15 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

When Éomer arrived at Imrahil's study at the appointed time, there were raised voices filtering through the half-open door. He stopped in his tracks, fazed at this unexpected obstacle but unable to keep from listening.

"If Amrothos is allowed to stay despite his wound, then certainly so should I! Father, you cannot possibly—"

Imrahil's reply was quieter, but still audible. "Lothíriel, you have fought already, and bravely. Do you seek death so keenly? There is far more that you can do in Dol Amroth to protect our people from the shadows than lingering in this gloomy place."

"I need to stay, Father; I can drive it the shadow by continuing to fight, not by fleeing to Belfalas!"

Imrahil said coldly, "You are acting like a child. I have given my orders, and you will obey them—you will return to Dol Amroth with Elphir in three day's time. And if you continue to protest, I will deem your training is a failure, as you cannot respect your own superior."

There was a tense silence. Then a sound which seemed to be a foot stamping against the floor in frustration. "Goodbye, Father. I must report to my captain." A set of footsteps approached, and alarmed, Éomer stepped back from the door just in time for the small, scowling figure with bright red cheeks to hurtle out of it. This girl, to whom Imrahil must have been speaking, was dressed in the uniform of the Rangers from Ithilien, dirtied from battle. She glanced quickly up at him with a frown, turned away, and then paused. This time her eyes travelled more slowly over his dirty armor, a smile growing on her face. Éomer, equally as interested in her, noted the long black braids swinging down her back and a pair of eyes as grey as her father's. So this was Imrahil's daughter. He had heard much of her.

"Lord," she said, and touched her fist to her brow. Then she turned and swept down the corridor, and he saw a yew bow and empty quiver slung across her back. She walked with confidence that did not surprise Éomer, and it was not until she had disappeared around a corner that he knocked on Imrahil's door.

The prince's voice was tired, but his face lit with a sincere smile as Éomer entered. Similarly to Éomer, Imrahil had yet to clean himself up after the battle on Pelennor, and he still wore his silver armor and dirtied cape. His plumed helmet rested on the desk where he sat, and he waved for Éomer to sit opposite him.

"I thank you for coming at my request, Lord Éomer," Imrahil said. "Or should I say, King Éomer?" There was a glint in his eyes which Éomer took to be teasing, and for that he was grateful—his advancement had yet to sink in, and any more truckling would be most unwelcome. There was too much to do, and too many griefs to sort through.

"Just Éomer," he replied absently.

"I apologize for the scene you witnessed," the prince continued, and Éomer had the grace to shift awkwardly. "My daughter...has a strong will."

"Not unlike my sister," he said, striving for a smile. The thought of Eowyn in the Healing Houses, made his gut twist with lingering nerves. Though he had stayed with her most of the day, he could not help the worry that continued for her. Would Aragorn's ministrations suffice to heal her fully?

"No. I should think they have very much in common. I wonder sometimes, if allowing Faramir to train her as a ranger, was a mistake…" Imrahil's voice trailed off, his eyes gazing off into some distant thought. Then he roused himself, and sat forward. "I wish to offer lodgings for you and some of your most will have to stay in tents outside the city, I have beds for twelve. You are welcome to them, as well as to everything in my house which you need—food, clothing, etc. The servants who have stayed will be at your disposal."

This generous offer staggered Éomer. Though he liked and respected Imrahil very much, he had not thought the prince's regard for him to extend so far. "I—thank you," he said lamely. "I am grateful for your hospitality."

Imrahil smiled, inclining his head. "You are most welcome. And there is space for your steeds, as well."

Relief swept over Éomer; after such a battle, it would not seem right to leave Firefoot on the plains, even with his squire.

"I can send a message to the camps on your behalf," Imrahil continued. "I have a few to send myself. Name your men you wish me to house, and then you may go seek your rest."

Éomer obeyed on both accounts, and left the study feeling much more at ease. His lodgings and food he at least had not to worry about; the mashed oats and dried meat from the long march from Dunharrow had grown quite dull already. The prince of Dol Amroth was a better man than Éomer had ever suspected, and at the moment he promised himself to always oblige his friend for this kindness.


An hour or so later, Éomer was washed with cold water and wearing borrowed clothing far too small for him, which stretched uncomfortably across his shoulders and chest. The trousers, which only reached halfway down his calf were, at least, hidden in his riding boots. This gave him enough equanimity to leave his guest chamber in search of food; he was positively ravenous.

Imrahil's dining hall was empty, but the smell from the kitchen urged Éomer onward until he found what he was searching for: a pot of stew being tended to by a man with red-rimmed eyes and a bandage on his hand. He gave to Éomer a filled bowl as well as half-loaf of bread, apologizing profusely for the lack of variety in the meal.

"There is no need to be sorry," he assured the man, barely keeping the drool inside his mouth. "This is better fare than I have eaten in days." But feeling unwelcome in the cook's domain, Éomer returned to the empty hall, and began to wolf down the stew. It had been a very, very long day, and the clean bed of Imrahil's guest chamber would be calling him before long…

There was a murmur of voices from the kitchens, and Éomer looked up with sleepy interest just in time to see Imrahil's daughter enter the hall, her own supper in hand. She saw him immediately, and strode towards him with her chin held high. She had washed up, too, though she appeared little different than earlier apart from an unstained uniform. The bow was still strapped to her back.

Oh, Béma. He was too tired for this.

She sat across from him, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and began to dunk her bread in her stew. "So," she said after a moment. "You are Éomer of Rohan." It was not a question, but a statement. Éomer met this girl, this Lothíriel's grey eyes, and blinked at the frankness he saw there.

"I am," he said. "And you are Lothíriel."

She granted him a flitting smile. "So I am. But that hardly matters, does it? Not when my skills are deemed unnecessary and I am forbidden to fight."

Éomer did not know what to say.

"I want to know of your charge," Lothíriel said bluntly. "I heard the horns and I saw the cavalry sweep across the fields—" Her voice was trembling, and he looked up to see high color in her cheeks and an uncanny brightness in her eyes. "I wish I had been there! I want—I want to know what it was like. Lord," she added as an afterthought.

He flinched as an echoing scream pierced through his mind. Then, voice rough, he said, "You saw my uncle's charge?"

"Yes; I was stationed on the walls." A smile, proud and perhaps arrogant, lifted her lips. "I am one of my cousin's Faramir's rangers; he trained me himself since I was but fourteen."

Éomer nearly choked as he took a bite of bread. "Fourteen?"

Lothíriel's smile faded, and she regarded him with coolness now. "Indeed. Do not bother acting outraged on my behalf, Lord, for I have already met your sister and I know she learned the arts of war longer than I."

"Er—" Again, he was at a loss for words. Truthfully, the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was to relieve any part of his day; the death, the blood, the screaming—his uncle lying dead, Eowyn appearing to be dead, his men dead… Éomer bit his tongue to keep from shuddering, and tasted blood.

"Was it glorious?" Her attention had returned to her original inquiry, and her voice now hushed in reverence.

"No," Éomer said shortly. Lothíriel blinked, and he continued, "It was war, Lady. It is war. There is nothing glorious about it. Perhaps the lays and ballads in decades to come will be glorious, when the stench of death and the screams of the dying have been forgotten, but not now."

Her expression had turned to stone as he spoke, and she stiffened in her seat. "My brother Amrothos told me I ought to have been on the fields," she said, as if musing to herself. "Then I would never want to see a battle again. But I cannot believe him; he is dosed on poppy for the wound to his shoulder."

"Your brother is correct. You were on the walls, you say? Comfortably away from the terror, I judge."

Now Lothíriel's lip curled, and her eyes turned hard. The grip on her spoon was white-knuckled, and Éomer bit back a sigh of exasperation.

"I had thought to admire the great King of Rohan, who drove the enemy from our lands," she said coldly. "But you are as soft as my brothers and father."

Éomer, having spoken with Imrahil several times now and also having seen him wield a great silver spear in battle, said nothing. There was no diplomatic response. The prince's daughter shot him one more look of disgust, and stood, taking her unfinished supper back to the kitchens.

He let loose a sigh and slunk into the seat, his appetite now completely gone.


Aha! A new story! Hope you like :)