Chapter 5

There were some moments where Lothiriel felt like being a Healer's apprentice was the best thing in the whole world.

One such moment had been when she had helped deliver a baby for the first time. The first cry of the babe, the mother's relief and the father's awe had been such a precious moment.

Another moment that she adored was watching the joy on a little boy's face when he had been able to walk for the first time in his life with the help of a clever little brace the mistress Ioreth had designed.

Then there were moments where she wished she had some ancient magic or elven powers to make her work easier for her. Or, in this particular case, she wished for the fortitude of a troll's nose.

Lothiriel was currently hunched over a bubbling cauldron of goo that wafted the smell of rotten eggs with a hint of orc breath. The noxious fumes curled through the air and into her sinuses, turning her brain to mush. The smell was potent enough to make her head swim, which was a good thing because it meant that the ointment she was making was also of the right potency.

Wiping the thin sheen of sweat that had formed on her brow, she reached on a table beside her and added another handful of the dreadfully fragrant (and aptly named) skunk cabbage leaves to the cauldron, stirring it vigorously into the goo. Hopefully, the smell would die down once she'd cooled and bottled the ointment for use. Though it burned a person's nose off, the ointment had a multitude of benefits in preventing wounds from festering and relieving pain.

Using her ladle, Lothiriel scooped up a small amount of the goo and spread on the back of her hand. It was the exact color and consistency of cat vomit. Which meant a successfully completed batch.

Carefully, she lifted the handle of the cauldron and withdrew it from the hearth, setting it on the cool stone floor by the only window in the room. Wiping her hands on her apron, Lothiriel went to a cupboard and grabbed a handful of glass jars.

As the contents of the cauldron cooled, Lothiriel went to sit by the open window, drawing in a refreshing breath of cool air. She was currently in a brewing room on the upper level of the Houses, and her window looked out over the garden with its neat little rows of plants and a fountain sporting the figure of a nymph with water spouting from her hands.

The heat of the day was tempered by the cooling touch of wind, and Lothiriel closed her eyes to savor the sensation. A distant murmur of masculine voices interrupted the tinkling of the fountain below.

Her heart stuttered as if it knew what she would find even before her eyes flew open and landed on a figure below. Of course, it was none other than the King of Rohan, currently walking towards the garden with a red haired Rohirrim who limped beside him, aided by a crutch.

She recognized him as one of the riders who was recuperating in the Houses.

Eomer seemed to be listening intently as the rider talked animatedly, his mouth pulling into a huge grin at something the king said. With a few more fast-paced words, the rider bowed to Eomer, before turning and walking away, a skip in his steps evident despite his limp.

Eomer watched him go, running a hand through his hair. Then he turned towards the fountain, his frown apparent even from this distance. Lothiriel wondered what had transpired to make him look so glum. By all appearances, it had been a happy tale the man before had been telling him, so it didn't explain the pensiveness on his face now.

Eomer's shoulders stiffened imperceptibly then, and as if pulled by a string his face lifted and looked right at her.

Acutely conscious of her sweaty and unkempt appearance, she almost crouched out of sight before thinking the better of it. She had made a fool of herself around him enough times, it was better to just be nonchalant.

She just happened to be looking out the window and he just happened to be standing there, it was not like she was watching him or spying on him.

So she raised her hand in greeting, unable to keep a soft smile stretching her lips. She was about to call out to him, wondering if his ribs were better.

Before she could though, Eomer turned and then walked away into the Houses.

Ah, so he was not in the mood to chat.

It must not have been a happy conversation, after all. Whatever he had been talking about with his rider evidently weighed heavy on his shoulders.

Lothiriel tried to imagine the difficulties he must be facing in having the responsibilities of a whole people thrust on him so suddenly. She supposed she could empathize with him.

Still, if there was anyone more suited for the noble mantle of King, Lothiriel could not imagine someone more worthy than Eomer. From the long moments she had spent observing him, she knew that his men looked up to him, and would lay down their lives for him within a heartbeat. It only took a certain kind of leader to inspire that sort of loyalty from someone. And no matter how heavy his newfound burdens, Eomer certainly had the shoulders to carry them.

Dinner that night was more enjoyable for Lothiriel. No longer worried that Eomer would keel over and pass out in his soup from some mysterious wound, she was able to spend more time participating in the discussions taking place around the table.

Faramir had joined them tonight, and he was currently arguing in favor of intellectual pursuits with Erchirion.

"Just teach a man to recognize the constellations in the sky," he was saying, "and he will never get lost."

"Why spend years poring over books and letting your body rot," Erchirion retorted, chewing on a piece of stewed beef. "A man should spend his youth outdoors, whether it's training, riding, sailing. He will learn much more useful things from experience than from sitting with books all day."

"What do you think about this, Lothiriel?" Faramir said, turning to her with an amused smile.

Lothiriel rather thought he was trying to lobby an ally; her own love of books was no big secret. Being quite a peacemaker by nature, she declined to reinforce his side.

"Well, I think both are equally important. A healer, for instance, will only be as good as his experience, but to make sound judgements he must also be learned in books and knowledgeable in his craft."

"Very wise, sister." Amrothos said, raising his glass, while Erchirion and Faramir scowled at her.

Faramir then turned to Eowyn, and asked her own opinion.

"I'm sorry to say I have to side with Erchirion on this," she said, laughing, "I personally have never read a book that taught me anything useful."

"Ah, we'll have to fix that. I have some books on gardening which I can lend you, if you like." Lothiriel said.

Soon, the conversation turned to suggestions on useful books that both Eowyn and Erchirion could find of benefit.

Without her permission, Lothiriel's gaze wandered over to the opposite side of the table. Eomer was sitting there, on her father's right, and the both of them were engrossed in a serious conversation, lost in their own bubble of something important no doubt.

The strange pensive mood from earlier in the day still clung to him, and it concerned her greatly. Before dinner, she had greeted him and tried to strike up a conversation but he had barely said two words in reply before excusing himself. Whatever was bothering him about his business, she hoped her father would help him and offer sound advice.

But, perhaps, something else was the matter. Could it be that he hadn't found her salve after all. It couldn't hurt, resolved Lothiriel, to enquire.

So, after dinner was concluded, and her father retired to his study, and the rest of the group decided to take to the parlor with cards again, Eomer politely declined again and took his leave.

"Excuse me one moment." Lothiriel said to the room at large, as she went after him.

She caught him at the stairs and called out to him.

Eomer stopped, and turned around, his expression politely enquiring.

"My lord, I hope you got my salve. Are your ribs better now?" she asked as she sidled up to him.

"Yes, thank you." he replied curtly, and Lothiriel assumed he was answering to both her questions.

"I'm glad to hear that," she clasped her hands before her, "If there is anything else you require, please, don't hesitate to ask."

"I require nothing. You have been quite generous, my lady." with that, he gave a stiff bow, and turned away once more.

Somehow, his curt manner grated. It seemed somewhere between this morning and now, a shield had been raised between them, keeping everything but general courtesy from showing.

A horrible suspicion entered her mind, and Lothiriel called out before she could think better of it.

"Have I done something?"

Eomer stopped, and she climbed a few steps to catch up to him.

"Are you still angry because of last night? If so, do know I am sincerely sorry about it. In fact, I won't ever do it again."

"It's nothing." Eomer said.

"I- forgive me but I believe something is bothering you. Is there nothing I can do to help?"

Finally Eomer turned to her, looking directly into her eyes.

She fidgeted as he gazed down on her. There was a touch of hardness to them that she hadn't been expecting.

"This morning," he started, "Amrothos, when he discovered us alone, he thought there might be an understanding between the two of us."

"What? That is simply not true. Surely you told him the truth."

"I did." Eomer said, exhaling sharply. "I made it quite clear to him that there is nothing between us. We are merely acquaintances. And I want to make it clear to you too."

"To me?"

"Yes, I don't wish to give you false hopes."

Lothiriel froze. The blood seemed to pool out of her face, before returning hotly in a rush. Embarrassment, then anger flashed through her in a dizzying blur. She buried the hurt before her eyes could speak it.

He could not be implying what she thought he was implying.

For several beats, she struggled to make her mouth form words, before she took the effort to look him directly in the eyes. His eyes were shuttered, and unreadable.

Her own, she was sure, must look crazed.

His walking away at the Houses today. His dismissal before dinner. His decision to retire early to his room.

He wasn't feeling burdened by his duties. He was rebuffing her.

"Is this the reason for your rudeness then?" she asked.

"I have not been rude-" Eomer started, taking a step towards her in affront.

"No, of course not. Just curt and generally insulting. And false hopes? I assure you, I have no hopes regarding you, my lord."

"No? Forgive me for thinking so, especially considering our last couple of encounters where you have always been eager to-"

Eomer cut himself off abruptly, but she could almost hear the rest of his sentence unsaid between them.

Eager to throw yourself at me. Eager to seek me out. Eager to make a fool of yourself.

Her embarrassment became more acute, and Lothiriel found the air was refusing to fill her lungs completely.

"I have not been eager to do anything where you have been concerned," she snapped, her voice shrill and cutting. "There's a difference between admiring someone's looks and making advances at them. That day at the courtyard you may have overheard me doing the former, but never did I then nor since make any attempt at eagerness, my lord. I regret last night, you have no idea how much, but I was merely acting out of a misplaced sense of concern. And this morning, it was you who caught me at the stables. And if you think caring for an injured person is so desperate, then you may return the salve I made for you, and we'll think no more of it."

Lothiriel was aware she sounded awful and defensive. But she could not seem to care.

She had been such a fool. Maybe she did have false hopes. After this morning, she had thought they might become friends.

"Clearly my first impression of you was correct." she continued, "You have no interest in anything but your own self. I wish I had dyed your helmet pink after all."

With that, she picked up her skirts, and made to stomp away. But then she turned again and stepped close to him.

"And another thing. I have no hopes for you, or anyone else, for I have no desire to marry, and especially not someone from Rohan. I have better ideas on what to occupy myself with. Just thought I'd make it clear, so you do not get any false ideas either." she said.

Without waiting for a reply, she stomped downstairs, over to the back door and out to her garden.

Oh what a self-important man he was, to think that all she aspired in life was to have hopes of making a match with him. As if she didn't have her own dreams and future planned out already.

And even if she were of a mind to marry, she would prefer to marry someone closer to home, so she could be available to oversee the House of Healing in Dol Amroth once she had established one.

She could hardly do that all the way from Rohan.

After stewing in her garden for a while, and once she was sure enough time had elapsed for Eomer to have gone to his room, Lothiriel crept back inside and up the stairs.

I have been such a fool, she thought.

Once again, when it came to the King of Rohan, sense just seemed to desert her.

Well, on the bright side, this little argument should at least have cured her infatuation of the infuriating man. His arrogance was truly astounding, and she wondered how she had ever found him attractive.

It was well past the hour of the rooster's first call, and Miwien yawned as she sat down for breakfast.

She had overslept again. Her father, chief scribe at the citadel, had already left, and the cook had cleared away the table so she was breaking her fast with some cold tea and cakes.

Every day she made a resolution to wake up early, so she could go for a bracing walk around the city, and perhaps go to market, and for once eat real breakfast with her father.

But every morning, right before the sun came up, one or the other of her cats would start meowing and force her up from bed so she could feed them and let them out. And then she would fall into bed exhausted, and the next she opened her eyes it would already be close to noon.

"I love you, you silly thing." She told her cat Artanis, who was currently riveted by the journey of Miwien's cream cake from her plate to her mouth. "But no, no cream for you, as usual."

Elurin, who was less patient than Artanis and infinitely more resourceful, sauntered over and jumped into her lap. Then, before Miwien could stop him, he proceeded to knock the cake out of her hand. It fell onto the floor, followed by Elurin who proceeded to devour it.

"Oh no, no no no." Miwien said, shooing away the horde of cats and kittens that had come sniffing the cake. "No cream for you lot."

Somehow, she managed to salvage the cake, or what was left of it, with just a few irate hisses.

Just then there was a firm knock at the door, and Miwien glanced up in surprise. She was expecting Lothiriel at noon, but it was still a bit early. Maybe she had finished her day at the Houses sooner.

When Miwien opened the door, it was not Lothiriel she found, but her friend's father. His hand was raised as if to knock again.

"Oh, good morning." she said, trying to sound normal.

Then she realized she was still in her night shift and robe, and holding a piece of half eaten cream cake. Wonderful.

"Good morning, Miwien." Imrahil replied, lowering his hand as he looked her over before quickly, and politely, returning his eyes to her face. "I have some papers I need to collect. Is your father available?"

"I'm sorry, he just left for the citadel." she said.

It was a clear dismissal, and very cowardly of her. But Miwien needed him to leave so she could go to her room and scream into her pillow for having Imrahil catch her in an embarrassing manner again.

Imrahil made no move to leave. He stepped a bit closer.

"I'm sure Lord Brandir wouldn't mind if I looked in his study for a while." he said, his eyes narrowed.

It was clear he wouldn't leave without those papers. And then, Miwien realized she was being unreasonably rude. Prince Imrahil, of all people, had come in person to her house on probably very important and urgent business and she was turning him away.

Flushing, she stepped aside to allow him to come in. "Since you are already here, I suppose you can come in, my lord."

She recalled he had given her leave to call him by his name during their last meeting, but now that he was in front of her again she was too intimidated to do that. 'My lord' would suffice, she decided.

He swept past her and into the entry, waiting for her to point him to her father's study.

Just then, Artanis, Elurin and their gang of kittens wandered in. Elurin, the sycophant that he was, promptly started purring and walking around Imrahil, rubbing his cheeks on his boots. He could probably small the royalty on him.

Imrahil quickly stepped back. Ah, so he still disliked cats.

Of course, Elurin followed, so Miwien rushed forward and picked him up.

"Stop that, Elurin." she frowned.

And then came the first sneeze. With Elurin held practically under his nose, Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth, was suddenly struck by an attack of sneezing. Great, jarring sneezes that even managed to scare the cats away.

Oh. Oh no. This must be the reason for his dislike of cats.

The cats may have gone away, but Imrahil's sneezing seemed to become more and more violent. No place in this house was safe for the likes of him, Miwien realized with increasing dread. This place was like a death trap and he had unknowingly walked right into it.

"Oh, one of our old maids used to have the same problem." Miwien suddenly recalled through her panic-filled thoughts.

The poor old lady, during the short time she had served in their household, used to be afflicted with sneezing too if she was around the cats for too long, though not as severely as Imrahil. There was only one cat-free place in their small house that seemed to help her get over the attacks.

She needed to get Imrahil there, before she had to deal with a passed out Prince of Dol Amroth. Or worse.

Grabbing his arm, she quickly ushered him down a hallway. At the end was a wooden door, and she pushed him inside, before closing the door firmly behind them.

Turning, she abruptly started regretting her decision. She should have just shoved Imrahil inside, and not followed in after. She had forgotten how small this closet was.

Yes, in a house full of cats, the only cat-free place was their linen closet. The three walls were crammed with shelves, a small high window opposite them letting in some light. She could hardly smell the starch or the cotton; Imrahil was standing so close that all her nose could pick up was the smell of him.

Whatever soap he used, her nose really liked it.

She tried to move back to put some more space between them, but the door was in her way. The small closet seemed to have shrunken somehow. Or maybe Imrahil was just that tall.

Miwien tilted her head back to look up at him. Yes he was tall. She was practically a halfling next to him (but then she was so short, she was a halfling next to pretty much everyone).

The interval between his sneezes was increasing more and more, and she was grateful for that. She wouldn't know what to do if he had fainted.

"It's okay, it's going to be alright, just breathe slowly and deeply." she said, not sure if she was instructing him or herself. Just to be safe, she took several deep breaths herself. "Just breathe. I'll fetch the papers you need, then we'll smuggle you outside, no harm done."

Imrahil reached into his tunic and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face. Finally, he looked down at her.

"Valar, how many cats do you have?"

Miwien tried not to shrink into herself. "Um, only seven. Well, eight if you count Feanor."

"Sweet Elbereth. Why do you need so many bloody cats? And why are you afraid of me?" Imrahil snapped.

"I'm not afraid of you." Miwien flinched.

"Your actions speak otherwise."

"It's just that… well you're a very powerful man. You're a prince, a great commander of men, strong, brave and wise, and honorable. You're tall and handsome, and kind to those in need…"

Imrahil was looking at her with an expression close to confusion. As if she was a difficult puzzle he was trying to solve, and having limited success with.

It took a moment for Miwien to comprehend why. What she had just said sounded as if she was trying to compliment him. His closeness was clearly addling her brain, and making her less eloquent.

She inhaled sharply, and again his wonderful scent permeated her senses. He smelled like oranges, and clean male skin, and something spicy that invited her to put her nose against his neck to catch more of it.

"My point is," she tried again, her throat working in a swallow, "You're so traditional, and I'm, well, not. I can just tell you disapprove of me."

"I don't disapprove of you." Imrahil frowned.

"Yes you do! Firstly, you don't like my cats."

"I don't like anyone's cats."

"And also, you think I am a bad influence on Lothiriel."

"And pray, how are you so sure of what I think?"

At that, Miwien could not find anything to say.

"Tell me why you are really afraid of me. What do you think I'll do?" Imrahil asked, his voice not unkind.

"Because you make me nervous." she blurted. "I have never seen you smile and you are so big, and you know how to use your size to intimidate."

"Am I intimidating you right now?"

Miwien glanced at him in surprise. Imrahil was looking back at her, his previous annoyance now in check. In fact, he seemed gentle somehow, like he was trying to appear harmless.

It wasn't working very well. There was such strength in him, it poured out of him unbidden, and nothing could change that. She imagined even when he was an old man, stooped and grey, he would still be never mistaken as weak.

And yet, without doubt, she knew she would never be in danger of that strength. Above all else, this Prince of men valued honour, and never would he be so dishonourable as to use his power unjustly.

"No." she said truthfully to his question.

They stood in silence for a while. Nothing bares a person so much as silence and close scrutiny. And as Imrahil continued to study her, Miwien felt uncomfortably exposed. As if he was able to pick out every single thought and flaw on her face. And maybe he could.

To fill out the growing silence, her mouth opened and started pouring words out.

"To be honest, there was this one tutor I used to have when I was a young girl. He would have me memorize my lessons and then recite them from memory and if I got anything wrong he would make me stand in the corner for hours. He was mean too, making me sit still and read books he knew were too advanced for me." Miwien looked down, her throat working. "One day he made me copy a whole book in one sitting. No breaks, no food, no going to the privy. And it was the biggest book he could find. I was only allowed one candle. I wrote until my fingers stopped working. Then he made me write from the other hand. I told my father and he dismissed the tutor the very next day. Before he left, he said… some not so nice things to me."

"What did he say, Miwien?" Imrahil asked.

"He said… he said my father was wasting his money on getting me an education, since nobody would be mad enough to marry me. He said I should be educated on pleasing men instead, for all I'd ever be good enough for was to be someone's mistress."

"What is his name?" Imrahil growled.

"It doesn't matter. He was a miserable old fellow, and clearly I have managed to prove him wrong so far. I don't need to be a wife or a mistress. I'm content to live just for myself."

With her face down, Miwien saw him clench his fists. Then Imrahil went rigid.

"Do I remind you of him? Is that why you are so afraid of me." he asked, his voice quiet.

"Oh no. You are nothing like him and you don't remind me of him at all." Miwien said. "He was mean. And you, you would never be cruel or spiteful to anyone."

Slowly, Imrahil lifted a hand towards her. Miwien watched it as it came to rest on her shoulder. She thought he meant it as a comforting gesture, but instead a shiver went through her.

"Why would you not look at me?" he asked.

Sighing, Miwien lifted her eyes to his. She had always thought the color of his eyes looked like a cool rainfall, swift and punishing. But she was wrong, it wasn't cold at all.

She had been to the sea once, and his eyes now reminded her of the warm grey-blue waves at sunset, their warmth soothing and inviting her to sink into their depths.

"Because when I look at you, I think he was right. You are good and noble. And a man like you would never want a woman like me." Miwien whispered.

And there it was. Her most secret yearning was now known to him. She yearned for those hurtful words of her tutor to not be true. And yet, how could they not be?

Imrahil was the most noble man in Gondor. And he would never tolerate a wife like her: a woman who lived life by her own rules, who was free-spoken and untethered. Impulsive, forgetful and boisterous. And most of all, a woman barely clinging to respectability.

And if he would not have her, no gentleman would.

And so, it wasn't Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth she feared, but rather all the secret dreams and desires of her that he represented.

"You speak as if you already know my mind." Imrahil finally said, his hand sliding down her arm to hold her hand, "You mistake me for being too perfect. And could a man like me ever want a woman like you? I would like to know the answer to that too, so allow me to escort you to the King's coronation feast."

Miwien blinked, her hand tingling where he held it. Was she hearing things or was he asking her out?

"You want to take me to the feast? As your partner?" she asked.

"Yes, so I can prove to you I'm not merely stern, and noble, and honorable. I'd like us to dance and drink and have fun. It has been many years since I have had a chance to do so." his eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he was smiling, though his mouth remained flat.

It was quite a good mouth too, wide and masculine, but softly appealing. It beckoned her to bite into it. Miwien pushed down the impulse to do so.

"Yes I- I would be honoured." she said, raising her eyes back to his.

"Good. I look forward to it." Imrahil said.

She felt her breath catch as they fell into a charged silence.

He was wrong about one thing. She made no mistake in thinking him too perfect, because that's what he was.

He was tall and incredibly handsome, the noble blood of Numenor embodied in his bold features. She knew he was much older than her, but he had this barely restrained strength and virility about him that made shivers unfold in her stomach. She was captured by him.

Imrahil took his own fill of her, his gaze touching her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. She felt it like a caress.

His eyes dipped lower, over the column of her neck, her collarbone. Miwien swallowed consciously, and he tracked the movement of her throat. With a shiver, she became aware of the sensation of his thumb gliding back and forth over the inside of her wrist where their hands were still joined.

Over the years at court, she had occasionally bandied in harmless flirtatious banter with several noblemen and courtiers. But never had she felt this scorching need to take action, to be closer to someone.

With a quick inhale, Miwien brought her free hand up. She needed to feel this man, before she lost her chance.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten she still clutched the mangled cream cake. She tried to halt her hand but it was too late.

The shivers of delight turned into shivers of horror as her hand came to rest on Imrahil's chest, smearing his pristine blue tunic with the remains of her breakfast.

"Oh dear." she groaned, as they both stared at the streak of cream on his chest.

Then Imrahil did something she had never seen him do. He threw back his head and laughed.