Éomer was finding it difficult to adjust to the new wave of optimism in the air. His whole life had been dominated by war and despair. He could sense that around him there was renewed hope, if only he could feel it for himself. His eyes rested lovingly on Éowyn, her long blonde hair cascading freely behind her, standing before him in her very best white and silver gown, one which had been given to her by her new friend, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, only daughter of Prince Imrahil, and she glowed with happiness.
He had received a visit from Lord Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, shortly after his return to Minas Tirith, asking for the King’s blessing for his marriage to Éowyn. It was a mere formality, his delight at Éowyn’s evident happiness was matched by the esteem in which Faramir was held by those of his new companions in arms he trusted the most, Aragorn and Prince Imrahil. Imrahil and Éomer had become particularly close after their shared exploits on the Pelennor Fields in the battle for Minas Tirith. That Faramir was Prince Imrahil’s nephew, the son of Imrahil’s sister, was a consolation which made bearable the prospect of losing his sister from his side so soon into his unsought-for Kingship.
The horror of the day that made him King still weighed upon him. The Pelennor Fields which encircled the huge outcrop on which Minas Tirith was built had witnessed terrible slaughter, and yet also deeds of greatness. At the moment the Riders of Rohan had descended on the army of Haradrim and Southrons besieging the city, the enemy had broken through the great Gate of Minas Tirith. The charge of the Rohirrim routed the Haradrim cavalry, bringing hope to the besieged city at a crucial point. Victory had seemed certain, but their success brought an even deadlier foe upon them. The chief of the nine Ring-wraiths, Sauron’s foremost servant, the Witch-king of Angmar riding a flying fellbeast bore down on the Riders from the air, mortally wounding King Théoden, Éomer and Éowyn’s beloved uncle, and their attack had faltered.
Unbeknownst to both her brother and her uncle, Éowyn had joined the Rohirric forces in disguise to fight and die with those she loved most. Alone she faced down the dreaded Ring-wraith and held her ground defending her dying King against that which few men could withstand. Yet she had not been alone. Hidden with her had been Frodo’s young cousin, Meriadoc of the Shire. No man was destined to defeat the great Witch-king, such had been prophesied, but through the love and courage of one woman and a hobbit his doom was decided.
Though the loss of his most senior commander was a serious blow to Sauron, for Rohan it had been a more costly victory. Of the 6,000 Riders of Rohan that had torn through the ranks of orcs and men besieging the City, a third had been lost and even more wounded. Proclaimed dead on the battlefield as she lay stricken with paralysis caused by the dark spirit she had destroyed, Éowyn too would have joined her uncle Théoden in the halls of their ancestors had Prince Imrahil not realised she still breathed. Taken barely alive to the main House of Healing in the City, only her love for her brother had brought her back from the verge of death, such had been the despair in her soul caused by the evil of the Ring-wraith.
It was there that she met both Faramir, himself recovering from injury, and his cousin, Lothíriel, the Lady of Dol Amroth. On the day of the Battle of Minas Tirith, Lothíriel and her band of famed female healers were already waiting to come to the city’s aid on a ship moored in a secluded bay close to Pelargir, the second major port city of Gondor, ready to bring aid to her father and brothers in Minas Tirith or flee to Dol Amroth to take over its defence had the city fallen. As soon as news of the overwhelming victory had reached her by the swiftest of messengers, Lothíriel had set sail under armed guard with their renowned herbal supplies to be there for the countless casualties before nightfall.
She had taken over the management of the Healing Houses almost as soon as she arrived. Faramir told Éowyn of the almighty row Lothíriel had had with the Warden of the Houses of Healing that was going very badly for the older man until Lord Aragorn and her father intervened. He told her that he was sure that it was the sound of Lothíriel shouting obscenities at the man that finally roused him out of his unconsciousness, at which point he became the Steward of Gondor and he immediately appointed her as Warden.
Lothíriel sounded terrifying to Éomer and he said as much. Éowyn laughed gaily and told him that Lothíriel was not like that at all, although she had observed that few Gondorians seemed comfortable around her new friend and future cousin. Exactly, thought Éomer to himself – terrifying. Éowyn looked curiously at her brother.
‘Doubt not, brother, that many lives were saved, as well as limbs from the bone-cutters, because Lothíriel and her healers from Dol Amroth took over. The male healers of Minas Tirith were all old and set in their ways, which meant hacking off any slightly injured limb, which was the reason for the row she had with the old Warden. There was most certainly a resentment that Lothíriel’s healers were far better trained… and more beautiful… than those of Minas Tirith,’ she said coyly.
Éomer’s eyes lit up as his thoughts turned to the dark chestnut-haired beauty he had seen, suddenly realising she must be one of the Amrothian healers. He wondered if his sister had already come across that particular lady.
‘Would you know of one who speaks Rohirrim, Éowyn? There was one I met the day after the battle whom I should thank for her care of our men, if you think Lady Lothíriel wouldn’t mind introducing me to her?’
‘You can ask her that yourself tonight, my dearest brother. Lothíriel has organised an informal supper party at the Palace for both of us to meet the rest of the family and to celebrate my as yet unofficial engagement to Faramir,’ she replied enthusiastically.
Éomer at last had something to smile about and his spirits lifted at the prospect of finding the woman whose features still dominated his waking moments and unconscious thoughts. Lothíriel still sounded like an old battle axe to Éomer but now he had a reason to meet her, he allowed himself to be spruced up as best his sister could persuade her usually unconcerned brother.
He escorted his impatient sister the short walk up the hill to the Citadel where they were shown into a beautifully ornate dining room in the Steward’s quarters, tastefully decorated in rich tapestries with a round table of sixteen places in its centre. The eight surviving members of the Fellowship of the Ring were already there: Aragorn the new King-elect of Gondor; the great wizard Mithrandir or Gandalf as he had been better known; Gimli the Dwarf; Legolas the son of the Elven King Thranduil of Greenwood; and the four hobbits from The Shire: Frodo, the Ring-bearer; Sam, his former gardener and most faithful companion; and Frodo’s two young cousins, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took, more playfully known as Merry and Pippin.
Of the nine who had set out on the quest to destroy Sauron’s ring, the Ring of Power, only Boromir was not present. He had been the eldest son of the late Steward of Gondor, Denethor, and he had fallen defending Merry and Pippin, the two youngest hobbits, only months before. Faramir was his younger brother and had fought many of his own battles in the war. It was Faramir who now left Aragorn’s side to welcome his future wife and her brother.
The sound of voices approaching from the entrance on the opposite side of the room alerted all to the arrival of the final group, the four male members of the princely family of Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil’s tall, noble figure appeared first. Known as Imrahil the Fair and with good reason as few men matched him in looks, he had the jet-black hair and blue grey eyes of his people, although the rumoured Elven blood of his House was most evident in his bearing, elegance and grace. His youngest son, Amrothos, followed and resembled his father most remarkably, although smaller in build and more playful in character. Then came his first two sons, who were very different from each other and quite different from their father. The eldest Elphir had the same jet-black hair and blue grey eyes of his father and was slightly taller than Amrothos, less strikingly handsome but still pleasant. He had a serious look about him and lacked the fire that oozed from Amrothos. Erchirion, the middle son, who had entered with Elphir, was a surprise. His hair colour was light brown, with brown eyes and a flat, dull face compared to his father and brothers. He was not unattractive by any means but compared to the more obvious advantages of his siblings, he was clearly the odd one out and had a defensive air about him.
With introductions made and drinks served Imrahil invited all to sit down without Lothíriel, who had been called to assist a difficult birth somewhere close by in the city. Éomer made a silent plea that she would not come straight from the birth and would at least take the time to change her clothes, especially as he had seen that she was to be sitting in between himself and Faramir, with her eldest brother Elphir on his other side. The evening was looking distinctly less promising.
Éomer soon found himself engaged in boring conversation with Elphir, who was indeed as serious in his conversation as his demeanour had implied. Faramir was too far over an empty seat for Éomer to politely insert himself into the conversation there, besides, Faramir was happily involved in a lively three-way discussion with Aragorn and Éowyn. He politely reconciled himself to his fate.
Éomer was making such an effort to focus on Elphir’s words that he had not noticed a lithe figure slip into the chair beside him part way through the first course, until he heard a female voice saying thank you to one of the servants as he had poured her some wine. Startled he turned, and there she was, the woman who had been disturbing his waking thoughts with those mesmerising almond-shaped blue green eyes, sparkling under dark finely sculptured eyebrows, above high cheek bones, which contoured into a playful smile. His heart lurched as he realised she now had a name, the beautiful healer from the House of Healing.
Éowyn had risen from her seat to go over to make the introduction while her brother just stared, unable to hide his attraction. The lady smiled back reservedly, almost warily.
‘Éomer, may I introduce you to the Lady Lothíriel?’ she said proudly.
‘My Lady,’ he managed to say in his deep rich voice, bowing his head towards her.
‘Éomer King,’ replied the lady also bowing. ‘I must apologise for being so late,’ she continued.
‘Was the baby delivered safely?’ Éowyn asked. Lothíriel did not reply, she just smiled sadly as if to close the subject. Éowyn sensitively moved on and simply said, ‘We are so glad you are here.’
Lothíriel turned to Éomer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Especially you, no doubt, Sire, unless you have a particular interest in the laws of fishing or the riveting subject, to some, of the nocturnal habits of wild boars…’ she flashed him a knowing smile at which he laughed out loud.
‘My Lady, it is truly an honour to meet you at last, although we have met once before, if you remember, in the Houses of Healing outside of the city the day after the battle. I must thank you for your services to my men that day and since,’ he said sincerely, bowing his head in gratitude.
‘It was a small service to render to those far braver than myself who faced the enemy that day, Sire. It was an honour for me and my healers to offer what little we could. None of us would be alive were it not for their sacrifice,’ she answered in reverence.
‘The man in the tent. I have often wondered if he survived. I have witnessed too many deaths not to have doubted his recovery…’ he asked her gently, not wishing to reveal the real reason he had so often thought of that moment. Lothíriel’s eyes lit up and shone with a warmth which pierced Éomer’s very soul. He felt he was being drawn into this woman’s glow, enveloped by it; it was a strange and unusual feeling for him.
‘He did,’ she replied in awe. ‘He told me afterwards, when he was fully out of danger, that it had been you who had saved him, you who had given him the determination to survive. He had seen his brother and best friends killed; his own injuries were so brutal, he had lost the will to live. My words of encouragement were not enough, and then you came. His King came, knelt beside him and took his hand, and he felt such strength from you, it gave him hope. You gave him something to live for. As Lord Aragorn did with Faramir, when he called him back from the brink of death. I don’t think it is just Elven blood which gives this gift, it is the sign of a true King, as he is…’ She glanced over to Aragorn who looked up and smiled at her, she turned her head back to Éomer and looked frankly into his sapphire blue eyes and continued with sincerity, ‘…and you are, Éomer King.’
The feeling she had already inspired within him intensified; he could not speak, only gaze into those mesmerising eyes. He heard himself manage an emotional ‘I thank you’ and from that moment he was engrossed in her every word. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and gentle teasing, her mouth was both sensuous and playful, her laughter infectious and melodic; he found himself actively resisting the urge to kiss her. He forced himself to be more circumspect than he was feeling after registering the looks of unease from her brothers and her father, yet he found her conversation fascinating and well as entertaining.
They spoke about Rohan’s current economic situation in detail and touched upon ideas of how Dol Amroth could help. She seemed to know more about Rohan’s economy than he did. She revealed that she had been running Dol Amroth’s administration in the last six years to free up her brothers’ and father’s time for the war effort and as Rohan was an important trading partner, she had needed to understand its financial and economic situation.
So engrossed were the pair that it was with some difficulty that Faramir managed to insert himself into their conversation. ‘Lothi, I know you’ve been too busy caring for the wounded, which takes priority, but you will have time before she returns to Rohan to draw the portrait of Éowyn I asked for?’
‘Faramir,’ Éowyn interjected pleadingly, ‘Neither Lothi nor I have time for such frivolous things. I have no intention of sitting still for hours when I could be being productive – Lothíriel even more so!’
Lothíriel laughed kindly. ‘In truth, Éowyn, what Faramir knows that you do not is that it doesn’t take me long to produce a passable likeness…’
Faramir snorted derisorily but let his cousin continue. ‘…from memory, so I don’t need you to sit for me.’
‘Don’t let her fool you, Éowyn. Lothíriel’s skill at drawing is incomparable and all from memory.’ At that point, Faramir’s attention was drawn away by a question from across the table, leaving Lothíriel to turn once more to Éomer.
‘Is there anything you cannot do?’ he asked in wonderment.
‘Oh yes, there is a lot that I cannot do, but the thing that frustrates me the most is that I was never allowed to learn to ride horses,’ she confessed in a hushed whisper.
‘Then, my Lady, you must let me teach you,’ Éomer insisted, only too glad of an opportunity to meet her again and soon.
‘That is most kind, but a King should not waste his time teaching a novice. If you have a man to spare for such a menial task, I would gladly meet him in the paddock even as early as tomorrow morning,’ she replied enthusiastically. ‘Only please do not mention this to my family. They tend to be somewhat over-protective,’ she added quietly.
As the evening came to a close, Lothíriel rose from her chair to speak with the servants while Aragorn and Mithrandir came to take their leave of Éomer. Éomer rose to say farewell of the only two there taller than himself. Frodo and Sam were with them and all three towered over the hobbits. Still weak from his long ordeal Frodo left with Aragorn and the wizard, his ever-faithful Sam by his side, but Frodo’s young cousins, Merry and Pippin, remained behind and were in high spirits speaking animatedly with Gimli. Gimli’s most devoted friend, Legolas, suddenly laughed uncharacteristically loudly, his Elven ears picking up their conversation even from a distance. Heads turned. Gimli huffed and marched straight towards Lothíriel, who was speaking with Faramir and Éowyn. They were soon joined by Merry, while Pippin and Legolas eyed the party with amusement. Éomer moved closer.
‘Excuse me, my Lady,’ said Gimli addressing Lothíriel, ‘this pipsqueak tells me that you are teaching him to dance so he can join in the upcoming festivities. Is that true? I cannot see how a lady of your… of your… stature could possibly perform any of these dances with… well… with one only half your height.’
Lothíriel smiled with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Well, it depends how you perform the dance, Gimli. It is true, Merry and I have been practising and I have to say, he dances very well.’ Merry beamed with pride, while Gimli huffed and puffed a little more, hesitating at what to say next.
‘Would you also like to learn the courtly dances? I see no reason why any of you should not be included in the dancing and I could do with more dance partners’, she asked kindly.
‘Surely you would prefer to dance with the handsome men of Gondor, who would be only too happy to have the privilege of dancing with a lady of such beauty and grace as yourself,’ he answered in surprise.
A shadow crossed Lothíriel’s face and her tone changed from light teasing to one of sadness. ‘It takes a brave man in Gondor to ask me to dance with him, Gimli. I have learned not to expect that ‘honour’,’ she said with emphasis. ‘But as you, Merry and his kin have more than proved your courage, were I to have any of you as my dance partner, the privilege would be all mine,’ she added sincerely.
Legolas and Pippin joined the group. With his keen hearing, Legolas had heard the whole conversation, ‘And if the lady would be so kind as to also teach me the steps to the dances, I too would be honoured, as all of us here, to accompany you,’ Legolas interjected. Gimli harrumphed his agreement. Absorbed as he was with everything about this mesmerising woman, Éomer noticed with great curiosity the look Lothíriel gave Legolas, a silent communication of her gratitude, one he returned with compassion, the reason for which Éomer was anxious to comprehend.
‘So Lothi,’ said Amrothos, who had approached the group in time to overhear, ‘are you now opening a dance school as well as all your other little projects?’ Éomer registered a sharp undercurrent of sudden tension as Lothíriel gave her brother a decidedly hostile look.
‘What ‘little’ projects might you be referring to, Amrothos?’ she said coldly.
‘That’s enough, Lothíriel,’ Imrahil stepped in quickly, ‘We should all be getting back now. It has been a delightful evening and thank you for organising it so well.’ Lothíriel bowed her head in acknowledgement.
She turned back to Gimli, Merry, Pippin and Legolas and said, ‘I’m afraid I won’t have time to teach you all individually, but if you are serious, I am more than happy to organise some friends, who are all excellent dancers, to help me show you the steps. Should we say the day after tomorrow, early afternoon in the large room at the Cellondin Tavern by the fountain of Ellandrian?’
‘It would be an honour,’ said both Gimli and Legolas at the same time. Pippin and Merry bowed in agreement and they said their goodbyes.
Imrahil turned to his daughter and enquired suspiciously. ‘Which ‘friends’ would these be exactly, Lothíriel?’
Lothíriel faced her father with deliberation, ‘The only reliable friends I have in this city, Father, and ones who will not be judged ill by Dwarves, Elves and Halflings,’ she answered guardedly.
‘Lothíriel, you would be ill-advised….’ Her eyes flashed. ‘We will talk about this on the way back home,’ Imrahil tempered his words.
His instinct for danger honed by many years of war and intrigue, Éomer was sensitive to the change in atmosphere between the family members, noting both Elphir and Erchirion’s obvious discomfort. He recognised a second emotion in the maelstrom Lothíriel had inspired in him: an overwhelming urge to protect her, from what exactly he knew not but that it was there, he could not deny.
‘I am afraid, Father, that I must return briefly to the family I left before coming here. I will be back home as soon as I can,’ she replied sorrowfully.
‘I will escort you there and back,’ Imrahil said leaving no room for argument.
‘Thank you, Father, that is kind. I would appreciate that,’ she answered genuinely to Imrahil’s evident surprise and his face softened as he looked at his only daughter as she reached out a hand to take her father’s in her own. She squeezed it, ‘Let me just pick up my healing basket and I will meet you in the courtyard.’
Leaving Éowyn abruptly with Faramir, Éomer intercepted her before she joined her father to make arrangements for the next morning. ‘Lothíriel!’ he called out to her softly as she was about to rush past him. ‘What time would you like to have your first lesson?’ he asked conspiratorially.
She answered quietly in kind, ‘I will go down to the stables just before dawn when it is quiet, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble for the man you send to teach me? But please, only someone you can easily spare, even your worst horseman would be more than capable of teaching me the basics.’ And with that she bid him good night and dashed off to find her father before anyone spotted their suspicious encounter.