A/N: wow, guys, i smiled all the way through reading my reviews. thankies, everyone! and yeah, fey would be a good word to describe lothiriel...i was thinking tease, but i like fey much better.
btw, i'm trying to come up with a better title than "the tender grace." any suggestions are welcome, and if i use the one you give me, i'll give you a present.
disclaimer i have not a penny to my name. i make no profit from this.
Chapter II
After he had bathed and eaten, Éomer decided to explore the palace. It was a large maze of open halls that connected wings and often opened into gardens. He walked through the stone corridors, marveling at the intricate details in everything from the floor tiles to the carvings in the ceiling. Even the great hall of Meduseld was not this elaborate. In fact, it seemed to Éomer that it was almost too fair to be of this world. As he walked along, one of the gardens caught the young marshal's eye. Weeping willows created a natural barrier between the hallway and the garden itself, but Éomer could see a fountain through the foliage. Intrigued, he followed the path through the trees.
The garden was filled with the sound of bubbling streams. Blue and purple flowers spilled over some of the fountains, and vines snaked around the columns of a small gazebo. No two fountains were the same: one was of children playing, another was of fair maidens dancing. One was even an archer with his bow taught and ready; from his arrow came a steady stream of water that fell into a pool.
"I see you have found the fountain garden," said a voice from behind him. Éomer turned, though he already knew it was the princess who had found him. "It is my favorite garden in all the city."
"Fountain garden?" he repeated. "It is an appropriate name, though I have never heard of such a thing."
Lothíriel laughed softly. "Few outside of Dol Amroth have. Many, many years ago, before my father's father was born, even, one of the ladies of the nobility decided she wanted a garden. However, the lady did not want the garden to be filled with flowers that withered at the end of the warm season. So, she decided that her garden would be filled with water. Obviously, she also planted flowers, all of which return every spring. The fountain garden holds many beautiful fountains and statues, as you can see, but none of these are my favorite."
"What is your favorite, then?" he asked.
"The centaur, of course."
"Which is--?" He let the question hang in the air.
She smiled serenely and walked as one who had traveled the path many times, almost closing her eyes. "Come with me, and I will show you." She led him down the dirt path, stepping lightly among the summer blooms.
They turned a corner, and Éomer saw a sight he never would have dreamed existed. In the center of the garden stood a pedestal, and on top of that pedestal stood a grey-black statue of a creature, half-human, half-horse, in mid-gallop. His hair flew back, and he seemed to be smiling at the feel of an imagined wind on his face. Éomer had never seen a more amazing work of art. If he hadn't known better, he would have believed it to be real.
"What is it?" he asked, turning to Lothíriel.
"It is called 'The Centaur.' The sad thing is, the name of the craftsman has been lost. No one knows who carved the statue, nor do we know from whence he came. Some say it was an Elf who came from the Undying Lands. Others say it was a man from the farthest reaches of the East who had actually seen such a creature. Still others say that it was a half-blind man who saw one of your people and believed him to be half-horse." She laughed again; something Éomer was beginning to realize was a common occurrence. "Personally, I rather like the last."
"Do you mean that, or do you say such for my benefit?" he asked, smiling.
"Neither. And both."
"You present a paradox, my lady."
"Do I?" she asked, raising her eyebrows and circling away from Éomer. "Or are you just trying to make sense out of things that should be left alone?"
"Or perhaps you are the paradox."
"You catch on quickly, milord." She smiled. "Few join me in my word games, and fewer still see them for what they are so soon. My brother Amrothos plays with me quite well, he is by far the best adversary I have, but most only just get by. Elphir hates it and refuses to play."
"Elphir?" he asked, wary of his earlier mistakes in the princess's relations.
"My eldest brother." She shrugged. "He is far too serious for his own good. Erchirion and Amrothos, on the other hand, are nearly too mischievous for anyone's good." She began to walk away, heading back toward the entrance of the garden. Éomer followed behind. "Would you like a tour of the palace, milord?" she asked, suddenly formal.
"Yes, if you please."
"Where should we start? You've already seen much of the gardens, so we shan't tarry here. Would you like to see the halls? The kitchens?" She paused. "The training grounds?"
"The training grounds, I believe."
"Good. I would have taken you there anyway, no matter if you'd said the highest tower in palace. There is a talcoron match today," said Lothíriel. "You are in for a treat, milord. It is a magnificent sport."
They walked in amicable silence for a while, until Éomer could hear the shouts of what sounded like young men playing a game. They turned a corner and were greeted by the sight of many people surrounding a field and cheering two teams of squires on. "What did you say this was called, milady?" he asked.
"Talcoron," she answered. "Tis Elvish for 'foot-ball.' Why?"
"We play the same sport, though our people call it 'sokar.' I have played many a match in younger days."
The princess laughed. "You are not so old that you no longer play, are you?"
"Nay," he replied, "but my new duties as a marshal greatly limit the amount of free time I now have. There is little room for sport when there are orcs to hunt." Éomer felt the princess stiffen beside him at the mention of the dark creatures. He wondered if perhaps he had touched a nerve on accident, but she quickly recovered.
"I think there are some empty seats down by the other goal," she said. "Shall we go?" And with that she hurried through the crowd, Éomer not far behind.