Cushions

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….

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