Being back home from out of the wilds, I'd like to thank all of you for your encouraging comments. I hope you will enjoy the next chapter as well ... and don't forget to tell me so! After having experienced the limitation set by age and overweight in the mountains of the Vidda, I need some stroking to polish up my ego. ;-)

Chapter 10

Berthing at Amrothos' usual place at the jetty, they found the quay quite crowded, though most of the people kept a respectful distance to the guards of both, Dol Amroth and Rohan, who approached as soon as Amrothos had moored his boat. While the injured sailor was laid on a waggon to be taken to the Houses of Healing, the princess slipped into her skirt under the canopy of the sail, and the three of them disembarked. It was only when he put on his boots that the dull pain below his toe reminded Éomer of his mishap on Tol Cabas

From out of the crowd little Melwen and her parents stepped forward, and Éomer couldn't help a grin: The little girl had been given a thorough scrub, her face now shining all pink and flustered, her unruly curls had been braided and she wore what obviously was her best dress. Holding the rag-doll with both hands, she walked up to Éomer, not without shooting Éothain a questioning look first and receiving a reassuring nod and a friendly grin from the captain of the Rohirric guards.

"Here!" Unceremoniously she stuffed the doll into Éomer's hands, and with amusement he noticed that it had been washed, too.

Having thanked the little girl, he looked up, nodding his acknowledgement to her parents. The young woman blushed slightly, while her husband, a deeply tanned, wiry man with dark eyes and a scar across his left cheek that gave him a daring appeal, gave him a broad grin, before bowing respectfully. Holding the doll in his left hand, Éomer turned to leave the jetty, when Melwen's angry voice stopped him. "Not like dat!"

Surprised he looked into her agitated face, when she grabbed the doll from his hand. "You mufn't carry her like dat. Let me show you." Pulling rigorously at his arm, she caused him to bend down to her and placed the doll in the crook of his arm. Satisfied with her job she stepped back.

Bema's horse! That was just what he needed: The King of Rohan making a laughing-stock of himself, carrying a rag-doll in his arms through Dol Amroth. Éothain desperately tried to avoid his gaze and display a deadpan expression, but the deepening colour of his face showed clearly that he was on the edge of bursting out laughing.

"My lord, may I?" The calm and cool voice betrayed no trace of mischievousness. Without much ado, Lothíriel took the doll from Éomer, and placing it in the crook of her left arm, turned to Melwin, with an air of conspiracy. "You see, I think I shall carry her. Men simply are not good at some things."

The little girl nodded. "But he haf to learn. You better show him, or will you go wid him to Rohan?"

"I will certainly teach him, don't you worry." The princess' voice was still even, while everyone around, safe for Melwin's parents, was trying hard not to laugh.

"He'd better do what you tell him." The girl underlined her statement with a vigorous nod. "Daddy always does what Mama tells him."

That did it! Laughing the people now turned to Melwin's father, who took the mirth in his stride, while his wife blushed furiously. "Why, it's a matter of intelligence," he retorted. "Happy wife – happy life." Grinning he pulled his wife close, while the bystanders whistled and congratulated him on his matrimonial life.

Something poked Éomer in his ribs. "Get going!" Lothíriel's voice was a merely audible whisper. Without looking at him, the princess used the opportunity to leave, smiling at everyone in a friendly way, and soon they had left the harbour area behind, and were walking down the street climbing up to the castle.

Out of the corner of his eyes Éomer watched her, bearing herself proud and straight, walking with a grace and determination that would silence any onlooker, carrying the doll in the crook of her arm, as if it was the most self-evident thing to do for a Princess of Dol Amroth.

His gaze slid to the doll's featureless face, noticing the outworn spots, where the cloth had been abraded by constant touch. A featureless yet well-loved face, a gift to a mourning girl that had obviously fulfilled its purpose to keep her from despair.

The pang of realisation nearly made him stop in his tracks, the thudding of his heart about to burst his ribcage.

A gift to a mourning woman … something to hold on to in the chill of those long lonely nights... something to keep despair at bay.

Clenching and unchlenching his fists, he tried to calm himself, keep his breath even, telling himself it was nothing ... nothing but one of the cruel jokes of fate. There were no similarities, it was just coincidence.

He had not chosen the name, because he had regarded her as as gift he had given Ethelfleda, but rather one he had been given... even if it had meant nothing but the right to acknowledge her as his daughter.

He tried to concentrate on the paving stones under his feet, the sound his boots made, the slight pain below his toe, clinging to it like to a safety line to reality, but his thoughts went spinning.

He had known about Ethelfleda's grief, had told himself a thousand times that she had not treated him the way she had light-heartedly, had even tried to flatter himself with the thought that she had chosen him, but his heart had never been able to grasp the monstrosity that she only had seen him as some kind of vessel, a mere mean to gain what she longed for: Cedric's child, begotten three years after the warrior's death.

How could it be that now, years later, looking at a featureless rag-doll's face in the evening sun of Dol Amroth, his heart suddenly understood the guilt and pain, the desperate longing that had driven Ethelfleda, understood, that in the frozen prison of her soul there had been no room, no thought, no consideration for the lad who went for his first battle? She had not seen him at the Blessing ... for her he had been Cedric, the man she had sent into battle unblessed and unforgiven.

He breathed deep, surprised at the feeling of living air streaming into him, expanding his lungs. Whatever he had constructed in his brain all those years to cope with the branding hurt of rejection became redundant this very moment. Who knew the ways of the gods? Perhaps she was Cedric's daughter, but she was his ward, his responsibility, his Gytha.

For the first time in years he could think of her without regret, remember Ethelfleda's smiling face, as she bent down nourishing her child without envy. Had it not been a gift to see her come out of her mind's darkness again to warmth and life? Had he ever expected her to love him?

He hadn't! He realized the truth like the stab of a dagger: When Elfhelm had told him that Ethelfleda had conceived at the Blessing, he had not even been able to remember her face. He had felt confused, proud and intimidated at the same time... but his feelings had centred around himself, himself and the unborn child, while the woman had been a mere shadow at the edge of his consciousness. He had never doubted her to marry him, had she not called him to her bed? Had he not kindled the life that grew within her?

And then she had told him of her dream... of the reason why she had lain with him at the Blessing. He still felt the chill on his back. How could a living man compete with the dead?

His pride had been hurt, when she told him, she would not be his wife, pointing out his age and inexperience to him, and only hurt pride and stubbornness had made him demand to acknowledge the child as his.

He smiled, lost in remembrance. That had been the best thing he had ever done out of stubbornness in his whole life. The moment he had seen the child, he had lost his heart to that tiny being, and he had felt the magnitude of Edelfleda's generosity to share this with him. Gytha... never had a child been named truer than her.

No, fate had not been cruel, not to him.

A sudden stop at the gate, due to some riders leading a small flock of horses out to pasture, caused his gaze to wander back to Lothíriel, a slender figure clad in plain dark blue, strands of black hair escaping her simple braid fluttering around her face in the warm wind, yet every inch of her posture proclaiming the Princess of the Realm. How had he not realised it before, that for all the difference she so much resembled Éowyn? Squinting her eyes at the sun, she brushed back one of the loose strands that were blown into her face, and his eye fell on her bandaged wrist, that evidence of her strength, stubbornness and passionate determination. Green and white, the colours of Rohan, and on the outer edge of the joint a little red spot caught his attention: blood soaking through the bandage, where the rope had bitten deep, cutting the flesh to the bone.

A little red spot on green, like a tiny flower of life, blossoming out on the plains of the Mark.

ooo

Éomer felt strangely relieved when they reached the inner bailey and the siblings went straight for Imrahil's study, Lothíriel promising to have the doll put in his room. He needed some distance, some time to think, needed to be alone, to sort out the turmoil inside him. He longed for something familiar, something plain and secure in the whirl of this day. A hack! There should be enough time to take Firefoot for at least a short ride, up to the shadowy wooded ridges north of the town.

"I'll take Firefoot for a ride before dinner," he told Éothain, already heading for the stables. "All these days he has been under-worked, I'm afraid he has built up quite a foul mood in the meantime."

Éothain's answer was a sound between laughter and grunt, while Folcred pointedly tried to avoid his king's gaze. Askance, Éomer stopped, slewing his friend round by the elbow. "What is it?"

"Whoa, Éomer King!" The smirk in Éothain's voice was unmistakable. "You should rather worry about your own mood instead of your charger's."

"Should I?"

The icy tone in his king's voice was totally lost on Éothain. Chuckling, he threw Éomer a sidelong glance, examining him with mock-concern from head to toe, before he finally concluded in a matter-of-fact statement: "Well, at least at the moment he is probably much more relaxed than you. And I don't think he needs any kind of work-out or will even be up to it. We just recaptured him some half an hour before they sent word that you were about to enter port... and he had scooted off with that mare while I accompanied you to the port in the morning and been on the rampage the whole day."

Éomer groaned. "And who was the moron to let him slip? Winfrid?" It was the boy's first time to accompany the king as his squire and he was not up to Firefoot's antics yet.

Surprisingly serious, Éothain shook his head. "Don't blame it on Winfrid. The boy stood no chance with Firefoot, and I doubt that I myself would have been able to hold him, once the dirty bugger got wind of the mares, especially the one on heat. They just hadn't known the mares were on the upper meadows, otherwise they would have kept out of there."

He continued with a shrug. "And anyway, no harm is done, as Imrahil took no offence, but just said that he actually liked grey ones."

"Imrahil?" Éomer choked. "Don't tell me it was Imrahil's mare that ruttish oaf went for."

"Ah well..." Éothain's hesitation predicted worse to come. "As a matter of fact it was his Lady's mare..."

They had reached the gate of the stables by now and Éomer motioned dismissal to Folcred, who seemed more than relieved to be allowed to disappear. There was no one in the alley as they entered the stables.

"I see, the culprits have taken cover." Despite his temper, Éomer could not help a grin.

Éothain cleared his throat. "I told them to. But look here: No harm is done, Imrahil is not miffed, and the others would yak anyway, so let them get stuffed. It's time we went home. Sure that trade agreement is important, but Bema's balls, the negotiations are finished, you did the Mark proud, everything is fine, and here you are with a temper like a warg with piles! What is bothering you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Éothain snorted. "Sure, and pigs can fly. That bloody crock of yours has more brain than you, Éomer Éomundsson! You're simply off balance. Let's go to some tavern tonight, find yourself some buxom wench and have a decent fuck, and you'll see..."

"Shut it!" He didn't shout, but the cold fury in Éomer's voice made his friend stop in mid-sentence.

"You're serious?" Éothain's voice showed all the uncertainty he felt.

Éomer clenched his fists. He wanted to be alone, he needed to be alone, he... "Just sod off, Éothain, will you?" Without looking at the surprised captain of his guard, he walked to Firefoot's box.

"Éomer..." Éothain's face was not discernible in the back light of the open door, but his voice was sober. "I'm sorry, Éomer, I didn't mean to plague you, I just didn't know you had got it that bad."

ooo

One look over the low door of Firefoot's box proved the truth of Éothain's statement: That horse clearly was not keen on any exercise at all and most probably not up to it as well. The big grey stood dozing with half-closed eyes, his head lowered and his bottom lip slightly drooping, baring his large, yellow teeth in what could well be taken for some kind of equine grin, his whole body an example of well-earned and highly relished exhaustion.

He did not even lift his head, when his master entered the box, just snuffled contentedly as Éomer scratched him between the ears. Stroking the strong dappled neck, Éomer could not help a chuckle. They had obviously groomed and curried the stallion, as his big frame shone spotlessly, his dark mane and tail sporting not a single tangle.

"Dyslic scand." Pulling the stallion's velvety ears affectionately, Éomer continued to examine the horse, more to do something than thinking it necessary. Firefoot plainly was just fine, satisfaction oozing out of every pore.

"Wished it was as easy for me," he told his dozing charger, "get a mare into your nose and have her."

"Didn't know you had got it that bad"... Éothain was a plonker.

He had not talked to him, so were did that oaf of a captain derive such ideas from? Had he been so obvious? But then, what had been obvious? He shook his head. It was useless to fool himself, he was impressed by Imrahil's daughter, but what did he really feel for her? Desire? No doubt he wanted her – had done so from the moment he had seen her walk up the beach of Tol Cobas, but then that was where the problem started: Being the woman she was, Imrahil's daughter, his friend's sister, she was not one to dally with...and she would not put up with it anyway.

But there was so much more to it than mere lust. Her courage, her determination, her intelligence, her comradeship, her care... He groaned. That woman was an enigma – and yet she had spoken to him so plain, so open-minded.

Béma's horse, he had talked to her for the first time in his life, and what had they talked about? Babies!

This was madness. And he had wanted to go on talking to her... Talking! To a stunning, challenging woman with long, well-muscled legs, exposed to his eager eyes, as the wind swept the loose trousers against them. And that risky ride outboards, her wet garment clinging to her body, revealing delectable curves... the adrenalin of the situation... and what had he felt? Care and admiration!

He rubbed his palms over his face with a groan. He was getting old.

Why was everything so obfuscating? His fingers raked through his hair, only to get stuck in the tangles, matted by wind and and sea-spray. He snorted. Obviously his horse was not only in a better mood but also better groomed than himself. He needed a bath before making his appearance at the dinner table.

But first of all he had to clear his head. He wished he could solve his confusion like an ordinary drunkenness by just popping his head into a bucket full of cold water. He felt kind of dizzy, as if he had had too much ale, or rather mead, strong, sweet and utterly intoxicating...

Her straightforwardness, her smile... sure, seeing a woman truly smile had always pleased him... but where did this urge come from? This wish she might go on smiling for ever..

Realisation hit him like a dwarven axe: "for ever" – that was the point!

All this chaos of admiration, lust, care and friendship could not be untangled, as all these feelings entailed each other, and trying to separate one of it would devaluate the others, like pulling out a single tread of a tapestry would unravel and destroy it. But that was not the problem that was really bothering him. What made him edgy was the unconscious fear that it would end. He wanted that woman, all of her – and for the rest of his life.

Swearing under his breath he turned to leave Firefoot's box. Had Éothain seen through him that easily? Had he really "got it that bad"? Did he love her? Impossible! He had known her but one day and love was nothing that dropped out of thin air. No, he certainly did not love her ... but he would like to. He swallowed hard, trying to keep himself from drifting into daydreaming about enticing lips, smiling at him, her lithe body in his arms …

He was no longer just Éomer Éomundsson of Aldburg, he had to clear his head, to follow reason. He was responsible for the Riddermark, but that only fuelled his imagination. It would be so fitting – she would be so fitting!

Éaldread would fall over himself at the news of Rohan's King taking a wife … she was an able diplomat, intelligent, a scholar with the courage of a warrior, the highest- ranked woman of Gondor except the Queen. His councillors would be delighted. He thought he could already hear their eager statements:

"A treasure of Gondor, given to Rohan in acknowledgement for courage and sacrifice, a token of equality of both nations, a compensation for the loss of the King's sister. "

Like an exchange of hostages … he felt his bile rise. This was just disgusting! How could anybody think about her like that, think about Éowyn like that … And yet people in both countries would see it that way... and that would advance the relation between Gondor and Rohan, would stop the mouths of those of his nobles who complained about Éowyn's marriage, that caused her to leave the Mark. And was he himself any better? Here he was, considering the political effects, and he didn't even know what she was thinking, and more important, feeling about it.

Blasted kingship!

He furiously kicked the bucket beside Firefoot's box. Why had everything to be so complicated? He knew she would make a competent queen, but first of all he wanted her as his wife, to have her near, see her smile, listen to her clever banter, touch that tempting body. How would it feel to lie with her? She did not seem to do anything half-heartedly – would she be as passionate in love as she was in hatred?

Hatred … Curse Mardil of Edhellond!

Yet what was it really, she hated that human scabies so violently for? What if that ork-spawn had destroyed her confidence in men? He slammed his fist at the partition panel of the boxes in helpless frustration, but then checked himself. She had said that she wanted children of her own, had even admitted she would agree to an arranged marriage to have them ... Was it that they would have … an arranged marriage? Would she merely put up with him to have children? Would he be able to accept that? Again? But then it would be different. They would live together, he would see the children grow.

He felt the sudden chill that had spilled over his back cease. Was it not his task to woo her, to make her feel comfortable, to show he cherished her? They trusted each other, cared for each other... was that not enough? Would that be enough for him?

He leaned his forehead against one of the massive cedar beams that held the stable roof. It was of no use to try to lie to himself: It would not, not for him and neither for her. But it would be a beginning.

Breathing deep, he shove himself away from the beam. He would not leave it to chance. He would not leave her to some pompous Gondorean noble twat.

He shook his head, smiling lopsidedly. He was making an idiot of himself. Imrahil would never give her to someone who did not esteem her. She had nothing to fear. She would not need him to be rescued from any repulsive suitor.

The noise of his stallion stirring in his box caught Éomer's attention, but when he went to check, he found the grey had just shifted his weight to rest a different leg.

Lucky bugger! Perhaps he should reconsider Éothain's suggestion, even if Erchirion was not there to show him that louche tavern, it would be no problem to find a willing wench in the harbour quarters, and a little romp in the sack at least would take his mind off that alluring legs. He had better go and find his captain.

Even before he could turn round to leave the stables he realized he was deceiving himself. It would not help at all. He would bonk some woman, easing his body, while his imagination would make her Imrahil's daughter. His stomach tightened with sudden nausea.

Ethelfleda's face rapt in ecstasy, as he spilled into her, her body arching against him in response as she tumbled over the brink of passion, clinging to him, calling out her lover's name again and again... Cedric!

He had known that Ethelfleda had been desperate, yet no weapon could have hurt as much as the realisation to be a mere substitute. Ethelfleda had believed him to be Cedric that fey moment, and perhaps the gods had taken pity on her and her desperate grief, but he? He would just cheat in mean egoistic play-acting to satisfy his rut.

He straightened his shoulders. No way he would go! For what she gave to a man's body even the lowliest slut deserved to be treated honestly and according to her body's demand. It was give and take, not take and pretend.

ooo

He realised someone coming up the alley towards him, but he did not bother to look. His aim set, his mind was clear again. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. He wanted her – and he wanted her to want him. Whatever she might feel for him, he had to assure her that he was serious, that she was safe with him... He was to leave in a few days, and he knew he had to talk to her before leaving, to find out.

"Wool-gathering again?"

The brisk voice behind his back was the last thing he wanted to hear. Amrothos! Where had that pest come from again? Turning around, he saw the carrots in Amrothos' hands. Following his line of sight, Amrothos grinned. "Just thought to have a look at the hero of the day and show him my devotion."

Hope he will have some of your fingers, too. Éomer's mood was not at all improved by the hint at his stallion's behaviour.

Stepping beside Éomer, Imrahil's son looked over the the low door into Firefoot's box. Holding out the carrots, he crooned softly, but the big grey did not open his eyes any wider, and only when Amrothos held the carrots right under his mouth did he condescend to taking the offered treat, munching it slowly.

"Blimey, how can anyone shag himself into such a stupor?" Amrothos voice showed genuine admiration. Chuckling he continued: "Father was actually mighty pleased to hear of your nag's escapades."

Don't take the bait! Forcing himself to an impartial tone, Éomer shrugged. "Just let's hope the lines fit. He's quite large-framed, and for a lady's mare he might not be a first-rate choice."

"Oh, don't you worry. She's my mother's, but Mother never rode her herself. Actually she's of the same line as Erchirion's gelding. Mother has the right touch breeding horses."

Éomer frowned. "Well, let's just hope Firefoot didn't go against her breeding goals."

"Against her breeding goals?" Amrothos' chuckle resembled a hiccup. "She laughed her head off when she heard of it. Couldn't fit any better, she said."

At least one thing that went well, Éomer thought, avoiding Amrothos' gaze. Let's see what the princely couple of Dol Amroth had to say to the next onslaught of Rohan. He wanted to get rid of Amrothos and slowly made for the stable door.

Ambling alongside, Imrahil's son took up the conversation in a most casual tone, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "By the way, Horselord, as Erchirion told me you seem to be so interested in languages, do you know the meaning of the name Melian in the common speech?"

Back to "Horselord", are we? Éomer clenched his fists, suppressing the wish to cause some permanent change in the prince's features. "You certainly will not fail to enlighten me."

The smirk that now bloomed all over Amrothos face confirmed his worst suspicions. "Oh, I won't. You see "melme" means "love", and "anna" means "present" in Quenja."

He doesn't know … he can't know! With difficulty Éomer managed to control his mien, pretending unconcernedness. "Well, perhaps I should be glad it was given to me by a four-year old, just to keep me from gossip, though it really is a lovely present."

Amrothos' smirk deepened. "Yep, and one my sister was quite pleased to carry for you."

With utmost self-command Éomer kept his fists down, sure this time they would grab Amrothos' throat instead his tunic. His jaw set, he stepped up to Amrothos, till their noses nearly touched. Though built leaner, Imrahil's son was of the same height as the Rohir, and his light-coloured eyes did not show any sign of intimidation.

"Git!" Éomer's voice was a mixture of groan and hiss, as he stared into the still mirthful eyes. "You can jab at me, if you think it necessary in your weird sense of fun, but I swear, I'll break every single bone in your bloody frame, if you ever embarrass Lothíriel again."

Amrothos raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Is it a special Rohirric trait, or are you just overreacting a bit? What did I say to embarrass her? She carried that doll for you, so what? She's my sister, remember?"

Not ready to let go, Éomer insisted: "That does not give you the right..." He stopped abruptly, realising that Amrothos was having him on, and that he himself had swallowed the bait greedily. It took all self-command he could muster, not to shove Imrahil's brat into the forage chest.

He should have throttled that nuisance on Tol Cobas!

"Don't you worry, Horseking." Amrothos' grin was about to split his face. "I won't tell anybody about a certain interesting behaviour of a certain Rohir on a certain beach."

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Éomer took a step back. "Just fall on your sword, will you!"

Laughing merrily, Amrothos made for the door. "I won't. Shutting up for your sake is one thing, but any further action would just cause too much trouble."

Having reached the stable door, he turned round, to face Éomer again, still grinning, but his eyes serious now. "I may be a git, Éomer of Rohan, but she is my sister, and as such my responsibility."

With that he left the stable, and Éomer took a deep breath. He was furious, but his mind crystal clear now. There would be no delay anymore.

Amrothos' responsibility! He snorted in disgust. Not for long if he could help it!

Annotations:

Gytha: (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon female name) Gift

dyslic scand: (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) stupid scoundrel