Chapter 36

He did not know how long he had stood there, but the sun had already sunk low when finally Ymma appeared to inform him that dinner was to be set on the board.

He ate, not tasting his food nor caring about it. He had done the right thing, he would carry on, and the Mark would prosper. As Lord Eáldread at his side sensed the king's mood and left him in peace, the meal passed almost in silence and was about to come to its end, when the guards opened the doors, admitting a mud-splattered man. He carried the distinctive satchel of the couriers over his shoulder. His heart in his mouth, Éomer fought to school his features as the messenger approached the dais and handed him the satchel, bowing low respectfully.

"Are the roads already passable?" Éomer felt relieved that he managed to keep his voice steady and casual.

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I'm stationed at Alward's farm, at the junction to Aldburg. I took over the message four days ago, but I only made it to Ymbhaga the first day and there I was trapped for two days due to the drifting snow. When I found at sunrise today that the wind had died down and there was at least a chance to see some of the road cairns, I set off." He smiled lopsidedly. "Seven hours from Ymbhaga to Edoras, my comrades will think me a slug, but I did not want to risk my mount."

Éomer nodded. "You did well not to overtax the horse. What are the conditions further south?"

"At least the courier coming from Beornheard's farm did not have too many problems, and close to the Mering they had no snow at all. But that might have changed."

Thanking the man, Éomer dismissed him, and the courier sauntered over to one of the lower tables, where a servant girl was already laying out bread and a plate of roast pork and kale for him. Éomer could not keep his eyes off the satchel on the table and found it difficult to resist the urge to open it at once and search its contents for an envelope of beige paper inscribed in that hand he loved and knew so well. But he lingered some more minutes, waiting politely until the old counsellor had finished his ale before he stood and retired to his study.

Once the door had shut behind him, he hastened over to the desk, emptying the contents of the satchel on its top. An official missive bearing the seal of the King of Gondor, another official one sealed by Lord Hurin of the Keys and a third one. Its shape and colour made his breath catch for a split second, but he almost immediately realised that it was addressed in Faramir's hand. Turning the letter to break the seal, he could not help a smile despite his disappointment. It bore Faramir's and Éowyn's signets, but his sister had put her personal seal in such a way that it slightly overlapped that of her husband, and he wondered whether she was indicating at pinning him down or at sitting on his lap.

It was not more than a month since he had received Lothíriel's last letter, and here he was, aching and hoping. He shook his head. What was he hoping for? There was nothing for him save doing his duty to the Mark... and to the woman he loved. It was useless to wallow in hope and self-pity. Sticking his penknife below the seals, he opened the letter and started to read. It was Faramir's hand the letter started in, and Éomer could not help thinking that the man's hand was a straight as his character.

Dear Brother,

With great relief and joy I pen this letter to you as the dangers on Gondor's southern borders that have pressed on us have been eliminated surprisingly due to Radhruin of Pelargir's commitment and persistence.

I am not sure if any official missive or personal letter has already reached and informed you, as the king is still in Harondor, whence he betook himself as soon as he learned that Radhruin had discovered that Amrothos was probably held captive under accusation of being a corsair by Lord Aerandir of Ethirlond after Amrothos' vessel had been found wrecked on a reef north of the mouth of the Harnen.

Having already moved the Dol Amroth knights into emplacement further east on the banks of the Harnen, Prince Imrahil fortunately was within reach to identify his son and the arrival of the king dispelled the last of Lord Aerandir's doubts.

It seems Radhruin has acted with utmost aptitude and care and thus not only found and rescued Amrothos, who is reported to be severely wounded, but also managed to convince Lord Aerandir through skilful negotiations and personal dedication to swear fealty to Gondor. Certainly the coming of the king aided Radhruin's efforts, as it must have impressed said lord highly, and as Aerandir is the most important lord of Harondor and his lands border Umbar for many miles , a steady alliance is certainly desirable.

An attack of united troops from Harad and Khand on the upper course of the Harnen was fought back by Gondorean cavalry with but little losses on our side. The corsairs' hide-out, that Amrothos had suspected to be somewhere on the Umbarian banks in the mouth of the Harnen, was discovered by Radhruin who led a devastating attack on the pirates, leading three warships from Pelargir into the estuary of the river. Obviously the corsairs had planned to attack Ethirlond on the Gondorean bank as soon as Prince Imrahil's knights were involved in combat further east, thus cutting off any supply and support for Imrahil's troops. King Elessar himself led a contingent of Rohirrim into Harondor, securing Ethirlond from the landside. And what is more: not one of the corsairs managed to escape because the tribes in the hinterland of the hide-out seized the opportunity to avenge themselves upon the corsairs who had frequently raided the villages on the riverbanks for supplies and slaves.

So far I have no official tidings of further details yet, but only Lothíriel's letter, informing us that her stay with us at Emyn Arnen will have to be postponed again, because she wishes to wait for Amrothos' arrival at Pelargir whereto Radhruin will take him by boat, having offered his friend his house to recuperate. Probably Prince Imrahil will also stop there upon his return from Harondor, though we do not know yet when that might be, and her mother, Lady Geliris, wishes to meet her husband and then to decide if they all will go to Minas Tirith, as had been their plans before Amrothos' unfortunate actions, or if they will return with Amrothos to Dol Amroth.

In the end one even has to be thankful for Amrothos' escapade, as it brought both, Radhruin and the warships and King Elessar and the Rohirrim to the mouth of the Harnen in time to baulk the enemies' plans. I will return to the Crossings tomorrow morning where Marshal Elfhelm is in charge now, and I will forward further information as soon as I get any, but I suppose that you might have been briefed directly by Prince Imrahil and King Elessar already, though details are still a bit blurred.

I agreed with Éowyn to leave the more private topics to her, as she decided to write, too (after only some persuasion). She is looking over my shoulder now and promising the most horrible things to me.

There was a blotch of ink, and then the letter continued in the tongue of the Mark and Cirth in Éowyn's bold hand.

My husband is a dolt, and I am an even bigger dolt for loving him.

Brother, you know how much I dislike writing letters. Were you here I would make your ears ring with all the gossip that we are showered with, but to write it down is like chewing stones to me. We are fine. I can already feel the child move and I have put on weight considerably. If I continue like that, I will be as round as a mare in foal come March and probably not able to ride to Edoras anymore. Now Faramir is looking over my shoulder, and that man has the cheek to grin!

It is a pity that your bride cannot come to Emyn Arnen, I would have liked to meet her. Especially after Faramir told me that she is very fast at taking up languages and is very much interested in collecting foreign swearwords. I am sure I could have added profoundly to her collection.

But certainly I can understand that she wants to meet her brother first, more though as rumour has it, that he is severely wounded. And probably also her parents will like to have her close for the short time that is left until the wedding. But perhaps they will all come to Minas Tirith. Faramir assures me that the healers of the town are without rival, so Imrahil's family might decide to have them care for Amrothos.

I have to admit I can understand Amrothos' reasons and notions though his actions were more than risky, and everyone frowns at him now, while on the other hand they are singing Radhruin's praise. But if you look at the facts unbiased, that man was just lucky, and that is the only difference between them. Had Amrothos' ship not foundered, they would have harvested the praise together.

My dear husband shakes his head at my statements, but he is used to shaking his head, so that will not stop me from speaking my mind. And as he wrote all we know about the campaign in Harondor at the moment, I had better close my letter now.

Your sister, Éowyn Éomund's Daughter, wife of Faramir of Ithilien and soon mother of a foal, considering the way that child of mine is kicking!

PS: And hug Frithuswith from me!

PPS: That little Westfolder you sent us is a true treasure!

Éomer let the letter sink in and then read it again, trying to catch what was not said but hinted at between the lines. He was glad and relieved at Éowyn's obvious well-being, good mood and loving understanding with her husband. If anyone deserved happiness it was her. His little sister... He could not imagine her heavy with child. And very heavy according to her complaints. For a split second a weird idea shot through his mind. What if she was carrying twins, two sons... an heir each for Ithilien and the Mark. He shook his head at his flight of fancy. Éowyn would bite off his head should he as much as utter the idea to her at the moment, of that he was certain.

And then there were the news about Amrothos, or rather about Radhruin. Putting down the letter, he knocked his knuckles against his teeth. No doubt Aragorn would make him Admiral General of the Gondorean navy now. And the victorious captain would return the lost son and brother to the women waiting at Pelargir. Would they wait for him at his house? Or would they go down to the harbour, impatiently watching the berthing of his ship? And how would she greet Radhruin, him who could now be certain to become one of the most important men of the realm?

The moment the jealous thought flitted through his brain, he dismissed it as nonsense. He could not imagine Lothíriel to be impressed by titles... But by prowess? And had she not said herself that Radhruin was... He hesitated. She had called him Amrothos' friend and an able and responsible captain. Surely those were reasons to admire a man, but to love him?

Putting the letter aside, Éomer opened the other ones. Aragorn's letter contained a detailed report, obviously written by the royal scribe, and Hurin's consisted mainly of a list naming the different items the Rohirrim had the right to claim as loot. Éomer snorted. If Gondor ever were to lack anything, it would most certainly not be bureaucracy. Shoving the two missives aside, he reached again for Éowyn and Faramir's letter, reading it for a third time while pacing his room, unable to sit idly any longer as his thoughts and feelings were in utter turmoil.

He was an idiot to be jealous. Had she not shrugged off the fact that Radhruin's father had wanted him to marry her that morning in Dol Amroth? Her concentrated face at archery training came to his mind, her impish grin, when their horses collided, the easiness of their banter, those dark grey eyes, sparkling with laughter, the steady grip of her hand when she had pretended there already had been an agreement of marriage to get rid of Radhruin.

And why should he be jealous? Had not he himself told her to find someone else? Had not he himself suggested Radhruin in one of his hapless writs? She had a right to have children. Living, healthy children. And if he could not give her that, he had to keep away from her. And yet, the idea that she would share another man's bed, enjoy another man's passion...

Frustrated Éomer kicked the peat basket, sending the sods flying. Opening the window, he stared out into the night. He had to protect her, he wanted to protect her. And here he stood and could do nothing but try to explain the terrible reasons for his fear, and instead of solving the problem he had to pen sophisticated missives to enable the woman he loved more than his life to leave him.

And that was the only thing he could do. He closed the window again and put the crumpled letter on his desk, before he resumed walking. How long would it take the letter to reach her? How long would it take her to write back? And then the problems for him would only begin...

He did not hear the characteristic rap, and only when she kicked the door shut did he turn round to see Frithuswith, carrying a tray, her mien and bearing as resolute and brisk as it used to be before their unfortunate disagreement.

The sharp, fresh smell of mint rose from the steaming tea-mug, as Frithuswith put the tray on his desk. Beside the tea there was a small plate with a handful of rusks. "Stop wearing down the floor tiles and come over to have some tea." There was still a trace of uncertainty in her voice, though she tried to conceal it, which made Éomer comply to ease her misgivings.

Eyeing the tray doubtfully, he shook his head. "Frithuswith, I'm not sick."

The housekeeper only shrugged. "Drink the tea when it is still hot. I know you are not sick, but I deem it better some people think you are." She grimaced. "Éomer, everyone in Meduseld knows you puked your guts out the night you came back from the Hornburg. And you have not eaten or drunk with any appetite since. So let the people believe you're sick to keep them from asking."

Éomer could not but grin as he reached for the mug. "Yeah, and blame it on the Westfolders that the king upset his stomach."

"Exactly. But I would prefer you told me the truth, Éomer. You scared the living daylights out of Éothain today on the terrace, and later Ymma told me she had to address you twice before you noticed her." She eyed him up critically. "It wasn't just the shirt that upset you, was it?"

Looking up from the steaming brew, he shook his head. "I had a nightmare that night, that's all."

Frithuswith nodded her understanding. "Did you talk to anyone about it?"

He shrugged. "I wrote to her."

"Your princess?"

Feeling the old woman's keen eyes enquiringly on him, Éomer averted his head. "Yes. And I don't want to talk about it."

She did not say anything but stood pondering for a while before she cleared her throat. "I see. I'm sorry about that shirt, Éomer, I..."

He shook his head. "I told you it was my fault. I should have put it back into the drawer."

"You were quite single-minded that day." Even her irony did not suffice to cover the bitterness in her voice.

He grimaced ruefully. "You were right to serve me vinegar, Frithuswith. Had I listened to you, at least the boys' death might have been avoided."

"I'm not sure." The old housekeeper shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think those Dunlendings would have accepted any help as long as they had any hope. That woman seems to really be a wild thing, if I can trust Éothain's tale."

Éomer gave a mirthless laugh. "She certainly is. Wild, strong and clever. Not someone I would like to have to deal with." He paused for a moment, taking another gulp of the hot tea, before he faced Frithuswith again. "It's her child I'm worried about. I want it to survive."

"It will. From what your men told me the little wildling thrives on goat's milk. So that should not be any problem. And for all his gentleness that Frithuhelm seems to be a no-nonsense man." She grinned. "Must be the name. But if you want to know for sure, write to Lady Egefride. She can read, can't she? And even if she can't she has a scribe …"

He immediately saw the chance to change the topic. "What about your own progress in reading?"

She blushed furiously. "Oh, Maerec the scribe says that I do quite well, though he also says that he has never taught anyone as old as me."

With an encouraging smile, Éomer shoved the letter over to Frithuswith. "Try. It's Éowyn writing." Putting his callused finger at the beginning of the passage Éowyn had written, he squinted his eyes. "Can you?"

It warmed his heart to see the old housekeeper blush and eagerly take the letter, spelling out rune by rune and then adding them up to form a word in a cumbersome way. Having finished the first sentence, she gave Éomer a doubtful glance. "Does she really call her husband a dolt?"

Hiding his grin, Éomer nodded. "She verily does. But you should go on reading to understand the situation."

Slowly but persistently Frithuswith ploughed through the letter, exclaiming now and then and asking for Éomer's affirmation of what she had read after each sentence. In the end her face was flushed and her eyes shone with excitement. "I'm so happy for Éowyn's sake, and for Winfrid's, too. The boy will find his way, mark my words. But Béma's horse, Éomer! I can read! I read my first letter... and I got everything right."

Éomer nodded smilingly. "The only thing that's left now is to try and write a letter, Frithuswith."

Shaking her head, she avoided his gaze and pointed at the small plate. "You had better eat. I'll know when I'm ready to write."

Obligingly he reached for one of the small rusks, and munching it he remembered when he'd had rusk for the last time before. On Amrothos boat, out on the choppy waters of Cobas Haven, when Lothíriel had fed him ginger-flavoured rusk after his fit of nausea. What a trip that had been, and what a reckless and skilful sailor she had proved herself - His scipflota cwen - and yet not his anymore. Intending to hide his sudden longing, he reached for a second rusk. It was strange how the simple fact of talking to the old housekeeper over a cup of tea had soothed him. Where he had been tense, aggressive and torn before, he now felt only sad and aching, the pain strangely dulled. For a split second he suspected Frithuswith to have drugged the tea but he could not think of any calming potion that could be masked by nothing but unsweetened mint-tea. Finishing the rusk, he flipped the crumbs off the desktop, and then turned to the housekeeper, stating what had come to his mind ever again those last days.

"I just cannot grasp how the shirt could have ended up amongst the bedsheets by mistake."

Frithuswith sighed. "Just due to folly. One of the maids found it when removing the pillowcase. She had never seen anything like that and so she called the others and soon there was a flock of giggling girls in the king's bedroom ogling the garment and... well I do not really want to know what they did and said."

Éomer decided he did not want to know either, though he could imagine only too well. A delicate, semi-transparent garment, richly embroidered, hidden under the king's pillow. Certainly they had thought it a woman's garment... He stifled a groan. Giving him a curious glance, Frithuswith continued.

"Anyway, when Ymma entered on her inspection of the maids' work one of the girls shoved the shirt quickly into the bundle of linen on the floor, lest Ymma scold them. That's the reason why Ymma never realised that there was anything like a shirt between the sheets. She later sent the washerwomen to collect the bundle and soak it... Well, the rest your already know."

He nodded. "I'll just have to accept it, Frithuswith." Giving her a faint smile, he added: "I suppose I'll call it a day and go to bed if only to strengthen your rumours about the king being sick."

She eyed him doubtfully, but then collected her tray and made to leave. "Good night, Éomer. And don't you worry. Certainly the messenger will be able to start tomorrow morning for Minas Tirith with that letter of yours to your princess. And with the speed of thawing, you will have an answer very soon."

He nodded, careful not to give away how much her words increased his pain. When she had left he put the two official missive aside. His counsellors would deal with them, and the next morning would be soon enough to hand the over. He did not feel like going back to the hall though it was still early and he was thankful for the excuse Frithuswith had offered him, but he knew that he would find no sleep going to bed that early. Again he scanned the letter. Where was she now? And what was she doing? The rusks had brought vivid images of their sailing trip to his inner eye, and he was only too willing to let his mind linger on them again.

Lothíriel, staring at Mardil's approaching boat with furious determination... Lothíriel, clambering along the side of the precariously heeling boat to inform her brother at the tiller of her plans how to best that scum... Lothíriel, her face contorted with pain, the rope cutting into her wrist, and yet stubbornly refusing to climb inboard … Lothíriel at the prow of the boat, giving her own life into the hands of the wayward god of the likewise seas if only he helped her to destroy Mardil... Lothíriel, struggling in his arms, her fingernails digging into his skin as he held her, preventing her from leaping into the eddies of Aeglir Caragon, when she had thought Amrothos to have drowned.

He folded the letter to put it away. It was useless to try and fool himself. That last situation had been the only one when he had protected her. And even in that case he had protected her only from herself, no matter how she herself had seen it. She was strong and valiant... and reckless once she had set her mind on something. And he loved her for these traits.

He felt the heat of a blush crawl up his neck as the realisation slowly but inevitably manifested itself in his mind: Though he had warned her, had given her the possibility to get out of the engagement, deep inside, in the very foundations of his heart he hoped, and hoped desperately, that she would set his warnings at naught. He swallowed, the muscles of his jaws bulging as he gritted his teeth, his fists clenched in a futile attempt to control his shame and frustration. He would never admit it to anyone, but he knew it made no sense to fool himself. No matter how much he despised his hidden weakness, he hoped she would have the courage to face fate and decide to stay at his side.

He heaved a deep breath. It did not matter what he wished for. It was for her to decide.

Annotations:

Many thanks to Lady Blue Jay for helping me with the language.