Obviously you don't like cliffies. ;-D Well, here comes some kind of compensation, though I'm afraid the chapter is a little short.
Chapter14
Amrothos! That man certainly had a death wish!
Ignoring the King of Rohan, Amrothos addressed his sister: "Loth, please, Father would like to talk to you before dinner. He's waiting for you in his study."
With a short nod to both men, Lothíriel left the battlement without saying a word.
Fuming with rage, Éomer watched Amrothos stepping up to the parapet. Not only did that pest of Dol Amroth turn up in the most unbefitting moment, he also had the impertinence to stay. His jaw set, he went to stand beside Imrahil's son, instinctively falling into the swordman's stance, balancing on the balls of his feet, one foot slightly put forwards, their elbows nearly touching. Mentally cursing the newly awakening pain in his toe, he stared out over the bay, his fists clenched at his side, waiting for Amrothos to open his mouth, just for the chance to shut him up for good this time. For a while they stood side by side, and with some regret Éomer felt the tension slowly drain out of his body.
Finally, still looking out over the bay and thus avoiding Éomer's gaze, Amrothos spoke, his voice sober and calm, without any hint of his usual chaffing. "Éomer, I do believe the Rohirrim to be absolutely honourable, but as we both know, attitudes and traditions vary a lot in our countries, especially concerning ... well, propriety, in particular a woman's propriety."
That idiot! Yet he intends to protect his sister ... Carefully keeping his own voice level, Éomer answered: "If I had not known before, I certainly would have understood that from what your sister told me."
With some satisfaction he felt Amrothos wince, which spurred him to ad in a wry tone: "But as you perhaps noticed, it was me who tried to keep your sister from embarrassment. And if it was not just a trick to lure her away, and your father truly sent you to look for Lothíriel, he certainly told you, that I spoke to him first."
Taking a step back, Amrothos whistled appreciatory: " You Rohirrim surely don't waste any time."
"If we did, Gondor would not exist anymore." Éomer found it hard to keep the snarl out of his voice.
Amrothos shrugged, totally unimpressed by the Rohir's anger. "I know, Éomer, and I'm not likely to ever forget it. But then, my father just asked me to find Lothíriel, so I didn't know you had already approached him."
Pondering the news, Éomer sucked in his cheeks. After a further moment of awkward silence Amrothos addressed him again, his voice more serious than Éomer had ever believed possible with Imrahil's youngest son. "Éomer, don't rush her. Let her come to you at her own pace."
Surprised at the serious tone, Éomer turned to face him. "That was exactly what I had told her, before you interrupted. And as for the differences of our countries: No Rohir would ever force an unwilling woman into marriage."
"Man! Take it down a notch, will you?" Raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, Amrothos shook his head. "It's not that I think her opposed to you; quite the contrary. I know she cares about you."
"Oh, do you?" Though he appreciated Amrothos' obvious soberness, he was by no means pacified.
Amrothos shrugged. "The very moment she gave you that green headscarf I was sure she felt more for you than just the due friendship and care a guest of honour can expect."
Éomer snorted. "You did not fail to point out it was the colours of Rohan."
"Oh that!" Amrothos waved his hand dismissively. "No, but do you know how difficult it is to dye cotton a really true green colour?"
Tilting his head, he looked at Éomer, who could not help a frown, feeling uncomfortable under that all seeing jackdaw eyes.
"You see," Amrothos continued, "it was the months after that … after Alcarien had died. I tried to distract Lothíriel, wanted to take her sailing, but she was not up to face the sea, and to occupy herself, she took to experiment with herbal dye. I often accompanied her, when she went to collect plants, roaming the upper meadows, for we were afraid for her state of mind, and with her favourite Erchirion away at Minas Tirith, I was the only one whose company she would tolerate."
Lost in thought, Imrahil's son paced the battlement, and for a short moment Éomer thought, how much he resembled his sister. Finally Amrothos stopped, and turned to face the Rohir again. "It is obviously much more difficult to dye cotton and linen with herbs than wool or silk, and green seems to be an especially difficult colour, so be sure, that was it she went for!"
With a loop-sided grin he went into details. "I don't know how many times we went to collect bracken, stinging-nettle, meadow-horsetail and woad, just to mention some she experimented with in her concoctions, but that very headscarf she gave you was the only one that came out the wanted shade of green after weeks of experiment and she was extremely proud of it, keeping it as some kind of treasure."
Unsure whether Amrothos was having him on, Éomer did not reply, but he grudgingly had to admit that his mind immediately spun back to the scenes in the morning, their talk at breakfast, the way to the harbour, Tol Cobas, scanning them for hints of affection. Even her remarks about him in the garden suddenly shone in a quite different light. Suddenly he became aware that Amrothos was still looking at him.
As their gaze met, Amrothos grinned. "Well, and that you were not indifferent became clear soon enough."
Éomer groaned inwardly. Bet that imbecile to come up with that ogling- scene again!
As if reading his thoughts, Amrothos shook his head. "I'm not talking about lust. That gets us all now and then. And you did behave yourself, which can't be said about me. I'm sorry about that, Éomer. Your desire to alter my facial features after I blurted out that brainless remark about eating figs was quite impressive and your intention more than obvious."
His chest heaving in a deep sigh, Amrothos raked both hands through his hair. "It's just so bloody strange to notice your baby sister has grown up. It comes all of a sudden, though it has happened right under your nose all the time." Averting his face, Amrothos went back to the parapet, looking out over the bay.
… Your baby sister has grown up … Éomer was dumbfounded, his memory flooded with all his mixed emotions on learning about Éowyn's love for Faramir, the joy he had felt to see her happy, yet dreading the lonely hall of Meduseld without her ... What an irony, to be standing here with Amrothos and not only to know exactly how the other man felt but to understand and excuse his behaviour.
When Amrothos finally turned round again, he had overcome his agitation, and the well-known spark of mischief was back in his light-coloured eyes. Throwing up his hands in mock despair, he exclaimed: "Why can't you be contented with dragging Erchirion to Rohan? He already is half a Rohir."
"You seem to be quite determined to shift him off to the Mark," Éomer grinned, "Elphir suggested it too."
At that moment, the chime of a bell could be heard, announcing the household's evening meal and both men made for the passageway. Walking side by side they continued their conversation, Erchirion and his wish to come to Rohan still the topic.
"I truly think that it would do him good," Amrothos stated, "He does not really feel good at Dol Amroth, and he would not like to stay in Minas Tirith with father as some kind of the King's Chief Counsellor. I talked with Loth about it ..."
"Me too."
Éomer's remark stopped Amrothos in his tracks. "You did?"
"She broached the topic to me."
"I should have known she would take the bull by the horns! We have been talking about it since he came back after King Théoden's funeral last year, the bloke being nostalgic for Rohan like a stranded sailor for the tavern. He would have liked to return there and then, but Father thought implanting some high-ranked Gondorean noble might lead to wrong conclusions in Edoras, what with your plans to revive Éorl's Oath."
He gave Éomer a sidelong gaze. "We didn't know, how secure your standing as Rohan's new King was right after the war, the country still needing support from Gondor and didn't want to undermine your position."
Éomer shrugged. "Depending on Gondor certainly hurt, even though Aragorn made well clear he thought the supplies the least he could give us for our aid against the Shadow, but it never weakened my position. Well, and now we are on trading terms again, though it can't be denied that supplies are still leaner than I wished for my people."
For a while they walked in silence down the corridor that led to the hall, where the evening meals were normally taken.
Right before entering, Éomer addressed Amrothos again. "I'll talk to Imrahil about Erchirion's wish at dinner. I'm almost certain, he'll head for the East-Fold, being as horse-mad as any Eorling could be."
Amrothos chuckled. "I'll bet, he'll be a success, especially with the ladies."
Éomer nodded with a grin. "They'll just fall over themselves!"
"How long will it take till he is married then? Shall we put up a wager?" Amrothos eyes gleamed eagerly.
His grin deepening, Éomer shook his head. "No, he'll be faster than anyone of us can imagine. He has already ordered me to find him a wife."
"What?" Amrothos snorted with laughter. "Well, Éomer, that's even faster than you yourself. It took you at least one day to make up your mind!"
ooo
Éomer went up to the window, looking out over the bay. The moonlight painted silver streaks along the rippling waves, casting the sea and the shore into a dreamlike shade.
Strange and detached he felt, as he took in the different shades of grey. Though the planned festivities had been called off due to Mardil of Edhellond's death, dinner in Imrahil's household always was very different from the quiet and relaxed atmosphere at breakfast, which was restricted to family members. It was a kind of representation of the ruling family of Dol Amroth and he, being a guest of honour, had been in the centre of it, like every evening in the past week. Not that he minded, but today of all days, he had hoped for something different. Something apart from the friendly politeness of his host, the more or less open admiration as a war-hero most young men bestowed on him, not to talk about the blushing and batting of eyelashes from the female attenders.
True, Imrahil's wife had smiled at him cordially, her soft brown eyes shining with undisguised sympathy, but Imrahil himself had not mentioned their prior conversation with a single word, and even Amrothos had refrained from any jibe or banter. Lothíriel herself had been friendly, caring, as far as his supply with food and drink had been concerned, but their conversation had been reduced to friendly small talk, though often in the pause of conversation he had found her gaze on him, grave and thoughtful.
Reluctantly he had to admit he was getting impatient, though he knew he had no reason for it. He had made his intent known, now it was her turn for the next move. He raked his hand through his hair. The princess had left as soon as the meal was finished, though as usual, people dispersed throughout the hall in conversation, letting the evening gently fade away over a last goblet of wine.
He sighed. Perhaps thence his frustration: He oddly felt like ignored and forgotten. He shook his head. What had he expected? This very morning he had thought her haughty and conceited, had been ready to do anything to avoid her company, and here he was, being in a huff because she had retired early after a demanding day. He scolded himself for being unreasonable, but without much success.
Lost in thought, he did not notice her re-enter the hall, nor did he hear her light steps as she walked up to him, carrying a small, delicate cup made of mother of pearl, but as she stood behind him, he suddenly sensed her. He turned round, trying in vain to display a calm mien, for as soon as their eyes met, his mouth curved in a smile.
Her face serious, but her grey eyes sparkling with mischief, she proffered the tiny cup to him. "As you don't like the wine, I thought to treat you to something different, though made as well from grapes. A speciality from the Falas."
Curiously he looked at the liquid. It seemed clear and transparent like water, innocent and unsuspicious. Hesitantly he encircled the cup with his hands, large against the fragile vessel, feeling the softness of Lothíriel's skin as his fingers brushed hers in the process. The sparkle in her eyes intensified.
"Beware!" Her voice was little more than a whisper. "It is much more potent than it looks."
Never losing the touch of her slate-grey eyes, he raised the cup to his lips and took a measured sip.
Béma!
Liquid fire assaulted his sun-chaffed lips, burned his mouth, scorched his tongue. He gulped, feeling the fiery stream rolling down his throat, pooling heat in his stomach.
Air!
"Don't breath through your mouth." Lothíriel hardly concealed her gloating.
He obeyed, and as his nostrils flared, sucking in breath, he felt the taste of the drink surface though the burning in his mouth: a trace of something like a flower, sweet and yet spicy. Slowly the scorching died away and a warm tingle spread from his stomach all over his body.
Most obvious more potent than it looked! "What in Middle- Earth is that?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He still held the cup with the rest of the liquid in his hand.
"Ah well, that's the stuff my brothers and the other captains drink with their crews, coming ashore after some campaign. It's a kind of brandy, made from pomace and refined with different spices and some kind of resin. There are quite different qualities, this one being a rather good and mellow one."
She laughed softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling simultaneously. "But there's one the sailors dub "Bosun's Death", and that one is really wicked."
Éomer could not help a grin. " Little wonder, if it lives up to its name. This so called "mellow" variety nearly looped my gullet. But how come you know how to cope with it? Certainly you've never tried it?"
"Oh, haven't I?" Her smile turned into a grin. "When we were children, Amrothos and I used to play "Corsairs and Mariners" out on the bay. Our favourite was the attack on Umbar. Well, and one day, having played out that campaign, we decided to celebrate the due finale as well and pinched a flask from one of Father's captains. Not that it did us any good, but I insisted to have at least one draught each, challenging Roth to a second one, to prove his male superiority."
She chuckled. "Fortunately there was not too much brandy in the flask, as none of us wanted to yield. We were rather green in the face afterwards, but I have never been one to give up easily."
Éomer nodded. No, certainly not. Easy or dire, she would not give up at all. All of a sudden the events when overtaking Mardil assaulted his mind with a vibrancy that made him gasp.
The rope slung around her her wrist, cutting deep, tearing skin and flesh ... Blood mixed with sea spray leaking along the creamy skin of her forearm ... Her contorted face, stubbornly gritted teeth ... Never one to easily give up ... The soaked cloth of her trousers clinging to her legs, exposing the well-cut muscles of her calf ... Toes pressed against the gunwale, gripping white ... The sensation of her wet body against his own, cold and hot at the same time ...
He shook himself in the attempt to clear his mind. The attack on Umbar... His Umbar would be here and now. Looking into her face, he raised the cup to her. "Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, as we too have come ashore after a victorious campaign, smiting your foe, it would just be fair, according to your tradition, to share this cup."
He proffered the rest of the brandy to her, smirking, as she took it with both hands, and then his heart jumped into his throat as he watched her, slowly, determinedly turning the cup, until she was facing the spot of the brim he had drunk from. Ever so slowly she raised the cup under his fascinated stare, till it touched her lips. Then, tilting her head slightly backwards and closing her eyes, she emptied it in one draught.
Her eyes still closed, she shuddered, shook herself, and he felt a heat stronger than that of the drink rush like a fiery wave through his veins, setting his heart and loins alike on fire, as she flicked out the tip of her tongue just a tiny bit to lick the last burning drop off the brim.
And when she opened her eyes, dark grey, like the troubled waters at Aeglir Caragon, he felt himself drowning.