Morning Rising

Lea of Mirkwood

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A month passed since Éoleth came to Edoras. She had spent this month in the stables, proving herself to the Rohirrim there. She had the bruises to mark for it. Every piece of tack was gleaming at the end of each day, and there would not be a single chance of any of the horses foundering, for at the end of each day she cleaned out their hooves with a small metal pick. Each mount was brushed carefully and checked for saddle sores. This had been her life for the past month. And she loved it.

Éoleth sat down at her bed, wiping sweat from her forehead with one sleeve. A long hard day's work. She had risen at dawn and left her room to go to the stables. There she had needed to deal with Limstrang, Éomer's tiny colt, and the prickers he had stepped in and danced out of. She remembered Éomer's horrified face when she came leading the little spindly-legged grey colt in, with thin streams of blood running down his forelegs and down to the hocks. He had been so relieved when they had cleaned away the blood and he saw that it was only a few minor scratches. However, in releasing the poor creature and removing the thorns, she had scratched up her own hands as well. She winced as the salt of her sweat seeped into the shallow lacerations, and quickly blew on them. She stood up again and moved to the basin of water in the corner of her room and carefully washed her hands. The scratches were little more than the length of her smallest fingernail, and not very deep. Still, they stung when touched, and the small red lines crept up her arms to her elbows. As she was examining them, and trying to decide whether to wrap them with cloth or let them stay in the air, there was a knock on the door. She looked up sharply.

"Come in!" she called, letting her arms drop to her sides. The door opened a crack and Théodred leaned his head in with a welcoming smile.

"Good afternoon, lady Éoleth!" he said with a smile.

"Evening, evening, Lord Théodred," corrected the older woman with a twinkle in her eye.

"Pardon. Evening. My father wishes for you to dine with us tonight. Do you think you could manage to come?"

"Manage, my lord?" replied Éoleth coolly, quirking an eyebrow. "I am sure I can manage."

"Good then!" said Théodred. "I will go tell my father."

He closed the door, nodding his head to her as she went. Éoleth smiled calmly as the door closed, smiling smiling smiling- the door closed. She leapt up from her bed and threw open the doors of her wardrobe, flipping through the long row of new dresses. Most were far too ornate than was her taste. Long sleeves, long sleeves, thought Éoleth. I will not show up at the King's table with scratches all up and down my arms. Thank the mountains Théodred had not been in the stables at all today, and he missed my horrific show of neglect. Of course it was not Éomer's fault Limstrang got caught in the prickers. Mine, all mine. I let him out and didn't watch. I should have known, he's only a baby. But so is Éomer. Now which one is this?

She lifted out a grey dress with long, flowing sleeves. The fabric was less adorned than the others, and only a slight stitching at the bodice to tighten the fabric at the waist. The neckline was trimmed in a dark red ribbon about the width of her finger, which was quite sparse compared to the, horrors of horrors, elaborate and formal gown in the back of the wooden bureau. Slipping her brown shift over her head, Éoleth started to undo the ties keeping the chemise up at her neckline. The neckline of this one was far too high to be unseen when she wore the grey dress. That was the problem as well, all of her gowns were too low cut for her taste, down at least a hand from her collarbone. (Sideways, not lengthways. A hand in equestrian terms is four inches.) She searched among the drawers until she found a lower chemise, and a clean underskirt. She started to put it on quickly.

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Théoden sat down at the head of the table and looked to his right, where sat his son. He frowned and looked at the doors of the great hall.

"Lady Éoleth did say she would be coming, did she not?" he asked, looking to his son. Théodred nodded.

"Yes, she did. No problem about it."

Théoden lifted his shoulders and sighed. "Any delays she mentioned?"

"None."

Éomer flushed and looked down at his plate, remembering the red scratches up and down her arms. Éowyn looked up at the doors and started to play with the flowers in the vase in front of her plate. She looked down at the small red blossoms and ran her finger along the edge of the petal. Finally the doors creaked open and in walked Éoleth, looking not much different than she did during the days that they saw her. Her hair was still pulled back as tightly as ever, and there was still the same proud lift of her chin.

"Good, my lady. I was beginning to think you were not coming," said Théoden good-naturedly. Éoleth seated herself in the chair that Théodred proffered, to his right across from Éowyn. Éoleth smiled, feeling like her head was about to explode.

"No, my lord. I would not miss such a chance to dine with my king and his relatives," she said, setting her cloth napkin on her lap and smoothing out the creases. Théoden smiled back at her, seeing she was extremely uncomfortable.

"I am honored to be considered so highly in your esteem," he said, enjoying the quick banter.

"You are the king, my lord, and have done many admirable things during your reign. That in itself would demand respect."

"So you think there may be something else about me that might not demand respect, or might take respect away?"

"Not at all, my lord. I simply meant that you automatically had my respect, but that you were also known as a bit...aloof."

"So you think I am aloof and cold?"

Éoleth tilted her head to the side, trying desperately to claw herself out of the hole she had dug herself into. "Let us simply say that you improve on closer acquaintance."

"But you have not spent so much time with me as to know that." Théoden winked at his son, who groaned and covered his face with a hand.

Must he try every visitor that comes to Edoras?

"The simple fact that you have allowed me to live here and take up work in your stables shows you to be of good character," said Éoleth, wishing the meal would hurry up and come, so she could have the excuse of a mouth full of food so she would avoid putting her foot in it again. Mercifully the doors opened almost in reply to her fervent thoughts, and a few women walked in bearing a platter of meat, setting it down on the table in their midst. Éoleth sighed and Théodred shot her a sympathetic look.

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"Please pass the butter."

The inane comment made by Éowyn attempted blindly to break the tension in the room. Éoleth's sleeves were sliding up her arms, and the scratches were almost visible. For some reason, the woman was loath to let them be seen by more than Éomer. As Éoleth reached across the table for the butter dish, her sleeve inched upwards. As the red lines started to fall into the light, Éomer collapsed into a coughing fit, covering his mouth with his hands as he coughed loudly. All eyes turned to him, except for Éoleth, who handed the butter to an inattentive Éowyn and pulled her sleeves down over her knuckles. She smiled at Éomer in reassurance, and the youth immediately ceased coughing, causing several suspicious looks to be sent his way. If it would not have given the game up altogether, Éoleth would have smacked her hand to her forehead. Théoden looked back to his food, occasionally giving Éomer a stern glare.

"How was life in your village, lady Éoleth?" asked Théoden suddenly, making Éoleth feel like a deer facing down a bow.

"Err..." she stalled, trying to remember what life had been like back when it had been a village. "It was small."

She scrambled in her mind for some more definite details that might be the least bit interesting. "I had cows. The village had cows. We, um, raised cows. A little bit."

She looked at Théoden's patient expression for a few more beats and then let her shoulders slump. "My lord, it was a long time since there were more than me in the ghost village. They died several years ago, and it has been just me in my old house. I really don't remember much of the village life. What would you like to know?"

"Nothing," said Théoden in consternation. "I did not know. I wish to know nothing, if the memory pains you so."

"It does not pain me, not any more. It has been years since I thought of them and of the village."

Éoleth, in her sudden need to be understood, threw her arms up in the air, sending her sleeves up to her elbows. Too late, she realized her forearms were exposed for all to see. Théodred gaped openly at the red lines marring her skin, like pine needles on sand. Théoden creased his brow, and Éoleth fancied that if the sun were out, it would have darkened due to that fell gleam in his eye. She dropped her arms back into her lap and looked down.

"Please pass the butter."

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I felt that might be a funny place to end that chapter. Please review. I swear, a Théoden romance isn't really repulsive, is it?