last evening together in Minas Tirith brought him pleasure, especially when he was finally alone when he had been cooped up in meetings all day. No sooner had the messenger left than he wondered if she might be shocked by the implication. Lothíriel’s reply read as if she supposed him to mean that he sat dreamily over a tankard of ale. But there again… she did have three brothers and so it is good to know that thoughts of me help you forget the cares of the day so that you may sleep more easily might contain almost as much innuendo as his original comment. Oh how much easier such conversations were face to face when tone of voice, and the lift of an eyebrow, could tell you so much. How much, too, he wanted to add some new memories of Lothíriel to his store. Much to his surprise Éomer found himself looking forward to Éowyn’s wedding.

………………

The winter has gone faster than I had ever thought it would. I am really excited to think Faramir and I will be married – at last! But I am going around Meduseld now looking at the hangings we cleaned during the cold days when there was no need to go outdoors, and the furniture we polished briskly to help us keep warm – and realising that I am going to miss them. We have got rid of every trace of Gríma, and now that it feels like the home I came to as a child I am getting ready to leave it.

I worried about Meduseld with no-one to stop Éomer leaving his possessions lying around, or to oversee the food stores and the buttery. Cwengyth will be here, but the other women of the household are mainly older than her, and she has not the advantage of being of the House of Éorl. So she might be able to scold Éomer for going to bed in his boots if has drunk too much ale, but I do not think she can be chatelaine as I have been these past seven or eight years.

However our cousin (the daughter of our father’s sister) has agreed to come for now, until such time as Éomer weds you. She is not of the House of Éorl, but she is of Éomer’s family, and has experience of running a household, so I feel less worried.

Lothíriel smiled. Éowyn had crossed that word ‘you’ out but it was still readable. She wondered what Éomer would say if he knew that his sister was writing to the person he was, most certainly, courting about his habit of going to bed drunk with his boots on! Yet, oddly, Lothíriel found it more endearing than off-putting.

And now there would be no more need for letters to and from Éowyn, for the Rohirric contingent would have already left Édoras. Here at Dol Amroth everything was packed for the entire Royal family, even Miraina and Elphir’s tiny new daughter, to journey to Minas Tirith to witness cousin Faramir wed his White Lady. Lothíriel thought that both bride and groom might forgive her for looking forward, even more, to renewing her acquaintance with the bride’s brother.

There was a knock on the door, and her maid came in to say that it was time to go. Lothíriel pushed the letter she had been reading under the cushion of her window seat, took one last look at the view of the sea, and wondered if next time she stood there she might be betrothed herself.

…………………………….


Chapter 16 - Heading for a Wedding

‘Well,’ thought Éowyn as, propped up by a pile of cushions, she sipped her early morning tea in bed, ‘by this time next week it will all be over.’

She took another sip and then laughed out loud at herself.

Probably as well not to tell anyone that she had thought that about her own wedding day – and night.

There seemed to be so many dinners and balls in the week before the event and, then, a ceremony that sounded a good deal more formal than it would have been had they married in Édoras. She wasn’t exactly worried about the wedding night; but she would be glad to get that over, too.

She was fairly sure that many young women her age, amongst her own people at least, would have had more experience of love making. However, when Éowyn was the age where others might have been exploring a little more than the occasional kiss, there had not only been an older brother who was very good at the time-honoured competition of seeing how far he could get with his friends’ sisters whilst doing all he could to prevent them reciprocating, but there was soon the constant presence of Wormtongue, as well, all too willing to ‘educate’ her should she have dropped her guard for a minute.

Still, she had no fear of the wedding night – Cwengyth and others found the whole exercise a pleasure, so she was sure she would too. But, even so, it would be a relief to get past the initial embarrassment, which would surely be there, and get on with actually being married – on with the important thing which was being Faramir’s wife. Yes – it would be good to get to this point next week and have all that behind her, and be ready to step out into married life.

In the meantime, she thought, she could keep herself distracted by watching Éomer courting Lothíriel.

……………………………..

There was a lot to be said, Éomer thought, for the sort of courtship Éothain had undertaken before he had proposed marriage to Cwengyth – although without the likelihood of imminent death for at least one of them, of course. But no-one had watched their every move; they had often ridden together, without need of an escort, for a start; and now it was Éothain who wouldn’t let Éomer outside the walls of Mundburg unless he was accompanied by at least half a dozen riders.

“You are a King now, Éomer, and we don’t want these Gondorians thinking we men of The Mark don’t know how to take care of our royalty.”

“They might be insulted that you don’t trust them to keep the land around the city safe,” Éomer had replied.

“Didn’t you notice Aragorn had a royal escort of at least a score when he rode out to meet us? No,” Éothain answered his own question, “I don’t suppose you did. You were too busy trying to see if your Lothíriel was riding behind them.”

Éomer no longer declared that the princess of Dol Amroth was not ‘his’. Instead he retorted, “I could make her mine a lot faster if we were allowed to go out riding alone!”

“Éomer!” his friend sounded quite shocked, “She is a princess – a proper one, like the ones in the stories. There is no way you can just bed her under a tree, or even in the stables!”

“That was not what I meant, even if the idea appeals greatly. But I never seem to get five minutes alone with her. There is always someone around; her brothers, her father, Aragorn, his queen, a whole court of young women who are still trying to attract me, or the parents of young women who are trying to thrust them at me.

“And,” he went on, “I don’t remember anyone insisting on turning up to describe the plants to you whenever you and Cwengyth went into a garden!”

“You are right. Not that Cwengyth and I had much trouble identifying carrots and cabbages, but I see what you mean.” Éothain paused, sighed, and then said “another job for your adjutant I suppose.”

Then he grinned, offered Éomer a glass of wine, and changed the subject.

……………………………..

Lothíriel looked at the recently delivered note. She didn’t recognise the handwriting but the seal was familiar.

Éomer King requests the pleasure of the company of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to exercise their mounts tomorrow morning. An escort and married chaperone will be provided.

That was great deal more formal than anything Éomer had written to her since the letter sent via her father. How strange. She read on.

At least, he would request it if he knew… Éothain Eldwinson, adjutant to the King of the Riddermark.

Lothíriel laughed out loud, then quickly wrote a reply for the messenger.

Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is pleased to accept the invitation of Éothain Eldwinson issued on behalf of his monarch.

Father was happy for her to take up the invitation. He had been happy to let her, accompanied by Erchirion, ride with Éomer and his men earlier in the week as well; father clearly realised which way the wind was blowing, and was content to let this ship run before it with full sails.

The next morning she rode down to the gates with one of the grooms who turned back once the company were in sight. Waiting for her were a dozen Riders, Éothain and his wife (the suitable chaperone, presumably), Éowyn – and Éomer. It might not have been his direct invitation but the look on his face showed he was happy to see her and she was soon placed between Éomer and Éowyn, with Éothain and his wife a little behind – and the escort all around them.

It was a beautiful spring morning; there had been a soft mist but it had almost completely gone, leaving tiny wisps no more substantial than the spider webs still damply glistening on the young trees and bushes. These were beginning to show signs of spring as well; here a scattering of fresh green leaves, there a handful of early blossom. That these plants were here at all made Lothíriel smile, for some were unexpected survivors of the battlefield, whilst others were recently planted by those who were intent on reclaiming the Pelennor as farmland.

Lothíriel commented on how quickly the farms were being rebuilt, and the three talked about the hopes for the coming season in Rohan as they rode sedately for the first mile or so out of the city.

Éothain moved alongside as the land became a little more open, and spoke briefly to Éomer who glanced around at the escort before his face was split by a broad grin, reminding Lothíriel once again what very nice teeth he had.

Éowyn seemed to share the joke. Lothíriel wished she did. Then Éowyn called out to one of the escort and urged her mount forward. Within seconds the rider responded and the two of them were racing ahead. Éothain, on the other hand dropped back where Cwengyth seemed to be positively dawdling.

“At last,” Éomer said. “Privacy! I was beginning to think we would just have to keep writing notes to each other.”

Lothíriel glanced at the escort.

“Privacy,” Éomer repeated. “Éothain carefully chose only men who understand nothing of the Common Tongue…”

No wonder Éomer had been so amused.

…………………

They talked. They talked of the things it was hard to ask in a letter when you might wait weeks for the reply. The sort of things where you needed, perhaps, to hear the tone and inflection of voice both in the questions and the answers. And whilst Éomer spoke the Common Tongue almost faultlessly, the language of his heart was Rohirric, and he was never quite sure if he was using exactly the right word for things that had been barely touched on in his lessons, nor were much needed in conversations with other warriors or even a fellow king.

It was not the place to actually ask Lothíriel to marry him, but by the time they were approaching the city on their return he knew she was certainly not averse to living away from Minas Tirith nor to living away from the sea as, she explained, she had always spent time away from either one or the other. He knew she enjoyed galloping her horse along the flat sands in Dol Amroth and, whilst Éomer had never seen the sea strand, he thought she might be happy to gallop across the flat plains of The Mark.

Even more importantly, he knew she was not attracted to anyone else, and had tried to make it clear that neither was he. Now all he needed to do was find a suitable time and place to propose.

No chance this evening, he thought, as there was another formal event to welcome some emissary from somewhere; an emissary he would doubtless have to meet again during the day tomorrow. And tomorrow evening there was to be a ‘family’ meal at the Dol Amroth town house; the groom’s family entertaining that of the bride. This was the tradition in Gondor and, although her sister-in-law was meant to be the hostess, with a babe in arms she was likely to rely on Lothíriel’s help. So, little chance of spiriting her away then either.

The night after would be yet another semi-formal dinner, hosted by the bride’s family – in other words Éomer – but Arwen had declared that it would be her pleasure to organise this and act as hostess; all Éomer would have to do was welcome everyone and propose a couple of toasts.

It might well be that his first chance would come at Éowyn’s wedding. He resigned himself to waiting until then, and simply seeing how much time he could spend with Lothíriel in public at the forthcoming events.

Éothain had, somehow, managed to get himself on the guest list for everything and at a status comparable to a middle ranking member of Gondorian nobility. Cwengyth was, therefore, also attending tonight. Éomer could see her deep in conversation with Éowyn and Lothíriel; he wished he could join them, but Aragorn kept him in conversation with people he felt Éomer should know.

Finally Arwen joined her husband and Éomer felt he could ease himself away but, when he looked around, he couldn’t see the three young women. At that moment Éothain appeared at his shoulder.

“Éomer King,” he said, “I know you have been told a great deal about the plants that grow here. Could you come and identify something for me?”

What in all Arda was Éothain talking about?

His adjutant was applying not so gentle pressure to Éomer’s arm – but was that the hint of a wink? Remembering the way Éothain had managed to give him the chance of private conversation with Lothíriel earlier Éomer allowed himself to be steered through the groups of people and, eventually, into a garden which was illuminated by small bright lights between which near darkness pooled.

“This way,” Éothain said. “Down this path…”

Voices heralded the approach of a group of women and, almost as if done by the sleight of hand Gandalf was so good at, Éothain was suddenly walking away arm in arm with his wife and her friend, and Éomer was standing in a small alcove, lit by one lamp, in the company of Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

Lothíriel smiled at him. Clearly she was not going to object to them being unchaperoned in what was, really, a rather romantic spot for a tryst.

“That was neatly done,” she said.

Éomer decided honesty was the best policy and to give the credit where it belonged.

“Wasn’t it?” he replied. “I had given up on the idea of you and I getting time together this evening, but Éothain has organisational talents of which I was totally unaware until I became king.”

He stepped closer. “It would be a shame to waste his efforts…”

Lothíriel didn’t answer, but took a step forward herself, tilting her face up to his.

Really no further invitation was needed. Éomer cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her.

…………………

Éomer cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. Just as on the previous occasion (so very long ago now) she naturally leant into him and put her arms around his neck and, when his tongue touched her lips, she opened her mouth to allow him access. His other hand was on her back, warm through the thin fabric of her dress, helping her keep her balance as her knees felt somewhat weak and wobbly.

Her tongue met his and then she found that, even within the confined space of their kiss, she could slide her own tongue between Éomer’s lips and explore a little, just as he was doing. He tasted of wine and the small lavender biscuits that had been part of the last remove of the meal and, she breathed in deeply, he smelled as she remembered; of soap with a hint of clean straw and something that was indefinably Éomer. She pressed herself as closely to him as she could, until her breasts were squashed against his tunic, and she felt the warmth in her abdomen that she experienced when she lay in bed at night and thought of Éomer kissing her.

Éomer’s hand left her chin and progressed along her skin to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. He slowly withdrew his tongue from her mouth and eased his lips away from hers, but only so that he could kiss – oh! and nibble – down the course his hand had plotted, whilst the hand continued its downward path until it was at the top of her buttocks.

She let her head drop back a little to allow his mouth easier access and kept her hands in his hair, simply enjoying the moment. Still holding her close to his body Éomer finally stopped kissing her. She made a somewhat incoherent noise of displeasure which made him laugh quietly.

“Whilst I could happily continue kissing you all evening, and I think you would not object…”

Quite right she would not object!

“I really want to talk, at least for a few minutes,” he continued.

“Although our courtship has mainly been by letter I feel we know each other quite well now. And I think we can both feel the physical attraction between us.”

He paused briefly to drop a kiss at the corner of her mouth and her head turned to bring their mouths together without her needing to even think of it.

Conversation ended for another minute, but eventually Éomer spoke again.

“Like that! Lothíriel, mðdleófu, it is our tradition in The Mark that a man and a woman who wish to wed go together to ask for the blessings of both families. Would you come with me to your father and ask him to give permission, as I know he should in your tradition, and his blessing, which is all that is needed in mine, to us becoming betrothed?”

Probably a refined and delicate princess from a storybook should blush and say she needed time to think about a proposal. But Lothíriel couldn’t see the point.

“Yes. Yes, please! And I am sure he will give us both permission and blessings. But not right now. Not whilst we still have a few minutes to ourselves… Tomorrow maybe?”

No point, she thought, in waiting any longer, but no point, either, in wasting these moments of privacy!


........................

Mðdleófu- beloved.


Chapter 17 - How Long?

Father had been very happy to find time to see Lothíriel and Éomer King. She wondered if he knew of the Rohirric custom; in Gondor such a meeting would have been unusual, and would certainly not have heralded an offer of marriage, as the prospective groom would have gone alone to see the young woman’s father.

Her musings were confirmed as correct when, after greetings were exchanged, Éomer took her hand in his and spoke.

“Imrahil, my friend, you will recall that we once talked of different customs between your lands and mine, and I said that a man would always ask a woman if she would wed him, rather than ask her father. Also that the couple would go together to speak both to her parents and his to ask for their blessing.”

Father nodded, and gravely said he did recall the conversation, but did not look surprised.

“But,” Éomer continued, “I do not like to totally disregard your traditions.”

He squeezed Lothíriel’s hand slightly.

“So I am asking your permission for Lothíriel and I to tell you that we are betrothed and will marry.”

Lothíriel wanted to burst out laughing. Her father beat her to it.

Still laughing, her father replied “Permission granted.”

Lothíriel spoke before Éomer could say anything more.

“Father, Éomer and I would like to marry. We ask for your blessing.”

“You have it, my beloved daughter. I cannot think of anyone to whom I would rather see you wed, and it pleases me greatly to know that you have made the same decision for yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Éomer, in a serious tone. Then he turned to Lothíriel and added “And as I am the head of my family, and I am more than pleased to give this union my blessing, we are now betrothed.”

And right there, in front of her father, he kissed her. It was not quite the sort of kiss they had shared the previous evening, Éomer’s tongue did little more than touch her lips, but her hands went to his shoulders in response and it was Éomer who broke the kiss.

It might not be exactly the behaviour of a well-brought-up Gondorian lady, but father didn’t complain. He did suggest, though, that they leave making a formal announcement of their betrothal until after Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding, so as not to distract from their celebrations.

However, he had no objection to them telling the family at dinner, and so it became an evening of double celebration.

…………………..

“How long?” asked Éothain. “I thought we could just stay here for an extra week or two, you could get married, and we could take our new queen home with us! It’s not as if you don’t have a suitable house to offer her.”

“Their usual custom is at least a full year of betrothal,” Éomer answered.

“Well it might be sensible if you were going to see each other regularly and get in a bit of practice – not that I think you, personally, need it – but if we go home, and she stays here, it’s going to be a very lonely next few months for both of you. Your right hand is going to wear out!”

“That wasn’t actually one of the reasons I gave to Imrahil for us marrying sooner than is their custom… even if he, and his sons, are my good friends. But it was certainly in my own thoughts!”

“So it should be,” his friend retorted. Then, more seriously, he went on “You did check about your council’s requirements, didn’t you? Even though they can’t legally, command you or your wife to do anything…”

“I did,” Éomer answered. “I spoke to Lothíriel about it before we saw her father for, again, it concerns her alone. She said that residing in Rohan and learning our language seemed to her to be essential to our marriage being a successful one. She was surprised that I mentioned it until I explained that my grandmother had preferred Gondor and never, really, learnt our tongue.”

He paused briefly then added, “I don’t think it really occurred to Morwen that she would become Queen of The Mark. And by the time Thengel King was crowned she was too set in her ways. Lothíriel is very different, but the advisors will be pleased to think I took their advice and checked these things!”

“They might be even happier when we bring her dowry with us now rather than waiting until the wedding. That should stop any of them complaining too loudly,” Éothain commented.

“Lothíriel suggested it – I was very happy that Imrahil agreed straight away, but, to be honest, Éothain, even though spring is a hungry time I would have been too proud to ask…”

“She is a sensible woman, your Lothíriel, as well as beautiful.” Éothain said.

“I hope you don’t let Cwengyth hear you call my betrothed beautiful or you may only have your own right hand for company for the rest of this visit,” Éomer said, only half joking.

“She called her thus herself, it is only the truth.” Éothain paused and became more serious. “As there is little for Lothíriel to do but pack a few trunks, in the six months before she comes to the Mark for your wedding, Cwengyth made a serious suggestion…”

…………………..

Éowyn woke early and stretched luxuriously. After a few moments she wondered at having so much bed to herself – shouldn’t her new husband be in here somewhere too? Then she saw him standing at the window in the grey morning light.

“I am sorry, I have been an early riser for too long and I didn’t want to disturb your sleep; you looked so peaceful.”

She was glad she had looked peaceful – it would have been embarrassing if she had been lying snoring and drooling onto the pillow.

“I am awake now,” she said to him, “and we don’t have to leave the bedroom just because we are awake.”

Faramir slowly smiled. “Well, if you are not sore after your new form of exercise…” he said.

Truth to tell Éowyn had felt only a little discomfort when they had joined their bodies the night before, thanks, doubtless, to the years in the saddle that had disposed of her maidenhead and given her flexible hips and strong thighs, and she very much wanted to repeat it.

“Not sore at all,” she said, “and I think it would be a good idea to practice often to help me become more proficient.”

“How can I deny my lady wife when she thirsts to increase her skills?” asked Faramir, sliding back under the bedclothes and taking her into his arms.

It was some time before Éowyn had another coherent thought. When she did it was to hope that, once Éomer and Lothíriel’s betrothal was announced tomorrow evening, it would draw the attention of the court away from her.

…………………..

Once Éomer and Lothiriél’s betrothal was announced it seemed as if the talk throughout the city, from the lowest to the highest circle, was of nothing else. Word had been sent to Dol Amroth, as well, for it to be announced to the people of Imrahil’s princedom. Doubtless it was the main topic of conversation there, too.

It seemed as if much of the populace felt that Éomer, as King of the Rohirrim, had undoubtedly earned the hand of their only princess. Some of the ladies of the court certainly felt that they would have been more suitable as Queen of Rohan, and a number of the noblemen felt slighted that they had not been given the chance to marry Lothíriel.

All in all, it meant that Éowyn could thank both her brother and her friend for becoming the centre of attention, allowing her to get on with learning how to be Faramir’s wife without her every move, word, or outfit being noted and discussed. Lothíriel, on the other hand, expressed the wish to return to Dol Amroth and not return to Minas Tirith until at least a year after her wedding.

At this, Éomer asked that she stay in Minas Tirith long enough for him to send her someone to teach her Rohirric and help her learn something of those who would become her people.

“Will you send a senior bard?” Éowyn asked, “or a younger one? Perhaps one who was injured in the war and can no longer do hard work?”

“No,” Éomer replied. “I am going to ask Cwenhild if she will come.”

…………………

They said a private, or almost, farewell in the same garden alcove in which they had agreed to marry; with the same conspirators allowing them those minutes undisturbed.

Even at their public farewell, half a day’s ride out from Minas Tirith at the point where the Riders would continue north and the others would turn back, Éomer held her close and kissed her thoroughly; certainly more closely, and more thoroughly, than Gondorian court etiquette might have deemed seemly. But the King and Queen, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien, and even the Princes of Dol Amroth, did not appear shocked, and stood with Lothíriel as she watched the Riders until they became no more than a smudge in the distance.

…………………

Cwenhild arrived along with Éomer’s first letter to his betrothed sent from Édoras.

When Éothain had suggested that his wife’s, widowed, older sister would be a suitable person to help Lothíriel learn something of the language, history, and traditions of her new country Éomer had not been sure.

“I thought Wissian… he will become as good a bard as his father in time, and he can no longer help on the farm, nor fight, since his injuries.”

“No. He will not do at all. His knowledge of Princess Lothíriel’s own tongue extends little beyond that needed in the Houses of Healing, and the ability to ask for more ale. But, more than that, he would not be able to spend time with her without a chaperone, and without others worrying about what he is saying to her. You know what these Gondorians are like; they trust no-one to keep their lusts to themselves, and even you must admit that he is quite a good looking, and well-built, young man!”

Éomer would, personally, have no worries about the young man spending time alone with Lothíriel. But he could see Éothain’s point.

“But Cwenhild? Will she want to leave her home for six months? More, if they become friends, for then she should come to Édoras with Lothíriel.”

“Cwengyth says she would. She is over the worst of her grief at the loss of her husband alongside Théodred, her mother does not really need her in Harrowdale, and neither does her mother-in-law; she is simply another mouth to feed at this time.”

Éomer could understand that.

Éothain continued. “And she had lessons in the Common Tongue, just as we did. But Cwengyth and I have another, very different, reason for suggesting Cwenhild. Your princess has no mother. Can you be sure she knows all she should about ‘the marriage bed’? She is not likely to have had the chance to experiment in the stables, or wherever one might have such fun in Dol Amroth. Apart from anything else she has three older brothers – and it only took one of you to keep most of the lads away from Éowyn.”

“Most?”

“Well… anyway I don’t think anyone ever got further with Éowyn than a kiss. And don’t distract me.”

“But surely someone must have explained to Lothíriel?” It really hadn’t occurred to Éomer that it might be a problem. She had certainly needed little instruction of how to kiss; she’d picked that up quickly enough.

“I expect she knows the basic theory, unless she has always been kept well away from the horses at that time. But I would hope you would want her to expect something a little different to the mares.”

“Elphir has a wife… or I could ask Éowyn to…”

“Éomer! Don’t be stupid. Do you like to imagine your sister naked, entwined with her new husband?”

“No!”

“So how comfortable would your princess feel imagining her brother bedding his wife, or Éowyn feel discussing what Lothíriel might do with you… Or, for that matter, Princess Lothíriel imagining Éowyn enjoying herself with Lothíriel’s cousin. But Cwenhild is only a year older than you and me, so young enough to talk about fucking – I mean, can you imagine if you’d been told about it by Théoden King? You couldn’t really imagine him doing it, can you? Théodred, on the other hand – we were both happy to believe him, weren’t we?”

Oh yes, Éomer well remembered some of the advice given by Théodred.

“And Cwenhild has been married, so Lothíriel would feel happy enough asking her questions,” Éothain continued. “So could Éowyn, if she needed to, because you can’t really imagine her talking about women’s things with Queen Arwen. Also, Cwenhild knows all the other things our women need to know – Wissian might know the histories, but he probably doesn’t know the sort of things women talk about. We don’t, after all!”

And so it was decided.

…………………

Déore Éomer,

Thank you so much for sending Cwenhild to me. As you can see she is starting by teaching me some words that I can use when I write to you. Already I can tell you that you are wenlicne.

Éowyn joins us sometimes in the afternoon to talk, but more often she joins us in the morning to ride. At the moment they are trying to teach me all the different words for horses. I find it hard to believe there are so many different words depending on gender, colour, age and configuration, whilst they wonder how we cope without them.

There are still ladies who look at me as if they would stab me in the back if they could, for ‘ensnaring’ you. Éowyn and Cwenhild are amused by them and Queen Arwen says that she expects they are the same ladies who fancied themselves likely to become Queen of Gondor and Arnor, as soon as they realised there was a king, and hurried back to the city immediately.

I do wish you were here – I walk in the garden to ‘our’ alcove, but it feels very empty without you. My back feel bare without your hand on it and my hands feel empty when I cannot use them to hold me against you lest your kisses make me too weak at the knees to stand. But I know you must be at home in The Mark amongst your people. I wish, then, that I was there with you and I could already call them ‘our’ people.

Éomer paused in his reading. He remembered why he had been unsure about asking Cwenhild to go to Gondor to undertake this task; she was as down to earth and plain speaking as her younger sister, and he had thought she might not be quite ladylike enough to fit in. Really he should have realised that Lothíriel, being happy in the company of Cwengyth, would probably get on well with her.

And Lothíriel thought him handsome. Aye, Éothain was right, she probably wouldn’t have asked Wissian to teach her that amongst her first words! But better still was to have Lothíriel so willing to tell him how much she missed him physically and, just as good, was knowing how willing she seemed to come to The Mark.

He read on through descriptions of Gondorian social life, but it was those words that told him how much Lothíriel wanted them to be together that made him smile at odd moments over the next few days.

…………………

Min déore, faeger, Lothíriel,

If I use words that Cwenhild has not taught you, you will have to ask her their meaning. I warn you that I may be driven to use compliments that will make you blush. But I doubt anything makes Cwenhild blush. Perhaps I should try. I do wish inflection could be written so that you would know that I only jest. Probably.

The weather is perfect; much better than at this time last year, and everyone informs me it will be a very good harvest if this continues. The farmers tell me healthy calves are already being born to the cattle that came from Gondor and, outside my window, the children also look healthier and laugh more.

She liked the way he gave her news of the land and the people when he wrote. It was good to hear of recovery, for Cwenhild had told her how bad things had really been, in the year before the final battles of the War and in the year since.

I can see, and hear, them from where I sit writing this at the desk in what will be our private rooms. My cousin, who is overseeing the household until our wedding, says we need to whitewash the plain walls, and the ceilings, and renew some of the wall hangings. Éowyn oversaw this being done in the main hall but I felt, then, that my own rooms were less important.

I have been reminded to ask whether you have any pieces of furniture, or wall hangings, that you would want to bring with you. Perhaps, if there are such pieces, you could send them over the summer so that they will be here when you arrive. My cousin says I must reassure you that there will be all new bedding, ready for your arrival, and I have told her this must include many, many, cushions for you are a proper princess and need them.

She knows me well enough to tell there is some joke in this, but knows not what it is. I think, though, that many cushions might be pleasant as I intend us to spend a good deal more time in the bed together than I normally do alone.

Lothíriel decided Éomer didn’t even have to pay her compliments to make her blush; she was fairly sure he already knew that.

She turned her mind to what she might want to take to The Mark with her. It was nice to think she might have some familiar things amongst the new.

…………………

In this fashion the summer passed. Letters backwards and forwards told of the recovery of The Mark and, then, of Lothíriel and Cwenhild sailing down the Anduin and along the coast to spend time in Dol Amroth. They told of Lothíriel’s pleasure in having new clothes made for her trousseau (advised by Cwenhild for, although Lothíriel had met many Riders, she had not met many women to know what was acceptable or simply fashionable); one letter even told of Éomer, reminded by a missive from his sister, having new clothes made suitable for his marriage celebration.

Lothíriel wrote of her brothers flirting with Cwenhild only to be told that, if either of them was serious, he would have to be prepared to move to Rohan for she certainly wouldn’t want to live anywhere in Gondor. Éomer laughed when he read this as he could imagine both the attempts at seduction and the rebuff.

She did not write about the conversations with Cwenhild about love-making, which left her a great deal more knowledgeable than most well brought-up young Gondorian ladies approaching marriage. Not only more knowledgeable but a good deal less anxious and certainly looking forward to it more than many. Cwenhild, though, wrote of these conversations to her sister, who told her husband, to prove how right they had been to suggest Cwenhild go to Gondor, and Éothain, of course, told Éomer…

And then the summer was almost over, the harvests of both Rohan and Gondor were being gathered in, and were as bountiful as had been predicted, and everything seemed to be going according to plan. The change in the arrangements, when it came, seemed so small as to be almost insignificant.

…………………

Min déore Éomer,

We should have left Dol Amroth yesterday to sail to Minas Tirith but both of Elphir and Miraina’s children are unwell and Father will not leave Dol Amroth until he is sure they are both recovered.

The healer says it is but a childhood ailment and they will feel better once the rash has gone. Father remembers us all having the same illness, in our turn, as children, and only Amrothos was really ill. Even so, he has already sent word on to The King, and Faramir and Éowyn, to say that we will not be going to Minas Tirith at all.

Do not worry, leof, I am still coming for our wedding! But we will not join their party; rather we will miss all the official harvest celebrations, as we wait here for a couple of weeks, and then we will take the new messengers’ route, riding up the valley of the Ringlo and then along the southern edge of the White Mountains to the Path beneath the Mountain. (I do not like to think of its name of old.)

I think Éowyn will be amused by the change of plan as I did say I wanted to flee the city for Dol Amroth and not go back until we were wed.

Cwenhild is enthusiastic about this new plan as it will be sensible for us to stay overnight at her parents’ home where there will be room for our, smaller, party.

I just want the journey to begin, so that it will soon be over and I shall see The Riddermark at last.

Éomer could understand why Lothíriel didn’t like to think of the great passage under the mountains being called The Paths of the Dead – but it was safe enough now, just a little unsettling, or so he had been told. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a ‘smaller party’, though; there were still stray bands of orcs around.

However, Imrahil was no idiot, and valued his family above all else but his king, so it would not be too small a party. And Éomer would make sure he was there, personally, to greet them as they emerged into The Mark. In fact, he might surprise them by venturing through to greet them on the far side of the Path – he had not yet had time to see it, and Lothíriel might want to ride with him if she was even a little fearful.

Yes – there might be benefits to this change of plan – and if he was accompanying them with his own personal guard then surely it would be, if anything, safer than the original plan…




faeger - beautiful
leof - my love


Chapter 18 - The Paths of the Dead... and Beyond.

Chapter Eighteen

Since the big fight, and then those walking trees arriving and the Boss disappearing, life had not been good. Not that most orcs had long memories, but there was a general feeling that it didn’t used to be this bad.

They’d been on a raid to find something to eat; a couple of horses would be good but there were none around. The new boss, one of the Uruk-Hai who had killed all rivals, said look for women, too, for breeding. But they’d not seen any of them, either.

Now they were resting in a deep gulley, away from the sunlight, and even here there was a problem as a whole lot of those bloody Men on horses, with their armour and their spears, had turned up and seemed to be determined to stay. Too many to fight.

Still, there was a cave, or something, further up this gully. Best retreat into it before the horse men noticed, and wait until they went away…

……………..

The party from Dol Amroth had travelled up the Ringlo valley, and then turned northwest and continued through Lamedon. Most nights they had been able to stay with one landowner or another. Lord Angborn had even urged the Prince’s family to stay longer, in the fortified city of Calambel, so that he could hold a feast to honour both Prince Imrahil and Princess Lothíriel as she went to become Queen of Rohan.

But Father explained that he had already sent word to Edoras, saying when he expected the party to reach the Path Beneath the Mountains, and it would be a very poor showing for the bride to arrive days late for her wedding; especially when she was marrying the King of Gondor’s greatest ally.

The tents had, in fact, been required only for the past couple of nights and, as the weather held very fair, camping then had been no hardship. Lothíriel’s young nephew made everyone smile with his enthusiasm.

Lothíriel was glad they had not camped at the Stone of Erech; it was a strange, forbidding place even in the sunlight of early afternoon when they had passed it. That had been yesterday. Today they had continued to climb, and the mountains were ever closer and closer. Lothíriel let her mind drift off, thinking of the most recent letter from Éomer and how good it would be to see him again, when there was a sudden flurry of activity at the front of the party. It didn’t seem to be a cause for worry, no-one was drawing weapons, and soon word came back that the standard of Rohan had been spotted fluttering in the breeze a little way ahead.

Four young Riders had already set up their tent and unsaddled their horses on a reasonably flat area of ground. Cwenhild made her way to the front of the party and spoke to them before coming back to where Lothíriel waited.

“Éothain sent them through to wait for us. The entrance to the Path is less than an hour’s ride from here, but it would be late at night by the time we would emerge into The Mark, and so it is better to camp here tonight and go Beneath in the morning. They will lead us through, as they have all acted as messengers on this route and know the way better than most. Éothain said they were to tell us we will be welcomed properly at the other end.”

That made sense; better to set up camp here, in the daylight, than try to get organised for the night on the far side.

By the time the tents were pitched, the horses tended and tethered to a line, and a meal prepared, the sun had sunk beneath the mountains. There was an autumnal chill in the air and Lothíriel was glad to wrap a cloak around her shoulders and sit near the fire.

Cwenhild went to talk to the Riders; Lothíriel did try out her newly learned Rohirric on them, for a few minutes, but they all looked at their feet and answered in as few words as possible. She decided that, as they had answered her simple questions (“What is your name? Whereabouts do you live? Which is your horse?”) she must have got the words right – they must just be rather embarrassed to chat to their future queen. As Cwenhild was sharing her tent, for company, if there was anything important she would doubtless tell her. As she undressed Lothíriel wondered why it had been Éothain that had sent the escort rather than Lord Erkenbrand who was, after all, Marshall of the West-Mark. But, in the end, Lothíriel was already half asleep by the time Cwenhild joined her.

Next morning there was a sense of excitement about the camp, as well as a sense of apprehension about the ride beneath the mountains, and any question about who had sent the escort was forgotten. Eventually everything was packed, Alphros was sitting firmly in front of his father having been reassured that, if they met any stray Dead warriors who had somehow missed the call to follow the King, Daddy and Grandpa could keep him safe. His baby sister was slung in front of her mother, rather than the nursemaid who often carried her, and the ride began.

The Rohirrim had already arranged a supply of torches at both ends of the Path. With everyone suitably equipped the journey through the darkness got underway. It was not as unpleasant as Lothíriel had expected; the torchlight threw odd shadows, but also highlighted mineral patches that sparkled, and areas where they were riding through high, echoing, caverns.

The attack, such as it was, came as a complete surprise.

They were in a narrow, tunnel-like, area which their guides had told them was quite close to the end. It was just wide enough for two horses to ride abreast although there were glimpses of occasional side openings here and there. Lothíriel was riding quietly beside Cwenhild, in the middle of the party, just behind Elphir and his wife with their two small children, when there was a sudden flurry of movement and from nowhere an orc threw itself at Miraina and grabbed her leg.

The guards in front of them could not easily turn back, the guards behind them could not get past, and Elphir could only clutch at his wife and baby daughter with one hand whilst trying to steady his small, screaming, son with the other. At least Alphros’ screams quickly alerted everyone else in the party to the problem.

Lothíriel was directly behind her brother and felt helpless but, as more orcs appeared, Cwenhild somehow urged her horse into what little space there was and it reared up to bring its front hooves down on the one that held Miraina’s leg.

Both the guards ahead and behind dismounted quickly, swords drawn; more guards, and a couple of princes, were with them almost immediately, carrying both swords and more torches. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. Only then did Lothíriel realise that Cwenhild was slumped in her saddle; when she had urged her horse to rear up to attack she had hit her head on the low roof.

It was difficult to assess Cwenhild’s injury by torchlight. One of the guards got up behind her and, moving through the rest of the main party, made haste to the daylight that was only a few minutes ride away.

By the time Lothíriel emerged into a narrow gorge, lit by the sun directly overhead, there appeared to be half an army of mounted Rohirrim waiting for them. At first it seemed as if everyone was milling around, and she had trouble working out what was happening, but then the familiar figure of Éothain approached with Father.

“Princess Lothíriel,” he said. “I can only apologise for the attack. Éomer King will doubtless make me wish I had never been born for not preventing it. He had expected to be here, but went to Aldburg and must have been delayed.

“The Royal Guard,” he indicated the Riders, “will mainly accompany your party to the home of my law-parents. Some will remain and ensure the Path is cleared and safe. I am taking Cwenhild ahead myself. Not only because she is my wife’s sister but also because I have the fastest mount, and the sooner the healer sees her the better.”

“I… how is she?” Lothíriel asked.

“We have put a patch on the bleeding, it may well need stitches. She is aware when we talk to her, but confused.” He bowed his head slightly then said, “I will see you when you arrive at the hold.” Adding, as if he had just remembered it, “My Lady Princess,” he turned his horse and hurried to gather Cwenhild up and set off.

The main party moved more slowly out of the gorge and then regrouped. There were the family, three servants, and their escort of twelve Swan knights, and now it became clear that they had been joined not by half an army, but by a further eight Riders, as well as the four who had ridden through the Path with them. Six others had gone in through the gorge to check that there were no more orcs.

Communication was more difficult than expected, with no Éothain and no Cwenhild (no Éomer either… Lothíriel had rather expected that he would be there to meet her). The senior members of the Royal Guard spoke some Westron, but Lothíriel was the only member of the contingent from Dol Amroth who spoke any Rohirric at all. However, eventually refreshments were taken, everyone took their places in the expanded company, and they began to ride through the country that would become Lothíriel’s home.

One of the senior members of Éomer’s Royal Guard rode beside Lothíriel and her father, and pointed out landmarks, but the only other things Lothíriel learnt from him was that he had fought in Éomer’s éored on the Pelennor and at The Black Gate, that he was honoured that Marshal Éomer, no, Éomer King, had asked him to be in the Royal Guard, and that he had expected the King to be with them, but he had gone to Aldburg and, when he had not returned, Éothain and the King’s advisors had decided the remaining Guard members should come for the Princess as arranged.

He cast no light on why Éomer had gone to Aldburg, but then Lothíriel had not really liked to ask. It must have been something important, she decided.

It was almost dusk when they approached a good-sized, solid, house surrounded by a defensive wall and outbuildings. Lothíriel knew, from conversations with Cwenhild, that the family were not noble, but were well regarded yeomen landowners. Cwenhild’s father, Cena, had been in Théoden King’s Royal Guard which is why Cwengyth, Cwenhild, and their brother, had lived in Edoras as children, returning to the hold only on the death of Cena’s father.

The Knights and Riders were soon making their way to the paddocks and outbuildings, and the family group approached the house, to be met outside the door by Éothain and a grey haired, serious looking, man who introduced himself as Cena and welcomed them to his home.

“How is Cwenhild?” Lothíriel asked.

“The healer is sitting with her,” Éothain answered. “She is asleep but he says he is not worried, and she should wake in the morning, but will need to remain in her bed for another three days at least.”

“Valar be praised!” Lothíriel said. Then thought she probably should have thanked Béma, now, but she didn’t think he’d mind sharing her thanks with his kin.

Before she could ask him anything more, particularly if he was expecting Éomer to arrive soon, Cena’s wife Hild joined them and, in a mixture of Westron and Rohirric, insisted that Lothíriel, Miraina, the children, and the maids come with her as they would surely need to wash before they did anything else.

As Éothain hurried off to organise the overnight encampment for the Riders and Knights, and Cena beckoned the princes to join him, Lothíriel did as bidden. The interior of the house was clean and comfortable; there were a number of pieces of well-polished, beautifully carved, wooden furniture and the walls were half panelling, with the upper walls plain white enhanced by woven hangings. She remembered Éomer’s comments about his cousin organising the whitewashing of walls, and the cleaning of hangings, and thought she might have a better idea, now, of what the interior of Meduseld might be like.

As her hostess showed her to a room on the upper floor, she waved her hand at the door beside the one she opened for Lothíriel and her maid.

“Éomer King will sleep there,” Hild said.

At last… an opportunity to ask.

“My lady Hild, do you know what has kept Éomer King at Aldburg?”

…………………..

The six horsemen were just entering Harrowdale, and were still some five or six miles from their destination. It was now almost dark and they had slowed to a walk as the ground under-hoof was uneven. Éomer felt he was chomping at the bit every bit as much as Firefoot had been doing when they had, eventually, left Aldburg. He had sent a messenger to Edoras to let his advisors – and all of the guests from Mundburg if they had arrived – know that he was going straight to Harrowdale.

He had been so determined to meet his bride before she rode through the Paths of the Dead and yet he hadn’t even managed to be waiting for her when she first set foot in The Mark. He hoped she would forgive him. Actually, he thought, if Éowyn finds out that I will greet Lothíriel and her father having camped out and neither washed properly, nor changed my clothes, she will probably need to be begged for forgiveness too.

By the time they reached Cena’s hold it was easier to see as the moon had risen and the sky was clear. The fires and lanterns of the men camped around it made it easier to spot as well.

They were challenged and asked to identify themselves, as was only right, and then held up for what seemed like endless minutes whilst he was given a report of the attack on the Gondorian party within the Paths. He was glad that no-one was badly injured, but very annoyed that Éothain had not searched the way thoroughly. Although, he thought ruefully, at least Éothain had made sure the Royal Guard was in the right place even if this particular royal personage hadn’t been.

Finally he got to the house where both Cena and Hild welcomed him, looking worried, and he asked about Cwenhild out of politeness and listened, somewhat impatiently, to their answers.

All the time the main thought in Éomer’s mind was ‘Where is Lothíriel?’

Then he saw Imrahil approaching, alone. He looked very stern. He must be angry about the orcs not being apprehended before they could attack his family. Éomer didn’t blame him.

“My apologies for being delayed, my friend,” Éomer said. “Is Lothíriel all right? Has she retired early to her bed?”

Imrahil looked even more stern, and didn’t answer directly.

“A word, Éomer, if you would.” He gestured to a door.

There was no sign of Éothain, and Cena and Hild seemed to be avoiding his eyes. Feeling rather like he used to as a teenager, when Théoden called him into his private quarters to admonish him for some misbehaviour, Éomer followed Imrahil into the quiet room. Surely Imrahil was not so annoyed by the orc attack that he was going to try and cancel the wedding?

His first urge, once Imrahil did speak, was to laugh at the joke. Until he realised the prince was serious.

“Lothíriel has shut herself in her room and refuses to come out. She says she will only come out when we are all rested and ready to return to Dol Amroth, and has asked me to inform you that she no longer regards herself as betrothed to you.”

“What? I know that I should have been there to meet her, and I will certainly expect a very good reason from my adjutant to explain how you could have been attacked in that way… but to call off our wedding?”

“The orc attack was simply one of those things that happen. Lothíriel is more sensible than to be put off her intended course by something like that. No, it is your absence or, rather, the reason given her for it, that has upset her. I must admit I find it hard to believe of you, but she seems quite convinced.”

“But what else could I do?” Éomer was genuinely puzzled by this turn.

Imrahil gave him an odd look before replying, “Do you then, deny, that you were delayed by some jaunt with your mistress? Or, even worse, that you are considering marrying this woman instead of my daughter?”

…………………………..


Chapter 19 - I Have an Axe...

Imrahil knocked on the door to Lothíriel’s room. There was muffled sound from within, but the door didn’t open. He tried to open it but it was, clearly, bolted. He pursed his mouth and looked at Éomer and Hild.

“I don’t want to shout and make a fuss; at the moment her brothers are unaware of this… difficulty, and are socialising with Cena’s son and Éothain.”

Éomer still wanted to have a serious discussion with Éothain who, doubtless, would find out about this debacle soon enough. But just at the minute he wanted things sorted out. He wanted a bath, something to eat, and Lothíriel in his arms. And he still didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or shout loudly at someone over the way in which Lothíriel had got things so wrong.

“Let me,” he said.

He moved very close to the door and spoke, without shouting, but in a voice he knew carried well.

“Lothíriel. Open this door. I need to speak with you. I do not want to shout loudly enough to not only allow your brothers to listen in from downstairs, but also to disturb Cwenhild.”

He knew that was a rather unworthy thrust, but at the moment he would take any advantage he could.

After a pause, which he felt was plenty long enough for her to have crossed the room and open the door, he spoke again.

“Lothíriel, I have an axe, and Cena’s permission to simply break the door…”

He didn’t – but he knew he could, easily, have both within a couple of minutes.

Imrahil simply looked at him. But Éomer thought there was a glimmer of both admiration and amusement there. Hild’s grasp of the Common Tongue was not very good, which was doubtless part of the problem, but just at the moment Éomer didn’t care whether she understood or not.

This time there was the sound of the bolt being drawn and the door opened a little.

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He couldn’t see her through the crack in the door, but her voice wavered and he thought she might have been crying. It made him want to take her in his arms and comfort her, and to try to find someone other than himself to blame for upsetting her.

He was, however, a warrior and a man of action and so, whilst these thoughts flew through his mind, he inserted a foot into the space, put his shoulder to the door, and opened it.

He was right. She had been crying.

“GO AWAY!”

“Lothíriel,” her father said, “I do think you should listen to Éomer.”

“Short of putting my fingers in my ears, and singing loudly, it looks as if I have no choice!”

This spark of ‘his’ Lothíriel, despite her reddened eyes, made Éomer want to smile, but he thought it best not to do so. He moved into the room, followed by Imrahil and Hild, and nodded to their hostess to close the door.

Lothíriel stood her ground but refused to look at him.

He wanted to just yell at her “Look – this is what I was doing and why I was late,” but he had a feeling it might not be the best approach. He used, instead, the tone of voice he used with a frightened filly; calm but firm.

“Your father has told me what you have accused me of doing when I should have met you before you passed through The Paths under the mountain, and I can only say it is very, very, far from the truth. Imrahil tells me that Hild told you I had gone with my mistress to see her father. Lothíriel – will you tell me exactly what she said to you. Please?”

This time her head did come up and she glanced at him. He hoped what she saw convinced her that he really did care. She looked back at her hands, clasped together, and when she spoke her voice was flat.

“Lady Hild told me you had gone to Aldburgh with the Lady… Osdryth.”

Éomer nodded. So far he couldn’t see what the problem was.

“She said the two of you went together – to see her father.”

Lothíriel said that last bit in a rather accusing tone – he realised, now, where the possibility of his marriage to someone else had come from. Éomer himself had told her “it is our tradition in The Mark that a man and a woman who wish to wed go together to ask for the blessings of both families.”

It was a long way from the reality of the visit, though. And he still couldn’t understand why she would think he would want to marry Osdryth – or have her as a mistress for that matter.

“But – it was Osdryth,” he said out loud.

Lothíriel didn’t look convinced.

“You know… Osdryth,” he said again.

“No,” she said, “I do not know. Clearly you kept all mention of your mistress out of your letters.”

“But… why do you think Osdryth is my mistress?”

“Hild said she was. I asked ‘who is Lady Osdryth?’ And Hild said that Lady Osdryth had lived with you at Meduseld since Éowyn left, that she had moved there to be… something. She used a word I didn’t know. I told her I didn’t know it and she said clearly, in Westron, ‘Mistress’. So you cannot deny it.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. Imrahil and Hild (on whom much of the conversation had been lost, being in the aforementioned Westron) both looked at him in surprise. Lothíriel looked as if she might hit him. That was certainly better than her sitting crying.

“Hild,” Éomer said in Rohirric, turning to their hostess, “what did you actually say to my betrothed when she asked you where I was?”

Using the same tongue, she replied “I said you had gone with Lady Osdryth to see her father. But Princess Lothíriel didn’t seem to recognise the name and asked me who Lady Osdryth was.”

Then Hild looked at him as she used to when she caught him up to mischief as a boy. “Surely you told her that Osdryth was living at Meduseld?”

He thought he had.

“So I told her Osdryth was your hlæfdige since Éowyn left.”

“Hild – did Princess Lothíriel understand hlæfdige?”

He risked a glance at Lothíriel; he was sure that she was listening, and Imrahil would just have to cope.

“No… Cwenhild cannot have given her that word. Or in all the upset the Princess Lothíriel might have forgotten,” she added, as if defending her daughter from any criticism.

“So how did you explain?”

“I remembered enough of the Common Tongue to give her the word – but for some reason she seemed shocked.”

He was almost there now – he could feel and touch the answer – but he needed Hild to tell him.

“What Westron word did you use?”

This time Hild answered in that language. “Mistress.”

“Oh, Hild!” He continued in Rohirric. “In the Common Tongue ‘mistress’ can mean a woman who is kept by a man only for him to lie with her, without marriage, or outside his marriage! The word for hlæfdige is ‘chatelaine’.”

Hild, rather than looking guilty or worried, burst out laughing.

‘Like the mother, so the daughters,’ Éomer thought ruefully.

Imrahil had clearly got the gist from that last word, and Lothíriel looked… actually she looked upset, guilty, relieved, annoyed – he really wasn’t sure what she looked.

“So who is this woman that she is your chatelaine? And why would you put taking her to your old home ahead of coming to meet me?”

Actually, Éomer decided, angry might just have the edge. He was sure he had told her.

“She is my cousin. I am sure I told you my cousin – my father-sister-daughter who is a widow since her husband fell in Théoden King’s guard…” He was losing the point a bit, he realised. He rallied and began again. “Éowyn said she had told you our older cousin was coming to be the mistress of the household for me,” he finished slightly accusingly.

Lothíriel almost wailed, “She never told me her name Neither of you did!”

He felt a bit guilty now – but best to answer her last question.

“And how could I let her travel to Aldburg alone, or just take her there and then leave, when she had been called to my uncle Osulf’s sickbed?”

………………..

Lothíriel felt terrible. She had felt terrible before – but angry as well. Now she felt terrible and guilty. If only Éomer had just taken his cousin home (and why on earth hadn’t either he or Éowyn ever mentioned her name?), and then thoughtlessly stayed too long, she could have kept feeling angry. Actually she felt terrible, and guilty, and untidy, and hungry. And Father looked as if he was going to tell her off.

But before he got the chance Éomer stepped forward, gathered her into his arms, and held her. She could feel his cheek resting on the top of her head, and his tunic was crumpled against her own cheek, and he smelt of horses and sweat, and so must she and… But it didn’t matter. He was murmuring that he was sorry, although she wasn’t sure what for, and she was saying that she was, too. They might have stood like that for ages, Father and Hild forgotten, but Éomer’s stomach grumbled, and hers followed suit.

“Wash,” said Hild, looking at both of them. “Your maid is in the kitchen; I will send her up.” This to Lothíriel. “You can eat together.”

She somehow managed to chase both Father and Éomer out of the room, then turned back.

“Mistress!” she said in Westron. “Oh dear!” she added in Rohirric, laughed again, and was gone.

Lothíriel found herself laughing, too. Cwenhild and Cwengyth were very like their mother.

……………………

By the time Éomer had eaten, and had had a chance to speak alone to Éothain, the urge to shout very loudly at his friend and blame him for everything that had gone wrong had worn off somewhat. He was certainly not happy about the orcs. But he had to admit that, even had he been there himself, he would not have expected orcs to have entered the Paths of the Dead at all; there had been no sign of them doing so before. They must be more careful about messengers going through only one or two at a time in future.

He decided to tell Éothain himself about the misunderstanding that had almost broken his betrothal and sent Lothíriel back to Gondor; Éothain would find out some other way otherwise – he always did. As expected Éothain found it as funny as his law-mother did. It hadn’t been funny at the time. Imrahil had taken some convincing to even let him try to speak to Lothíriel despite this actually being Éomer’s kingdom.

Now the household was quiet. Even the men camped outside had mostly settled for the night, although there would be guards. Probably twice as many as usually after the orc incident. He had taken off his boots and his tunic, and was standing at the window in just his breeches, needing to sleep but with his mind too awake to let him.

If it hadn’t been so quiet he might not have heard the gentle knock at his door.

‘Éothain,’ he thought, ‘or a servant…’ but he picked up his sword by instinct before saying “Come in.”

He almost dropped it when Lothíriel, in a long white nightgown with her hair down, entered and shut the door behind her.

“I came to say I’m sorry for being silly,” she said. “I was not really thinking straight.”

Éomer wasn’t sure where to start. Well, part of Éomer thought the best place to start would be her mouth and then just work his way down, but the more sensible part was more undecided. Having learnt from Éowyn, and others, over the years he plumped for the simplest reply.

“I’m sorry too. I should have been with Éothain, to welcome you to your new land, Mðdleófu.”

Then he found he had inadvertently distracted her.

“I really like the way you say that,” she said, “it makes me go all mushy inside.”

“Mðdleófu” he said again, caressing each syllable with his tongue as if it was Lothíriel herself.

“Mmm…” She looked slightly flushed and took a step nearer.

Éomer’s more sensible part took over again.

“You really shouldn’t be here. What would your father say?”

“I won’t tell him if you won’t. This is the last room on the corridor, and mine is next to it… I don’t think anyone will hear us talking. Anyway – what could he do? Insist on you marrying me?”

“Woman, you are a temptation!” he said.

She giggled. “Your, no our, language is more romantic, but I think I like ‘woman’ as well.”

“I had better stick to the Common Tongue right now, then,” he replied, “but I will certainly remember to use Rohirric in our bedroom.”

This time she blushed. The less sensible bit of Éomer definitely wanted to take over now.

“I wanted to talk, too,” she said.

‘Bother’ answered that less sensible part – which was beginning to settle in his breeches.

“I… I have learnt a lot from Cwenhild.”

‘Good’, thought Éomer, ‘that was the idea.’

“I, em, I was worried that you might think me ugly when you saw the scarring from my, um, burns… and it would be too late for we would be married. Cwenhild was kind because she didn’t laugh at me, or be shocked that I had scars and tell me that you would certainly not want to… um… lie with me.’

‘Praise Béma for Cwenhild – well, for Éothain and Cwengyth suggesting her!’ thought Éomer.

He was about to reassure her, even though he had never thought of her accident scarring her, but she was still talking.

“She made me show her, then said there wasn’t much scarring and, anyway, you doubtless had worse ones. And I pointed out to her that I wouldn’t know anything about that until we were married. Then she said it was a pity Princesses of Gondor, even if they were marrying someone from the Riddermark, didn’t go bundling.”

“Oh?” Just at the moment Éomer couldn’t think of anything more sensible to say as he considered the implication.

“Cwenhild said she and Sighard had no worries about their wedding night because there was little left that they didn’t know about each other. And I thought… well, I wanted to say ‘sorry’ to you alone anyway, and I thought if I came to see you now it would be a bit like that.”

She looked at his bare chest. “Um – you don’t mind me being here do you?”

Éomer could think of a couple of reasons why he ought to say she shouldn’t be here.

“Mðdleófu” he said, then paused and looked straight at her. She blushed and he grinned. “I won’t ask to see your scars – much though I might want to strip your nightgown off you.”

She was blushing even more now, but she didn’t lower her eyes from his.

“But if you come closer you can see that Cwenhild was right and I have scars of my own.”

She closed the gap between them and he schooled himself to simply stand as she put a finger out to the puckered white mark below his collar bone.

“Arrow,” he said. “Dunlendings raiding to steal cattle.”

Next she traced a line across the flesh near his nipple. He steeled himself not to respond, but the nipple itself was determined to stiffen, and her finger began to drift towards it as if drawn by a magnet.

“Éothain,” he said, which had the desired effect, and she stopped her exploration and looked into his face with surprise.

“Practice sword, not blunt enough. We were fifteen and adjusting to our new strength.”

She nodded. “Erchirion has a couple from such incidents, too.”

“I have some more,” Éomer offered. “I still bear the marks of a hoof on my backside, and a crescent moon shape on my knee from falling from the roof of the stable block when drunk at twenty.”

This time she smiled, but continued to look at his torso, before reaching out a hand to touch a ragged scar, a little above the waist of his breeches, which continued down below it.

“Orc,” he said between gritted teeth, desperately trying to will his cock to behave itself. “Shallow cut with a knife, but no healer so one of the men stitched it.”

The ‘desperate willing’ was not working. And even in the fairly dim lamplight he was sure Lothíriel had noticed.

“My lady princess,” he said, “I am beginning to think you are trying to seduce me! I could take my breeches off and give you a clearer look… at the rest of the scar, if you want.”

She smiled and then giggled.

“Perhaps it would be best to leave the rest of that one, and the other two you mentioned, until we really are wed. Unless…” she faltered but then continued. “Unless you were to take me to your bed now, so that I would have no fears at all on our wedding night?”

He took her into his arms at last, buried his hands in her hair, and kissed her. She wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him back.

Eventually he broke the kiss but kept his arms around her.

“Mðdleófu, oh woman… There is only one reason why I am saying no, even though you must know how much I want to sweep you up and carry you over there.” He indicated the bed, as yet untouched. “And that reason is nothing to do with honour, or your father and brothers, or any of those ‘proper’ things. Not even because our marriage bed will already be prepared with plenty of cushions.”

She laughed.

He brought a hand up to her face and held it so that he could look into her eyes. “I am saying no because I do not want to make love to you and then have to sleep in separate beds. I want to make love to you, sleep holding you, and wake up looking at you.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Better even than Alphros promising to save me from all the orcs in the world when he grows up.”

She brought her own hand up to his cheek, then tilted her head slightly and said, “Perhaps I should go back to my room. But it has worked, you know.”

“What has worked?”

“I know you truly have forgiven me for being so silly. And I’m really not worried about our wedding night now at all.”

She paused, but made no effort to move away from him.

“Miraina told me to eat plenty the evening before our wedding because I will probably be too nervous to eat much on the day. Now I think that although I might be nervous about our vows, in case I say something wrong, I won’t be nervous at all after that. Isn’t that good?”

It was. He decided to watch to see whether she really did eat properly at the wedding feast, though.

She lifted her face to be kissed again, he obliged, and then she was gone.

Éomer peeled off his breeches, lay on the bed, and thought ruefully that with any luck it might be the last night for some time where his own right hand would help him sleep.

……………………………

hlæfdige - mistress of the house, mistress over servants, chatelaine.
Mðdleófu - beloved


Chapter 20 - Baths, Vows... and Bedding.

The sun shone, over all the Riddermark, much to the relief of the bards who would record this royal wedding day. Edoras was packed with visitors from all over the country and from further afield; there was even a dwarf and three elves (the sons of Elrond, as well as Legolas, had decided to meet with their brother and sister at this social event). Messengers had been sent out to tell towns and villages that today was to be a day of celebration – after such a good harvest Éomer King had ensured there would be ale and mead for all.

It was usual for the bride and groom to each spend their last night before the wedding in the house of their parents but, clearly, this was not possible. Lothíriel had suggested she could sleep in one of the tents, amongst Father’s guard, but no-one seemed to take her seriously.

Oddly enough it had been the Lady Osdryth, a woman of about forty with a look of Éowyn about her, who had solved the problem. Her father had recovered and she had returned to the house in Edoras where she had lived with her husband. Éomer, she said, would sleep under >her roof and Lothíriel and her family could sleep in Meduseld as they had done for the past seven nights. This would make it easier for the housekeeping staff, too, as they could ensure the King’s bedroom was prepared for his wedding night the day before and leave them less work on the day itself.

Also, she said, she would do her best to make sure her cousin was not too badly hung-over by the appointed hour for the ceremony. There was a very good reason why no Rohir made their wedding vows until at least an hour after mid-day unless in dire circumstances.

Lothíriel was so busy for much of the morning that she had no time for nerves. Miraina had arrived, not long after a maid brought breakfast, and expressed pleasure and surprise at the amount Lothíriel had eaten. No sooner had she eaten than her maid arrived to see to her bath, and the washing of her hair, and she was no sooner out of the bath than her room was filled with women. Friendly, smiling, chattering women.

Miraina, Cwenhild (now recovered, although she would have an interesting scar of her own), Cwengyth, Éowyn, and Queen Arwen arrived together ‘to prepare the bride’; which required wine, cakes, and a lot of laughter. Lothíriel was pleased that the three Rohirric members of the group didn’t mention her misunderstanding at Cena’s hold, even though all three had found it very funny. She really didn’t want her sister-in-law, or the wonderfully serene Queen of Gondor, to know. And none of them knew, nor would they, of that intimate visit to Éomer’s bedroom in the aftermath.

They helped her into her wedding gown. It seemed as if the first three months after her betrothal had involved little more than discussions about what this should be like. ‘Not Dol Amroth blue, even though it is beautiful – you will need to wear the dress as Queen of the Mark in the future…’ ‘You need to stand out from the crowds. But not all white, for the people of Rohan associate that with Éowyn’. ‘Something you can breathe in,’ ‘Something that will take away Éomer’s breath… and that he can easily get you out of when the time comes!’ That last advice from Cwengyth in a letter.

Lothíriel hoped that they had achieved that latter along with all those other suggestions. Queen Arwen had, in the end, come up with the best ideas and the dress owed much to her. The bride now wore a bliaut (over-dress) of a shot cream silk; the iridescent fabric reminded her of the sea and the inside of shells. Green ribbons laced the sides and bound the arms down to the elbows, and the front was split up to hip level to reveal the under-dress of the same soft, fine, green fabric that, encrusted with pearls to represent Dol Amroth, had been used to fashion her girdle. The neck of the underdress was edged with more pearls, and it had long, tight-fitting, sleeves fastened from elbow to wrist with pearl buttons.

She would show up amongst the darker colours, there was enough green on view to show her loyalty to her new country, the soft unstiffened fabrics meant that she could easily breathe – and no-one could doubt that, wearing it, she would take Éomer’s breath away. Especially with her hair dressed by the Queen of Gondor. Arwen had just finished plaiting it, and working in more pearls, but no circlet today.

Miraina fastened a single large pearl on a gold chain around Lothíriel’s neck – a memento of her scarce remembered mother – and Éowyn added the finishing touch of golden earrings in the shape of running horses, these a memento of that other mother who was not at this wedding.

There was a knock on the door and Father entered. “It is time, Your Majesty, ladies. I would have a few moments with my daughter.”

“You look perfect,” he told her. “I would ask if you are happy but I see there is no need. Are you nervous?

“No. Well, just a little in case I get my words wrong. There are a lot of people out there and it would be awful if I mispronounced a word so that I ended up saying something silly.”

She sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to ask if she was nervous about her wedding night – it wasn’t something you could discuss with your father! She forestalled him just in case. “But I am really looking forward to the feast, the dancing and all the rest. I think it will be much more fun than the wedding of King Elessar and Queen Arwen, to be honest.”

He looked relieved. “I think you may be right. It promises to be a most exuberant affair. I am so happy that the thought does not unnerve you.”

Another knock, she took his arm, and made her way to her wedding.

………………….

Osdryth woke the groom with herbal tea in case his head ached. It did. But not too badly, and not at all by the time he had eaten the breakfast she put in front of him. There had been a good deal of quaffing the night before, but Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Aragorn had counterbalanced Éothain and the bride’s brothers in the traditional campaign to get the groom, king or not, as drunk as possible; and one of the sons of Elrond had given him a draught to drink before he slept ‘to clear your head and settle the ale’. He must ask for more of that; it was pretty successful.

Then his morning mirrored that of his bride. A hot bath before a company of men (and a dwarf and three elves) arrived, with cakes and ale, to supervise the trimming of his hair and beard (Ah, laddie, you should have let it grow properly and I would have bound it and decorated it in a manner suitable for a king and bridegroom…), and the donning of his clothes.

Éothain handed him the newly made wedding cloak, embroidered with what seemed to be miles of gold thread and scores of tiny pearls that Imrahil had sent. He went to sling it over his shoulder, but Aragorn caught his eye and he put it on more carefully over the equally lavish surcoat. The soft black linen breeches had been Éowyn’s suggestion, so that he would not fade totally into the background, as most of the people would also wear green in honour of their king.

He was ready. The other males surrounded him and they began the walk to the steps of Meduseld, cheered by crowds all the way.

……………………………

At the top of the steps Lothíriel waited, surrounded by her family and her female friends. The men bunched briefly at the bottom because Éomer, now in the lead, stopped dead. The others had been right when they said she would take his breath away, it seemed.

The crowds cheered as he almost ran up the long stairs to her; a groom anxious to get on with marrying was a good thing. And then he was there, standing facing her, the men (and three elves and a dwarf, of course!) fell back behind him, those who had surrounded Lothíriel did likewise at her side of the terrace, and a hush fell.

Éomer looked at her, held her gaze and, in the language of his people, asked loudly and clearly, not in an intimate whisper as she might have expected, “Are you sure of this?”

She took his cue and answered just as clearly. “Yes.”

He smiled and then, taking both her hands in his, spoke out the words of his vows.

“I, Éomer Éomund’s son, of the House of Éorl, give myself as your husband. I will protect you, provide for you, join my body with yours alone, and be the father of your children.”

Hoping she had all the words right, Lothíriel spoke clearly, too.

“I, Lothíriel, Imrahil’s daughter, of the House of Dol Amroth, give myself as your wife. I will nourish you, provide for you, join my body with yours alone, and be the mother of your children.”

Éomer bent his head to kiss her, his arms went around her, and hers around him, and as the kiss went on so, from all around Edoras, the cheering rang out.

And that was it. No fuss, no long speeches; this was the way of the Rohirrim, and they were married.

The tiny part of Lothíriel that was not entirely caught up in the pleasure of that long, long, kiss thought all those who had married in Gondor might envy her this simplicity… and the pleasure of this very public, unrestrained, evidence of why they were marrying.

Then Éomer straightened, and stepped back a little, and within seconds the crowd was silent again, waiting. Two pages appeared and the first held out the crown of Rohan to Éomer who, almost nonchalantly, placed it on his own head before turning to Lothíriel again.

His voice rang out once more.

“I Éomer, King of the Riddermark, am sworn to protect and provide for my people, to rule wisely and hold their needs as equal to my own. I now ask Lothíriel, my wife, if she is willing to become the Queen. To be as a mother to my people, loving them, giving wise counsel, and ruling in my place should I be called away.”

And so the first time she was called Éomer’s wife was to be asked if she would also be his queen. An equally solemn and binding vow.

“I am willing,” she said. “Your people will be my people and I will love them as I do their king.”

The second page handed a lighter, smaller, crown to Éomer, who took it and placed it into Lothíriel’s hands. Just as he accepted the kingship at his coronation by placing the crown on his own head, now she would become queen. She took the crown, pleased that her hands didn’t shake, and put it on, hoping she was setting it straight without a mirror!

“Perfect,” Éomer said quietly. “Your hair is just the right shape to hold it in place, too.”

“Arwen,” she replied, and then stood beside her husband as the cheers went on and on.

……………………………

When he caught sight of Lothíriel, standing outside the great doors of Meduseld, Éomer knew why Imrahil had sent the pearls to add to the embroidery on his wedding cloak. She looked beautiful; a sea pearl herself, at first sight, with the green of The Mark ready to be revealed when she sheds the sea-maiden’s gown! I wonder, Éomer thought fleetingly, if the bards will put it quite like that?

Standing now, with the hand of his new wife and queen in his, Éomer said a silent ‘thank you’ to Béma, and to all his fellow members of the Valar, that after all the misunderstandings (mostly his, he would admit) they had finally reached this point.

“Let’s begin,” he said, and started the long walk down the steps between their friends, families, and all the members of the Court of the Riddermark. By the time they reached the lower steps they were surrounded by the ordinary people of the city, and two of Éomer’s Royal Guard moved into place ahead of them; not to stop the crowd getting close, but to clear a path.

To the cheers of the crowd they made their way through packed streets to the market place, and then back up to Meduseld, by way of the Royal Stables which they entered and, doubtless to the amusement of some of the Gondorian members of the party, where Éomer announced loudly to the horses that this was his bride and the Queen of the Riddermark.

A stable boy produced two apples; one for Firefoot and one for Lothíriel’s horse. Both took them very daintily; a good thing, as it would have been a shame to add further adornment to their wedding finery with trails of horse slobber. He told Lothíriel this, which made her giggle, as they left to walk between an honour guard of the stable staff.

He had a feeling that any possible doubts the people of Edoras might have about their king marrying a Gondorian princess, rather than a lady of Rohan, would be forgotten due to her obvious pleasure in their horses and their king! That and, he thought as they paused again in their progress, her willingness to accept all sorts of small tokens from those who pressed them onto her… Fortunately, her father, brothers, and nephew were close behind and they willingly carried everything she passed on to them; flowers, a couple of rag dolls, carved horses, horseshoes, and spoons, even a full-sized horseshoe threaded through with ribbon. Éomer wondered if she realised that almost all of them were fertility symbols.

Eventually they entered through the great doors of Meduseld, leaving the crowds to continue celebrating outside. Now they were back to being the bride and groom and their crowns were returned to the two pages. Inside a great feast had been laid out and Éomer led his wife (His wife!) to the top table, with others sitting wherever they wished.

It was a lot more informal than the wedding feast for Éowyn and her husband, in Mundburg, but none the worse for that, he felt. Better, in fact. He hoped the Gondorian visitors would agree but, to be honest, it didn’t bother him too much if they didn’t… as long as Lothíriel was happy.

A glance at her was enough to confirm that she was definitely happy; and she was eating, as she had said she would. Osdryth had certainly ensured that the spread was plentiful and, although it may have been a little less refined than the one Arwen had arranged for Éowyn’s wedding, there was freshly smoked trout, then tender beef, colourful vegetables, and the sweet remove, when it was placed in front of them, included bright fruits piled in swan-shaped pastry cases. All in all, Éomer felt, The Mark had shown itself able to hold a good feast.

There were toasts, of course; every so often someone would stand, bang their knife handle on the table to call for quiet, and make a speech, long or short as they would, to drink the health of Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen. The first person to do this was Aragorn, and Lothíriel looked startled at this first use of her name and title. Éomer reached beneath the table and took her hand.

Even Legolas stood and made a short, but elegant, toast – his voice, usually softly spoken, carried to every corner and Éomer remembered being told that, at home, he was a commander.

Eventually most people seemed to have eaten their fill and, as the tables were cleared, they were pushed back to make a space for dancing. Cwenhild had made sure Lothíriel knew the steps to the most common Rohirric dances and she positively skipped as Éomer led her out onto the floor.

“I am having such a lovely day,” she said to him, “I really don’t want it to end.”

“I have to tell you, Mðdleófu, that I have every intention of us leaving well before the dancing is over and all the ale and wine are finished.”

She blushed.

As the evening continued Éomer began to worry that she would be too tired to do anything but sleep by the time they reached their bedroom. She danced with her father, her brothers, Aragorn, Elrohir (or possibly Elladan), Legolas, Éothain… and one or two Riders who were brave enough to ask.

Finally, he caught her hand and said “I am beginning to wonder if you are trying to avoid your wedding night by dancing until sunrise.”

“No! Oh no! Is it time do you think?”

“The moon is high in the sky, Mðdleófu, I think it is time. And you know we cannot just sneak out.”

“I know. But there are much more embarrassing traditions in some parts of Gondor.”

Éomer gestured to one of the pages, and sent him to speak to the leader of the musicians. The dancing stopped.

“We hope you will all enjoy yourselves until the sky is light – drink on, dance on – but my wife and I will leave you to your pleasures, and seek ours elsewhere.”

He could see Aragorn grin, he had been to Rohirric weddings in the past and had expected such an announcement, whereas Lothíriel’s menfolk looked a little discomforted – but so be it. As Éomer led his wife towards the doors to the royal apartments the entire assembly stood to cheer, and clap them out, and then as many as could followed.

Éomer glanced down at Lothíriel again as he led her through the passageway; she was blushing but still smiling. Somehow Éothain and Erkenbrand had got to the door of the bedroom ahead of them, and swung it open, but then prevented anyone following them in. The doors closed firmly behind them, and Éomer slipped the bolt, but it took a few minutes before the sound of clapping and cheering died down.

…………….

Lothíriel had thought she might be embarrassed or uncertain once they were finally alone. But instead she found her eyes drawn to the room. It was large and, unlike the great hall that was wood panelled all around, this had panelling only up to Éomer’s shoulder level. What could be seen of the walls above were white, where they showed between tapestries depicting hills, horses and, on one she had sent from home, blue sea and ships. There was a window, now covered with heavy green curtains, a fire burning in the hearth beside which were two comfortable looking chairs and a small table, and there were two more doors.

Éomer was watching her. “Bathing room and privy closet,” he nodded at one door, “wardrobe,” he nodded at the other. “You will find your clothes already in the chests and presses in there, alongside mine.” He smiled. “Osdryth banished my armour, and its stand, into there as well for she said it might scare you if you woke in the night and thought it a man. I said I would happily defend you from it, but still it was banished… for now!” he finished.

Finally Lothíriel let her gaze turn to the bed. It was very big. The base and the pillars were beautifully carved with horse motifs; the bed hangings were thick dark green fabric embroidered with white horses. And the whole bed was piled high with cushions! Blue cushions with swans on them; green cushions embroidered with more white horses; blue ones with horses and green ones with swans – and some in waves of blue and green with silver thread that surely represented the sea!

She burst out laughing.

Any tension she might have felt dissipated. She couldn’t resist; she threw herself down into the middle of the cushion mountain.

Now Éomer laughed as well and threw himself onto the great bed beside her. It was but the work of a moment for him to take her in his arms, and kiss her, and Lothíriel lost herself in the sheer pleasure of it.

It was only when Éomer lifted his mouth from the hollow of her neck that she realised she was lying on her back amongst most of the cushions, some having fallen onto the floor, and Éomer was lying partly beside her and partly over her, with a hand cupping one of her breasts.

“I had thought,” he said, sounding slightly breathless, “to take the pins from your hair, then slowly remove your shell of pearl to reveal the green of Rohan. I planned to slip that off you and coax you to the bed… Not that I am objecting to you throwing yourself whole heartedly onto it. But perhaps it might be better if we undress before our wedding clothes become too badly crumpled.”

Lothíriel found that she wanted to do that very much. Not that, just now, she cared much about the clothes. She wanted to press herself against his bare chest, as she had at Cena’s Hold, trace that interesting scar down further than she had when he still wore his breeches, get to see and touch his pintel. Cwenhild had taught her that word, but said it might be good to know the ‘usual’ Rohirric words for that as well – if Éomer spoke of his hamor or his cocc in bed he probably didn’t mean a hammer or a cockerel! Cwenhild had also told her no man of The Mark ever complained about his wife being too forward…

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please!”

Now she began to unfasten his surcoat and, as first her bliaut and then her underdress pooled at her feet, he quickly demonstrated that her wedding gown fulfilled Cwengyth’s criteria and was easy for him to remove.

Somewhere along the way he had unpinned her hair, they had shed their shoes, and the only clothing left in place were his breeches. She began to trace the scar she had found before and he breathed in with a slight hiss. Then his hand stroked down her naked back to her behind.

He whispered in her ear, now in Rohirric as he had promised, “I’ll show you my scars if you show me yours…!”

“Éomer!” She began to laugh again.

He picked her up, as if she weighed no more than Alphros, and carried her back to the bed, dropping her amongst the cushions, and following her down.

He wriggled out of his breeches and she was glad that Cwenhild had pointed out that even though a hamor might look worryingly large, until you got used to it, they were definitely smaller than babies and they used the same passage.

“Mðdleófu… oh woman…” he said, “I love you when you laugh.”

He paused. “I love you at all times, really, but when you laugh I want to…”

It was somewhere between a tickle and a caress – then it became only a caress – a caress that slowly took in all her body and she forgot about scars, and about everything else but Éomer’s hands and mouth, and his skin beneath her own hands and mouth, the weight of his body as she pulled him over her without conscious thought, and the giving and taking of pleasure.

…………………….

The fire was little more than embers, but the night wasn’t cold, and Éomer had no wish to leave his bed. Their bed. His wife was asleep in his arms. He wanted to wake her and make love to her again but, good as their first joining had been, she was probably a little sore. Thank Béma, he thought, for a willing, enthusiastic wife; and for Cwenhild, who must surely have made sure she was not scared of the idea of intercourse as Aragorn had warned him, some months ago, Gondorian girls often were.

He moved his hand, just a little, so that it lay on her stomach. She wriggled, murmured his name sleepily, them brought her hand to his and moved it down her abdomen towards the still damp patch of curls…

The sun was rising before they slept again.

…………………….

And so the story ends. Although beset by many misunderstandings the King of the Riddermark has found his queen. Or should we say the Queen of the Riddermark has found her king?

And of course, gentle reader, we know that, for them, this is not the end of the story, but only the beginning – but from here they will travel the path of their lives without us.

…………………….



The End.


Thank you everyone who has read - and to the wonderful person who took time to comment - comments are like chocolate, but better for my figure!
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