Firefoot's plodding footsteps were muffled by the dense mist swirling off the plains. Eomer knew he was foolish to be heading out to the mass graves outside Minas Tirith's walls without an escort, but he was heartsick and could not stay abed. He had risen early and saddled Firefoot in the dark. A few miles later, the tule fog was only now lightening with the not yet risen sun. Eothain was going to lecture him incessantly when he got back – the occasional warg and orc band still crossed the plains and it would not do for the new king to die being stupid.
So many people had been killed; so many people were left to be fed. While the blond king begged for aid from Gondorian nobles who could ill afford to help themselves, his every other thought was a dreadful replay of finding Eowyn's seeming corpse or the terror of the Black Gate's outpouring. At least out here on the plains, the landscape matched those of his painful memories.
The grief-burdened man stopped Firefoot when he got to the edge of the graves and dismounted. With the sudden silence he finally noticed the singing coming from the center of the barrows. It sounded like a woman, but held more power than anyone he had ever heard before. And the wordless song matched no tune he knew. Up and down the low alto voice described rising short scales in illustration of the large corpse-filled mounds around him. Then it soared wildly, swooping and gliding, a winged melody that threatened to pull the souls around him from the earth and deliver them whole into the West. The aria pulled at his sorrow, bowed his head, and rent his thoughts asunder. He did not notice as he fell to his knees sobbing quietly, his arms pulled over his head to blot out the too-large world.
When he came back to himself, the sun hung above the horizon although the fog had not yet burned off the land. The singing had stopped, the graves were deserted but for him and Firefoot grazing nearby. The trot back to the stables in the palace seemed shorter than the ride out. Eomer felt hollowed out and calm. Even Eothain noticed Eomer's newfound serenity after he had thoroughly lectured his liege.
That night at King Elessar's all-male dinner table, he had more luck with his quest to feed his people. Joking and laughing with Imrahil's boys, something he told himself he needed to do more often, they mentioned that their sister Lothiriel was newly arrived from Dol Amroth. She had come to Minas Tirith ahead of the coronation crowd to discuss the stores she had defended successfully through the corsair raids. As they described it, she should be able to supply not only Gondor's refugee population, but also Rohan's. Generously, the princes extended an invitation to dinner the next day to meet her and set forth his plea. Hopeful and looking forward to the morrow, Eomer accepted and excused himself from the festivities early.
The next morning, the royal warrior again arose before dawn and saddled his horse. This time, his journey out to the barrows was more purposeful despite the again present fog. It was still dark and silent when he arrived at the center of the radiating graves, so he dismounted and allowed Firefoot to wander off. Even if the mysterious singer did not appear again, the graves were now a peaceful place to the king and he reposed against the side of one massive hillock. Legs outstretched and chewing on a grass stem, Eomer waited. He half wondered if he had imagined yesterday's performance. Perhaps it had been a spell of his mind to break the disorder, a defense of his sanity that his innermost mind had conjured.
He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later a small grey mare emerged from the fog, a cloaked figure atop her back. The woman dismounted in the middle of the center circle and allowed her mare to wander off in Firefoot's direction, although she seemed not to notice either his horse or himself half-hidden as they were by mist and shadows.
The tomb visitor turned in the direction of the rising sun, only a slight lightening of the fog betraying its location. This put her in profile to him, so when she pushed back her hood he admired her fine-boned beauty. Eomer catalogued what he could see: pale face with winged black eyebrows, a coronet of matching braids, regal posture, the build and features of the Numenorean line. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, Eomer closed his eyes in ecstasy.
Since he did not lose himself to his grief this day, he marked when she lost herself to her own. The proud woman did not fall to her knees like he had, but remained upright, trying to sing through her tear-clogged throat. When the song eventually lost to her tearing sobs, he arose and approached her. She did not hear his footsteps, so when he placed a hand on her shoulder she startled then collapsed against him. He enclosed her in his arms, his sympathy for her a physical ache in chest.
Eventually her sobs reduced to intermittent hiccups and she pushed away. Nodding a hurried thanks, her gray eyes awash with tears, she rushed off whistling for her mare. Eomer let the woman go, calling for Firefoot, then following her back to the city at a discreet distance, alert to any danger that might threaten her. Once she entered the city, he closed the gap, continuing to tail her until she turned into the stables at the back of several estates he did not recognize. Figuring he would come back at a more reasonable hour to inquire her name, he returned to his own stables.
He found his own estate in an uproar. After yesterday's truancy, his second-in-command had put the entire stable on alert to prevent the king from riding without an escort. But the stablehands had not thought to look for him so early and had not yet placed a guard when he departed. Defending the hapless help, Eomer only succeeded in transferring Eothain's wrath to his own head. By the time his self-appointed keeper was settled, the sun was high in the morning sky and Eothain had extracted a promise to visit every single Rider in the Houses of Healing just so he would not give his men more gray hair. As the visits were a good idea, Eomer could not protest, but he promised himself that he would track down the mysterious woman on the morrow.
That night Eomer was satisfied with a good day's work, but emotionally exhausted after assuring every injured Rider of his place in the future of Rohan. If it were not for the king's need to speak with the Dol Amrothian princess, he would have begged off dinner with his friends.
Arriving at the address Elphir had written down for him, Eomer realized that this was one of the estates adjoining the stables he needed to investigate. Perhaps his hosts would be able to direct him to his bewitching singer. So when he entered Princess Ivriniel's house and the familiar grey eyes of her niece smiled shyly into his, he settled into the knowledge that his life might eventually again be happy.
A/N: In my head I call this "Philip meets Aurora minus the happy dancing." Prompted by Willow-41z's "First Meetings," Chapter 7, Drabble #9. And yes, I'm still obsessed with our royals' ability to feed the war-torn Rohirrim.