Chapter 3 – Seeds
When Imrahil had called for her to accompany him to dinner, he found Lothíriel arrayed in a simple but flattering dress in a style favoured by the ladies of Belfalas. She had chosen the colour, a soft dove grey, to accent her sea-grey eyes and black hair. A short rope of creamy pearls, harvested from the Bay of Belfalas many years ago, glowed at her throat. Her hair had been coiled neatly at the nape of her neck with a few pearl-topped pins securing it into place. In short, Lothíriel was the picture of a noble and modest lady. Imrahil smiled approvingly as he took in the sight.
'You are the image of your mother, Lothíriel,' he said, 'come, take my arm.'
And with that, father and daughter proceeded to the private dining room of the King of Gondor. They were the last of the King's guests to arrive.
They entered a small annexe off the main hall and were greeted by a well-warmed room and a set table. The King stood by the fire talking with his Queen and when Imrahil and Lothíriel came into view, he came to welcome them. Éomer and his sister were already seated at the table, with Faramir by Éowyn's side. As Lothíriel stepped forward to accept the King's greeting the candlelight lit her face with its soft glow.
Éomer's hand stalled in the act of lifting a cup to his lips. Lothíriel looked otherworldly. The paleness of her skin was brought to life by the pearls she wore and the colour of her dress. The darkness of her hair, dressed close to her shapely head, brought out the intense grey of her eyes. Éomer became aware that he was staring when his sister jogged his arm, giving him a moon-faced look clearly meant to mirror his own. Éomer put the cup down quickly, clearing his throat.
'And now dinner can finally be served!' said Faramir genially, watching Éomer with a glint of amusement in his eyes. It seemed the King of Rohan was definitely smitten with the lady of Dol Amroth.
Aragorn himself handed Lothíriel to a seat next to Éomer. Once seated, she gave him a shy smile and made a polite inquiry as to how he enjoyed the festivities of the previous night.
'It was a merry night, my Lady,' he replied. Her eyes smiled back at him and Éomer couldn't help staring into them. They had an intriguing way of shifting shades, one moment, grey as slate and the next the colour of a cloudy sky. In truth, her eyes had captured him from the first. When he had turned yesterday to berate the woman for insulting Éowyn, he had not expected to be so instantly captivated. She had held his gaze boldly then, before he had made himself known to her and watched her haughtiness dissipate into blushes. But the blushing girl of yesterday was gone, replaced by a lady of impeccable manners and poise. The possibilities began to shine in his mind.
Of a sudden, he had a mental flash of Lothíriel at Edoras, seated in the Golden Hall by his side. The clarity of the vision took his breath away and he choked on the last mouthful of wine in his cup.
Lothíriel was immediately all concern for him. She pulled out her napkin and held it to his lips, blotting the wine and bidding him take deep breaths. Éomer smiled unseen into the napkin and inhaled obediently until she seemed satisfied with his progress.
Oh yes, this lady was one worthy of consideration. He wondered what Imrahil would think of formalising the friendship between Belfalas and Rohan with a betrothal and caught the Prince of Dol Amroth viewing the pair of them with an indulgent and unmistakably self-satisfied expression on his face.
Éomer smiled back at Imrahil and had the satisfaction of seeing the man colour slightly as though guilty of something. Ah, thought Éomer, so that is the way of it.
Turning to Lothíriel, Éomer returned her napkin, gently pressing it into her hands, holding them for a moment between his own. They felt surprisingly strong and slightly calloused to him and he spoke without thinking, 'You do not sit at needlework at your father's court, my Lady, your hands are not those of an idle lady's.'
Lothíriel's face flamed and Éomer knew immediately that he had erred. Lothíriel quickly removed her hands from his grip and folded them into her lap, hiding them.
They were her only failure as a lady. She refused to wear gloves when out riding and as a result her hands were those of a groom's, as her maids were constantly reminding her. But Lothíriel hated the leather gloves that the other ladies wore whenever they stepped outside the four walls of their dwellings. She found the thick leather limited her control of Nimrodel's reins. She looked away from Éomer and concentrated instead on what the King was saying about the re-building of the city, trying to ignore the feelings of shame and disappointment rising inside.
Éomer felt a sharp pain as his sister jabbed him unmercifully in the ribs. He grunted slightly at the impact and glared at Éowyn but she only snorted at him derisively and then kicked him under the table for good measure.
'Fool!' she whispered, 'in polite company, one is supposed to compliment a Lady not imply she has the hide of an Orc!'
Éomer winced for he knew his sister was quite correct. Even Gríma would have done better with Lothíriel than he had tonight.
Turing back to the lady on his other side he made a few inconsequential remarks about the meal hoping to draw her back into conversation.
The other dinner guests appeared not to notice the lady of Dol Amroth's growing coolness towards the King of Rohan or his attempts to recapture her attention.
Lothíriel seemed unmoved by his efforts and turned ever away from him. At last the evening was drawing to a close and the guests rose from the table, but Faramir called for their attention.
'I have an announcement to make,' he said cheerfully taking Éowyn's hand in his own, 'to my everlasting joy, the Lady of Rohan has consented to be my wife!' Éowyn smiled at her betrothed and the King and his wife both smiled secret smiles of their own.
The news was hardly unexpected but everyone joined enthusiastically in the clapping and cheering, including Lothíriel. 'Happiness to you both, cousin,' she said to Faramir and then she kissed Éowyn upon the cheek. The Lady of Rohan returned her embrace and then neatly spun Lothíriel into Éomer 's arms. 'Now embrace my brother, for we are all soon to be family!' she cried gaily, with a look of pure mischief on her face.
Éomer grasped Lothíriel by the shoulders and looked down into grey eyes, now the colour of shale.
For a moment, time was suspended and the two regarded each other while merriment and gaiety whirled around them in the wake of Faramir's announcement.
'My Lady, if I have said anything to offend you, then I'm truly sorry,' said Éomer sincerely.
'Think nothing of it, my Lord,' answered Lothíriel, 'now we are evenly matched for careless words, are we not?'
She shrugged herself free of his grasp and walked away. At least that was her plan. Éomer's grip was not lightly broken and Lothíriel found she was held firmly in place. She was not a weakling but movement was impossible without creating an obvious scene and Lothíriel had had quite enough of those for a while. Éomer gazed down upon her and she could not help but stare back at him.
It was then she had a sudden inkling of why her father recommended the King of Rohan so highly to her.
The eyes that regarded her so seriously were a clear blue-green, as changeable as her own and like unto the sea. His face was stern but there was a hint of humour around his mouth as he held her motionless. Suddenly she wanted simply to make him smile.
'Can we not be friends, my Lady?' he asked softly.
'It seems we cannot, my Lord King,' she replied, ruefully, 'we cannot even say two words to each other without offence being taken.'
'That is mostly my fault,' he said then, 'for I am not accustomed to the company of noble ladies such as yourself. My home is on horseback, riding about the Mark, hunting Orcs and fighting and having little time for the more frivolous things in life.'
'And I spend my time reading or in study,' she answered.
'What do you study, my Lady?' he asked.
'The frivolous things in life,' she said acerbically, 'history, the great poets, the movement of the stars, the cycles of the sea, the planting of crops, the raising of animals…'
A silence fell and Éomer realised that conversation in the chamber had ceased and they were the centre of all eyes. Stepping back he released his grip on Lothíriel's shoulders.
She sighed then and dropped her eyes from his.
'I see,' was all he could manage to say.
Lothíriel's face coloured and he thought he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes.
'It seems we are destined to cause each other nothing but discomfort, my Lord King,' she said quietly and drifted away from him. Soon she was in conversation with the Queen whilst Éomer watched, alone and defeated.
After that the mood of the evening sobered somewhat and the party broke up quickly, with everyone seeking their bed-chambers for the night.
Once safely back in her chamber, Lothíriel sat slowly down next to the dying fire. Tears rolled down her cheeks as a strange kind of hopelessness took hold of her. Its exact cause eluded her but the best understanding she could muster was that she was mourning the loss of something she had never known. She had not succumbed to such tears since the death of her mother.
Her father had been right! Éomer was the man for her. Though his appearance was not as the Lords of her homeland, he cut a striking figure. Her memory called up his face against her will, the reddish gold of his beard and the piercing sea-green of his eyes. His golden hair worn long and undressed, like a barbarian, she thought feverishly. But there was nothing of savagery in Éomer's clear gaze. Those eyes would haunt her forever. In them, she could see the history of a proud people and a King worthy to rule them.
Her father had told her of his great courage in the face of seemingly certain defeat. Éomer had sang as he rallied the last stand of Rohan!
He towered over every other man she knew bar the King of Gondor.
But, oh! those green eyes were kind and his beard had felt soft to her fingers when she held the napkin to his mouth tonight. Her hands trembled at the memory.
Curse those rough skinned palms! It was the first time she regretted not following her maid's advice about wearing riding gloves.
And curse her quick tongue! Once it had caused embarrassment but now it had wounded her more unbearably than she had thought possible.
Éomer walked with his sister and Faramir to their quarters. The King of Rohan walked in silence but for different reasons than the happy pair beside him. Looking at Éowyn, he felt deep joy that she had at last found contentment. The despair of Gríma's rule had almost consumed her spirit. Now she seemed more like the young girl he remembered from childhood, before their father had been killed and their mother had died. At least he had had the release of riding to battle whilst her, no less martial, spirit had remained trapped at Edoras, forced to witness their uncle's slow demise.
But he could not suppress a small stab of envy as he saw Éowyn and Faramir kiss goodnight, their eyes lingering on each other. Éomer longed to have a woman look at him they way they looked at each other.
For one moment, when he had held her still, he thought he had seen…something…a flash of realisation?…in Lothíriel's luminous grey eyes. Whatever it was, it had stopped his breath and made the outside world disappear completely.
Cursing under his breath, he bade a brief goodnight to his sister and sought his own chamber.
Why did he have to be so clumsy in conversation? His first mistake had been in drawing attention to her hands. In Rohan, the women, the ladies included, had all done hard work with their hands and his remark had been meant to compliment Lothíriel's obvious industriousness. His second mistake had been the using the word frivolous in an effort to mitigate his earlier error. He had seen her bridle at that instantly and her reply left him in no doubt as to her usefulness at Belfalas.
But it was the helpless sadness in her eyes that had touched him the most. As though she wanted to call back her words and speak with him in a place where their awkwardness would not be witnessed.
Éomer cheered himself with the thought that they would have more time together before Imrahil took his daughter back to Dol Amroth. He brightened further when he remembered the approving look the Prince had given them earlier. Her father would be an invaluable ally to have in the war to win her over.
His plans set, the King of Rohan retired to his chamber for a night of uneasy sleep haunted by eyes the colour of the sea.