One
Rohan's plains were forever rich in splendour during the summer. The long grasses were coloured by heavy purple heads of lavender, yellow primroses, the blues of larkspurs, forget-me-nots and cornflowers, white dog-roses, pale pink soapwort and the bright pink of harlequins. Horses grazed here and there, their coats glossy and their muscles strong. The silvery passages of the rivers sliced across the plains, and Fangorn sat heavy and dark. The mountains were tinged with purple and edged with snow on their tall speaks. Edoras shone gold and copper in the everlasting sunlight, and the people of Rohan felt at peace.
The dawn had come bright to Rohan, sparking the snow-capped mountains coral pink and lavender and leaden blue. The carved horse heads on each house in Edoras ignited gold, and the plains were turned emerald. Arìanna rose early, checking on the sleeping form of her grandmother before breaking her fast and leaving to see Caradien. The stables were still, the sweet smell of hay and horse strong on the air, and the sun slanted in golden rays, and there was little sound apart from the lazy shifting of the horses. From a window, light spilled onto the golden back of Caradien; the palomino coat glistening magnificently. She snickered and lifted her head when she saw her mistress and Arìanna smiled.
"Good morning, Carrie," she said, running a gentle hand over the silky neck and burying her face into the flaxen mane. She picked up a brush and began to methodically and slowly groom her horse, all the while murmuring nonsense words. It soothed the drowsy horse, and the velvety eyes were hooded and her square head drooping as she dozed. This was Arìanna's paradise, her respite from the enclosing walls of her home, which she shared with her brother Frinan and her grandmother Freyja. She had never gone far from home – trapped by her own promises and her brother's commitments – and so resented any enfolding places.
Éomer thought he was alone with Firefoot when he first stepped into the stables, but quickly noticed movement in the stall opposite his dapple grey. It was a lady, her hair braided and her dress made from cream with a sapphire bodice. She whispered to her horse, all the while grooming. He smiled as he levelled with the woman. Her hair was satiny and the colour of honey. Éomer, with his golden-brown eyes, dark blonde hair and even darker eyebrows and beard, studied her sharply in a few seconds, sweeping his gaze up and down as he approached the stall.
"Good morning, milady," he said, startling the woman out of her nonsensical words.
"Good morning, milord," she replied, dipping her knees in a brief curtsey and bowing her head. "It is good to see one up so early to tend to his horse." She had blue-green eyes and freckles over her nose and cheekbones, her skin fair.
"Indeed. I had thought I were the only one," he said mildly, picking up a brush.
"Oh no, milord. I often rise early," she smiled, and went back to her work, starting to pick knots from the horse's pale mane with a comb, and murmuring again. It seemed to be a mix of the common tongue, their language and various others words put in. He was curious to hear more, and so strained his ears.
After a while in silence between them, with only the shuffling of hooves and the sound of brushing to accompany them, Éomer spoke again.
"Forgive my rudeness, but what language do you speak?" The woman blushed.
"Oh, it is just nonsense, milord." She looked young – no more than twenty winters.
"But am I right in hearing the Elven tongue?" This time, the woman blushed even further, hiding her head. Her hair fell in a soft sheet to cover her face.
"Yes, milord. My grandmother taught it to myself and my brother."
"Then, you are Freyja's granddaughter," he said – Freyja was famous for her healing. She had travelled far and wide in her youth, and rumoured to have spent some time with the elves in Rivendell, learning their practices. It was widely known that she spoke the language – and was often ridiculed by the women gossipers for it.
"Yes, milord."
"Enough with the courteous words!" he exclaimed. "My name is Éomer, and I prefer it to the simpering milord's I get from every woman and man I meet. Tell me, what is your name?"
"Arìanna, mi– Éomer. It means silver lady in Elvish. My grandmother insisted that I be called after the Eldar People. My brother, Frinan, was after my father. He once rode with Théoden's éored."
"And now your brother rides with Théodred. I know him," Éomer smiled. "He is a skilled bowman."
"Aye, so I have heard," she shrugged, concentrating on her horse's mane. "I would wish to ride also, but I have learnt my mother's trade, which she in turn learnt from my grandmother." Her voice was bitter with regret.
"A healer?" Éomer was interested, and leant on the wall of the stall. "You know the Elvish remedies."
"Some," Arìanna shrugged evasively.
"Then I shall be calling on you if I am ever in need!" he laughed. "I hear Freyja has delegated her role. How goes she?" There was silence.
"She is well," Arìanna replied tightly. There was a pause, in which Éomer studied her closely, and she steadfastly avoided his gaze.
"I have not seen her about much," he provided tactfully.
"No. She prefers the coolness of her apothecary room. She helps me in my learning of the trade. She does not need to leave the house much. Not to visit Meduseld, anyhow, now Gríma is there," Arìanna said abruptly. Her comb dug through knots angrily, and Éomer did not trust her temper further. There was silence, as he finished grooming Firefoot. He picked up a saddle and bridle.
"Well, I am riding through the eastfold today and must leave." She looked at Caradien's neck under demurely lowered lashes.
"I am sorry if I was too oppressive in my words, milord. There are just some things I cannot talk about. I feel I spoke out of turn."
"I had told you to call me Éomer," he replied, his voice not stern, but gentle and sympathetic. The timbre of his voice was deep and intense. She raised her eyes to his, and found an intake of breath catching in her chest as she met with eyes the amber colour of an eagle's, soft in colour and emotion. He smiled. She smiled tentatively back. "You need not fear losing your turn with me. My ears are for my use." His glanced was meaningful as he tightened the girth. "I will let you in peace. I am glad to have met you, Arìanna."
"Aye, and I am glad to have met you, Éomer," she said, curtseying again. She watched him lead his horse out of the stables, sighing heavily and wanting desperately to run after him. Caradien snickered softly, brushing her silky nose into the outstretched palm of her mistress.
………
That evening, Éomer sat at the high table with the other Marshals. Below them, on long trestle tables, spread the éoreds of Théoden. To his left sat Théodred, the king's son. His chair was high-backed and ornate, and his platter copper, trimmed with gold. But the prince touched nothing of the food, and barely sipped the goblet of wine before him. Éomer ate nervously, glancing across to his cousin frequently. Finally, he leant over and asked quietly:
"What ails you, cousin?" Théodred's eyes flickered with a dark mirth, before he replied gravely;
"Only what has ailed me these past months. The orcs grow more confident, and Gríma is pouring more poison into my father each day."
"And what of Léola?" he smirked, sharing a smile with Théodred.
"She goes well." His face darkened again. "But our time together is somewhat jaded with all this." He waved his hand to encompass the hall. Éomer shrugged.
"Cousin, not even I can help you in this turmoil." Théodred smiled.
"Aye, but it is good to talk. I plan to drive the herds in the westfold nearer to Edoras. Would you aid me?"
"Of course. We may start on the morrow, if you will." Silently, Éomer decided that an early rise would give him a chance to see the mysterious Arìanna again. Which reminded him… he rose and passed down the aisle separating the table of Théodred's éored and his own. Frinan sat quietly, preferring to observe the events around him rather than join in. Éomer rested a hand on his shoulder, and the man glanced up.
The pale skin was like to his sister's, but his strong build denied their relationship.
"Milord?" he questioned, and few of his companions grew silent.
"I met your sister, Arìanna, today in the stables," he said. Frinan broke into a smile.
"Aye. She is often there." Then his face darkened. "I am sorry if she said anything to offend you – I am afraid she has the Rohirrim fiery spirit, and a truth-speaking mouth that says more than it should." Éomer smiled.
"She did not offend me," he paused, then added. "She is a fine woman, and you should be proud." Frinan beamed from ear to ear.
"I am," he replied, before Éomer left the hall and stood on the terrace, looking out over his beloved plains, the dark teeth of the mountains silhouetted against the inky black sky.
He folded his arms over his chest, intending to take his thoughts to the herds he would be tracking and driving tomorrow. Instead, Éomer thought of Arìanna and her long, flowing hair. It was the colour of honey, of clear yellow wine, even of the delicate petals of wild primroses. Her eyes shone with cornflower-blue and jade-green, an intense yet soft whirl that made him nearly senseless and insane with need. Her long, smooth limbs, temptingly hidden in the cream and sapphire dress. He had known physical desire before – the women in Meduseld were of the highest beauty – but this drove him wild. He craved the seemingly plain woman. He could swear he had seen her before. And perhaps he had, about Edoras, on her errands. But oddly, it felt as if there was another connection to her. Her voice was silky and familiar, and her stance so confident, it raged at some half-lost memory in desperation.
- - -
Arìanna lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her room impassively. A crack of moon-filled night spilt onto her bed through the half-closed window. She sighed, passing a hand over her eyes as she tried to lose the thoughts that doggedly clung to her mind. She envisioned Éomer – proud and keen, with a fierce, clear gaze like that of eagles and the long-legged pace of a hunting cat. His shoulders were wide, and his body strong and muscular. His skin was sun-kissed from his duties across the plains, and his hands callused from the work of years. Her heart pounded in her chest, so loud she feared that her grandmother would hear it the room the next door. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, afraid of the dreams to come, but more afraid of a sleepless night, haunted by the king's nephew.