Cushions

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.”

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