Cushions

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!”