The funeral escort for King Théoden had been on the road for four days. As Éomer expected, progress had been slow; but the company was easy and pleasant, and this was not a job to be performed in a hurry. That did not prevent him from sometimes, in the privacy of his own mind, wishing it could all be over and done with. The loss of his Uncle was still like an open wound, and dragging it out through the endless fields and forests of Anórien, was not without its unique torment.

Besides - and this was the part he did not like to admit even to himself - he still felt he could ill afford being so long away from Edoras. His Uncle had led Rohan out of darkness and deserved every honour in and under the sky, but Théoden was dead and there were many alive and struggling that needed him now. Fortunately, the weather had been nothing short of blessed lately: warm sunshine, soft rains and temperate winds from the west. His people had managed to plant barley and oats in early spring that would soon be ready to be harvested, and roots and berries still grew aplenty in the woodlands that the orcs of Saruman had been loath to enter. Gondor had also promised to send whatever aid they could, as most of their farmland had remained unraided and unspoilt. Éomer just hoped it would be enough. He also hoped that the winter would be mild; that the orcs still hidden in the Emyn Muil would be sufficiently cowed to not further raid the East Emnet and leave their herds alone; that the truce with the Dunlendings would hold as his countrymen rebuilt their farms and villages. Too many concerns and variables, and almost all of it out of his hands! Perhaps it was a good thing that he was surrounded by friends who could keep him from worrying overmuch.

Since Éomer had become King of the Riddermark, his relationship with his men had changed somehow. At first he had thought no crown could overcome all the years they had been riding together, and to an extent that was true, but it was still different. With his friends from Gondor, he need not be King all the time, and this was a welcome change. So Éomer often found himself in the company of Imrahil or his younger sons, who had both decided to accompany their father to Edoras. Erchirion and Amrothos kept his spirits light, his mind distracted, and were -somewhat to his surprise- not entirely without wisdom and good advice when pressed to talk on serious matters. Faramir also had taken to joining them when he was not needed elsewhere, or riding with Pippin and the Knights of Gondor. The cousins appeared to be on good terms with each other. Éomer learned that Erchirion for some time had served under Faramir as a Ranger of Ithilien, a rather unorthodox arrangement as Erchirion surely had had his own command in Dol Amroth already at the time, and the Rangers' methods of warfare were very different from those practiced in Belfalas. However, neither of his friends gave him a reason for it. In the evenings they took their suppers together and Éomer learned more about way of life in the south and on the sea. Inevitably there were those lessons he could have done without. For example, one memorable evening they brought him a dish to try which Erchirion called breithabas. It was, if the Prince was to be believed, a famous delicacy from their region. Éomer inspected the yellow goo smelled vaguely fishy and resembled something his Riders might bring up after a night of heavy drinking.

"Are you sure this is edible?" he asked with some suspicion. He did –quite rightly- not consider pranks above the younger Princes of Dol Amroth.

"Try it, Éomer. I swear it tastes better than it looks," said Erchirion, handing him a spoon.

That did nothing to reassure him. "You really expect me to eat this?"

Erchirion shared an amused look with Amrothos, who shrugged and swiped the bowl from Éomer's hands. "Here, I will show you." He started to eat with relish.

"Hey! That is my supper," said Éomer, suddenly possessive of the grisly substance now it was out of his reach.

Amrothos showed no remorse, nor any inclination to return the dish to him. "I can tell it would be wasted on you."

"You're as bad as the periain, brother," said Erchirion.

"I am not sure if this qualifies as an attempt to poison me or to starve me. I cannot believe I continue to seek out your company," said Éomer.

"My brother has a gift for making friends even of the most unwilling people," said Erchirion.

Éomer was also taking some pleasure in grilling the Steward of Gondor away from the irritable looks and reproach of his sister, and had found a willing ally in Amrothos, who felt his cousin needed to be kept on his toes now that he had been named Prince of Ithilien.

"You always had a tendency to take yourself too seriously, Faramir. I fear this new showy title may just make things worse."

"Interesting theory. From what I have observed that title tends to have just the opposite effect," had Faramir pointed out when Amrothos first brought it up.

"Ah, but those of us born into it can handle it with the whimsy it deserves," Amrothos had answered. This had earned him a smack in the back of the head from his brother.

In truth, Éomer liked the Steward of Gondor very much and found little fault with him. His affection and admiration for Éowyn was genuine and right, and they had kept up a fervent correspondence over the past months in spite of their respective duties. Faramir's letters had frequently left Éowyn flushed and radiant with some secret happiness. Faramir could indeed be grave like many of the Lords of Gondor, but that seemed to suit his sister, who herself had always been mature beyond her years (or at least considered herself to be so).

And then there was Lothíriel. When they first set out north, the Princess had been half-wild with enthusiasm, eager to race off whenever she could. She was a good rider, as naturally graceful in her seat as her brothers, but she was evidently not used to long days in the saddle and after a few days he noticed she was becoming tired and subdued, and her distraction cost her some control of her horse. Although this was not a wholly unwelcome change in her father's eyes, Éomer suggested a day of rest to Aragorn for the less experienced riders to relieve their soreness and fatigue. Not just for Lothíriel's sake, of course. She was not the only one unaccustomed to travelling in this style, and there were some among them who were still recovering their strength after the ordeals of the war.

So it was that on the fifth day they remained camped under the eaves of a copse of trees, near an offshoot of the Anduin that looped around the forest and then ran into the valley beyond. It was a beautiful, green country, all grasses and trees and strange stones that did not quite belong. Faramir, who knew this land best, convinced his friends to walk abroad and explore the woods, in the hope that they might find some fresh game. Whereas the plains had been buzzing with insects, the woods seemed quiet and they had little luck, but Faramir was persistent. Some half an hour later the King of Rohan watched with admiration as the former Ranger quickly brought down three squirrels he had not even noticed, each with a single arrow straight in the eyes.

"At least I do not have to worry about my sister going hungry," said Éomer with some amusement.

"Hm. Your confidence seems misplaced to me," said Amrothos. "These paltry things will never nourish your sister for long."

It appeared indeed pointless to bring the creatures back to camp and, as Erchirion rightly pointed out, it would probably expose them to more mockery than empty hands; so they sat themselves down on a stretch of mossy rocks, lit a fire and roasted them on the spot. Away from his usual guards and advisors, Éomer felt perfectly at leisure for the first time since Théodred was lost on the Fords of Isen. They shared a skin of tart wine from the vineyards of Lossarnach, and conversed easily on pleasant topics and traded jests, so that Éomer finally closed his eyes and sighed: "Let's never go back. Rohan can rule itself and Faramir can sustain us with his excellent squirrel-hunting skills."

Faramir laughed. "I'm not sure if Éowyn would forgive me if I were to run off with her brother instead."

"You are right. She most certainly would not," said Éomer, sobering instantly. "And then I would have to kill you for wounding her."

"Even if you yourself were the cause?"

"Of course," said Éomer. "Wounding my sister is one of the few indisputable capital offences in the Mark."

"Well, Cousin, that is a clear policy. I'm afraid you will have to resist Éomer's temptations," said Amrothos.

"I hope it never has to come to that. It seems a very awkward situation," said Faramir.

"I doubt it will," said Éomer with a grin. "If ever you hurt my sister, you will be long dead before I would have a chance to strike. Éowyn is much more efficient at these things than I."

"That is some risky betrothal you are rushing into, Faramir," said Amrothos. "I suppose those ranger skills will still come in handy after all. You will have to tread very carefully for the rest of your life."

Faramir seemed unconcerned. "I presume that is the fate of any man who marries a woman with older brothers."

"Oh?" said Amrothos, stretching out lazily. "I would evaluate every slight to my sister on a case-to-case basis. It seems to be a much more sensible approach. We might lose some good men otherwise."

"What do you mean?" Erchirion asked with some suspicion.

"I was speaking theoretically," said Amrothos, with an offhand gesture to his brother. "You see, in such a scenario there will always be multiple explanations, and a policy such as Éomer proposes might have unnecessarily messy consequences. Besides, Lothíriel may well have started it."

"That's not completely unlikely," Erchirion acknowledged. "Although that would not absolve him from blame in my eyes."

"I marvel at your nonchalance, Amrothos! I would not hesitate to avenge Lothíriel's honour if a man dared slight her," said Faramir.

"Hear that, Éomer?" said Amrothos, eyes glittering. "You and my cousin are in agreement. A most auspicious beginning of your imminent kinship."

Éomer glared at him but said nothing. Sometimes, in spite of everything, it was not entirely clear whose side Amrothos was on.

oOo

In the evening, craving some solitude, Éomer sat a little away from the rest of the company, warming his hands over the remnants of one of the cooking fires. It was getting dark and late, and some had already retired to their tents or fallen asleep under the clear night sky. Others were still about, drinking and laughing quietly, and the fair folk of Rivendell and Lothlorien wandered the wooded hills absorbed in their own slow and pensive world.

Then a young female voice started to sing, rising above the murmur of conversation.

One fine day he will find me
A lone blue flag arising
On the sea
In the far horizon
And then a ship appearing

When the trim white vessel
Glides into the harbour
A silver horn will sound forth
Signalling that he has come

And the city will rush down to meet him
But not I
I stay upon the point of the cliff
And wait there for a long time
Never weary of the long waiting

He will come from out of the crowds
A shape in the distance climbing the hill
He will call my name and I
without answering hide myself
a bit to tease him and a bit
so as not to die at our first meeting

One fine day he will find me
A lone blue flag arising
On the sea
In the far horizon
And then his ship appearing

This will all come to pass as I tell you
Banish your idle fears
I know he shall return

Lothíriel's voice was a little thin, but pure and sweet, and the soaring, lilting melody was unlike anything he knew, too capricious to be Elvish but fragile and unearthly compared to the rolling songs of the Rohirrim. The Princess's face was alive as she sang, and he could see her meeting the gaze of some of his riders during the song with that wry twinkle that had fast become familiar. She was wearing breeches again, as she had been for most of the trip, but there was no mistaking her for a boy today. She had her legs crossed in front of her and was leaning back on her hands a little so that the fabric strained over her modest curves in the soft warm light of the fire. The effect was, he had to admit, rather captivating. Only when she finished and her audience applauded politely did she bite her lip and grin, looking well pleased with herself. Éothain asked her a question and he heard her laugh before she leaned over to whisper something in his captain's ear.

Éomer felt a hand on his shoulder and he started like a guilty child. The intruder, Erchirion, raised his hands in a defensive gesture as he sat down beside him. He took out one of those sweet-smelling fruits the southern knights were partial to and started peeling. Éomer moved to poke the fire to cover up his embarrassment at having been caught staring.

"It is a traditional lay from Dol Amroth," said Erchirion finally, breaking the silence. "Aearion, my fifth great grandfather, wrote it in honour of his stepmother."

"I have heard your House praised for its music before," said Éomer. "It is quite beautiful."

Erchirion grinned and accepted the compliment with a nod. Then he looked over to his sister and his expression grew darker. "It has always been Lothi's favourite. But the story behind it, I'm afraid, is sad."

Éomer raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he offered Erchirion a drink, which the Prince gracefully accepted.

Erchirion's voice was soft in the darkness. "Aeardir – he was the fifteenth Prince of Dol Amroth and my sixth great grandfather - took as his second wife Wilwarin of Anfalas, after his first wife died in childbirth. He was much older, and she was not of particularly high birth, but she was very much in love with him. Anfalas is a province of farmers and fishermen, and Wilwarin was unprepared to be a warrior's wife. When Aeardir had to sail to aid the Steward against the corsairs, she wept and pleaded with him to stay. He grew angry with her and they exchanged harsh words at their parting."

The young prince took another swig of ale as he stared into the fire.

"The battle was long and brutal, and when it seemed at last the King's navy would be victorious, a rare summer storm hit the seas and raged for two days. When the dust cleared, the Corsairs were driven back, but the fleet was scattered. Aeardir's ships were among those missing. For years Wilwarin held on to hope, and as she waited she grew wan and pale. She refused to acknowledge Aearion as the new Prince, and often chided him for his lack of faith in his father. When at last a ship returned, it came with tidings of Aeardir's passing. He had been slain by Corsairs in that last battle, and dead for years. Wilwarin just smiled when Aearion told her and kissed her stepson's brow. Then she left the castle and flung herself off a cliff into the sea."

Éomer's blood froze. Despair such as that was not entirely foreign to him, and he had seen it oft before, aye, even in his sister. He looked again over at Lothíriel, who had been provided with a mug of ale and seemed to be involved in happy banter with his riders. She looked so carefree. Had she wept when her father and brothers had sailed to war? Had she grieved for her fallen kin? Éomer found it difficult to imagine. She had sung the lay as a love song, all smiles and playfulness, and he felt a wave of resentment…. and envy. "Indeed that is a sad story," he said eventually.

"You must not know much about our people's history," said Amrothos, who had joined them, unbidden as always. He had swiped the stick off Éomer and was prodding the flames. The men of the south were somewhat unused to the brisk summer nights on this side of the White Mountains. "It is one tragedy after another for the race of Númenor. That one is a relatively happy tale. Indeed, in Dol Amroth we consider it frightfully romantic."

Éomer struggled to keep his emotions in check. "Romantic?" he said. "I saw my mother succumb to grief after my father was slain." Even after all these years his throat tightened as he spoke of her. "These stories have been all too common to be romantic."

Amrothos had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable. "Your pardon, Éomer. It is Wilwarin's faith that is romanticised, not her death."

"Let's hope such stories will be less common now," said Erchirion. The middle Prince of Dol Amroth's expression was pained, almost angry, and for the first time Éomer wondered what had happened to their mother, Imrahil's late wife. All he knew was that her name had been Mirdis and she had died some years before the start of the war. She must have been still young too, and Lothíriel no more than a child, perhaps of a similar age to what he had been when he lost his mother. He had never given the matter thought before. Theirs seemed such a happy and loving family that it was easy to forget there was a part missing.

oOo

It was just after midday on the twelfth day, the sun hot and high in the sky, that the procession halted for some rest and refreshment. With the summer now at its most relentless, they often broke their progress in the afternoon to seek shelter from the heat in the shade of the mountains. Especially the horses were suffering today, and some of his men had taken their mounts to the riverbanks to bathe and wash them with the cool water from the mountain-sprung stream. Éomer shared his dinner with Meriadoc, and they talked a while about the Halfling's home in the Shire and his former home in Aldburg that they would pass tomorrow. He had given it to Elfhelm as his seat when he made him Marshal of the Westmark after the Battle of the Morannon, and his old friend would join them there. Merry had lit his pipe and spoke with grand, avid gestures that made him laugh. After the inevitable second round of food, Éomer decided to check on Firefoot and see whether it would soon be possible to be on their way again.

With approval he regarded the horses; they seemed well and were now grazing comfortably. He looked here and there for his men and at last saw some of them a little removed from the horses in the shade of some willow trees. They were gathered around his squire Aldor's steed, Swiftheart, who used to be Éomer's spare to ride into battle in case something should befall Firefoot. And perched on his horse's high back was the Princess of Dol Amroth. She was standing without holding onto the reins and balancing on one leg with her arms stretched out as if she were a bird about to take flight. Her eyes were lowered, and her features serene and focused, and the world was eerily silent around her.

"What is going on here?" His voice brought the horse to attention and unbidden, the stallion walked a few steps forward. Lothíriel's stance faltered and she seemed to teeter forward, but then hastily recovered her balance. She crouched down upon the horse's back like a frog. He heard her mutter a few words in the Elvish tongue and the horse's ears flicked towards her again.

"Éomer King," she greeted him as she came to a kneeling position and grabbed the reins.

"What do you think you are doing, Princess?"

She smiled brightly at him, eyes innocent. "I am showing Aldor and Éothain how to stand on horseback, my lord."

"I can see that. Why?"

She shrugged and made a fluttering gesture with her fingers. "I saw some of the corsairs do it at the pageants when I was younger. Some of them were even able to remain standing at full gallop, but I am still working my way up to a canter. I was surprised to learn you have never practiced such things in Rohan."

He bristled at the condescension in her tone. "It is not something we do in the Mark because we value our horses and do not like to subject them to poor and callous treatment."

She pursed her lips and a frown appeared between those grey eyes. "You ride horses into war, my lord. And yet this strikes you as cruel?"

The unthinking comment almost made him take a step back. Was she trying to provoke him? Éomer bit back an angry retort and said, as coolly as he could: "Not cruel, but heedless. Horses are not show animals. You may well hurt his back if you do not distribute your weight properly."

"Hurt his back?" Lothíriel let out a snort. "Swiftheart is used to carrying a fully-grown warrior in chainmail. His back is pure muscle."

"Would you lecture me about my own horse?"

She started to speak but hesitated when she met his gaze and then apparently reweighed her words. "I was doing no harm."

"You cannot know that. You know nothing of this horse, or his history. He could have thrown you instantly." His horses were trained for war, to attack if they perceived a threat. If Lothíriel had been thrown, Swiftheart might well have trampled her too.

"So?"

So you could be dead, but he did not say it. "Your behaviour is reckless and inappropriate. Now get down."

"I have done this a hundred times before. I know what I am doing."

Insolent whelp. He would need to have words with her father. "Get off the horse, Lothíriel."

"It was just a bit of fun." Her eyes were icy as a winter's morning and she made no attempt to move. "You don't need to bluster so."

"I lead here," he thundered, his temper finally breaking through whatever was left of his restraint. "You are in my lands, and this is a funeral escort for my Uncle, who was King of Rohan and saved your city. You would do well to show respect, and refrain from showing off your festival tricks. Now get off the horse lest I drag you off there myself!"

She looked stricken, but at least it seemed he had got through to her. Wordless, she dismounted, handed him the reins, and after a final, contemptuous look ran off along the river. With great effort he restrained himself from rushing after her to give her a good shaking anyway. Impossible, spoiled brat! He tore his eyes away from the small dark figure and focused on his Riders. His men were silent and looked somewhat uncomfortable, but Éomer in his rage did not care what they thought of his behaviour.

"The Princess is not to go near the horses again, is that clear?"

Éothain nodded grimly.

Éomer turned to his squire. "Tell everyone we are making camp here," he ordered brusquely.

"But, my lord, it is only just past midday. I thought we planned to reach the Firienwood tonight."

"Are you questioning your King's command?" he barked. Aldor paled and hurried off.

Éomer strode over to Firefoot and swung himself in the saddle. He checked his sword and strapped a bow and quiver of arrows to his hip. "Éothain, gather the guard and ride with me. We need to scout the area."

"Aye, my lord."

He hoped there would be orcs.

oOo

There had been no orcs, and that was probably for the best, thought Éomer, now that he was in a calmer state of mind. They had ridden much further afield than usual, until the familiar feel of running Firefoot on the plains finally took the edge of his fury. He had ordered the return to the camp and now sat brooding in his tent. It had been a long time since he had thus allowed his temper to get the better of him outside of battle, but there was just something about the Princess that got under his skin. He wondered if he resented her for coming through the war so seemingly untouched and untroubled? She was not that much younger than his sister, who had at that age already known too much of duty and suffering, knowledge he would have spared her if he could. Yet that was no reason to begrudge Lothíriel her naïveté. As a friend to her family, he should rejoice that the war had not cost her her high spirits.

Of course there was also the simple fact that Lothíriel was completely vexing.

With some uneasiness he reflected on his harsh words to her. Earlier he had been of a mind to report the entire incident to her father, but he was not wholly unashamed of his part in it. Perhaps it would be better if it did not become too widely known that he had threatened to lay hands on the Princess of Dol Amroth. Also, Lothíriel might well have some accusations of her own to swing at his feet, if it came to it. With a sigh he ran his hand through his hair and then he moved to light another candle. Sleep would not come easy tonight, and he might as well study those trade agreements Imrahil had drawn up for him.

After he had stared at the numbers and figures for some time with little success, the flap opened and Éothain entered bearing a bowl of washing water and a skin of mulled wine that he accepted gratefully.

"Is all well with the company, Éothain?" he asked.

"Yes, sire. I have sent Riders on to Edoras so that the Lady Éowyn may know to expect us in three days."

"Thank you. You may retire."

Éothain hesitated.

"Are you well, my lord?"

"Yes," he said curtly. He lay down the papers with a sigh and rolled his shoulders. "I have work to finish, but you should get some rest. We must make good time tomorrow to avoid further delays."

Éothain bowed and made to leave, but then popped his head round the corner again.

"So, I take it Princess Lothíriel will not be our new Queen then?"

"… What?"

"Some of the men thought that might be the reason she had joined the escort, my lord." Éothain had the gall to grin.

"Get out."


Unusually Lengthy Author's Notes, for those interested.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, and to BlueRiverSteel for her support and for saving me from dreadful punctuation (I learn nothing). I hope you continue to enjoy.

Breithabas is inspired by the Portuguese dish Açorda (from the Arabic tarada, meaning to break bread, which is also what breitha-bas hopefully means when translated back from Sindarin). It's a bread soup usually made with shrimp or codfish. It does taste a lot better than it looks.

Some of you may have recognised the lay Lothíriel sings as the famous aria "Un Bel Di" from Madame Butterfly. I completely lack the skill to write Tolkienish poetry or lyrics (believe me, I have tried) so I decided on this instead. (I swear it rhymes in Westron).

I got the translation from Deanna Durbin's performance in the movie First Love (1939) and Middle-Earthified it a little. I chose it here partly as a nod to that adaptation and the criticism it received: the song is somewhat painfully out of place in First Love as well. After all, Madame Butterfly is a heartbreaking and tragic story (as operas tend to be) of a young Japanese girl who is used, and then dumped and abandoned by an American Naval Officer. The opera ends with her suicide. First Love, on the other hand, has a watered-down Cinderella-type plot with a mean cousin as the sole antagonist and an uncomplicated happy ending.

The song is also conveniently in the public domain. I knew the aria before I ever saw Madame Butterfly and always associated it with a woman waiting for her loved one who went to sea. Wilwarin, of course, is butterfly in Quenya.

However, since Lothíriel's voice is nowhere near as strong or classically trained as Deanna Durbin's, I imagine the rendition she gave here to be closer to the 2007 folk/crossover version by Hayley Westenra. Hayley - who happens to be a Middle Earth native - sort of - if you trust the New Zealand board of tourism - is also a better singer than Lothíriel. I say this so you don't think Éomer is being overly critical.

TL;DR I do not own the lyrics to this song, but no one does anymore, really.