(Quick Author's Note: This begins directly after Éomer's meeting with Lothíriel in the previous chapter.)
As Éomer approached Edoras, the setting sun set the thatched roof of Meduseld into a flame of gold. He approached the somber, open gates and hailed the gatekeepers. Dismounting, he handed his reigns to one of the door wardens. The merry brook gurgled as he made his way up the paved streets and steps. Before Meduseld, he arrived at a large terrace with a large fountain at its feet. Éomer ascended the steps to the terrace. There, his uncle awaited him.
"I rode to Erkenbrand and brought your message," he said after the proper greetings. "Here is his response." He handed him a small envelope with a red seal.
"Thank you, sister-son," Théoden answered. "I wished to surprise you, but twould be best if I notified you. In three days, I intend to promote you to Third Marshal of the Mark."
"My lord," Éomer gasped. "I have not yet reached twenty summers, yet you desire me in such a high position. I thank you for your confidence in me, but I am not sure if I am ready."
"Come, my boy, I have watched you grow the past seven years. Even when you first arrived, I sensed a maturity uncommon to boys of eleven years. For your age, I deem you more than a boy still emerging into manhood. Nay, you are as much a man as Théodred is." Théoden clapped Éomer on the back before turning the conversation to more trivial matters.
Eventually, May rolled around. By this time, Éomer was well established in his role as Third Marshal. Generally, the Eastfold was his charge, but his responsibilities depended on what needed to be done. He and his sister returned to their childhood home, Aldburg. Although there were many painful memories, both Éomer and Éowyn remembered happier times.
Not long after, Fleetfoot sired a young colt. Being rather stubborn and fiery in nature, it took many months for the creature to tolerate the farrier, and twould take many more to bridle and saddle him. At least the horse considered Éomer as a friend.
A summer afternoon that found Éomer speaking to the young stallion about saddles. The horse did not mind looking at them, but he refused to let Éomer near him when Éomer held a saddle in his hands.
A child's voice called from behind him, "Greetings, Éomer of Rohan."
Startled, Éomer turned around. The strange child he met a year ago stood before. "Same to you, young one," he replied. "I suppose I must introduce you to Firefoot, Fleetfoot's colt."
The child approached the young horse with an open hand. "Why call him Firefoot?" she questioned. "How old is he?"
"He is a bit older than a yearling," he replied. "As a foal, it took a long time to tolerate the farrier. Now he is just getting used to the idea of a bridle and saddle. He still refuses to try the saddle and bridle. He is strong-willed and has nasty temper tantrums. In honor of both his father and his stubbornness, I call him Firefoot."
The child spoke to the horse in a strange language that reminded him of wind brushing through the grass or a bird's song. Looking up at Éomer, she remarked, "Tis only been a year, but you appear as if five years have passed. Why is that?"
"You are quite discerning for your age. Soon after our last encounter, I was promoted to Third Marshal of the Mark. Many responsibilities comes with that title." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly, he realized he was alone with his horse. He was less surprised than before, but the same confusion about this child still beset his thoughts.
Whenever Lothíriel found herself in Rohan, she always returned without a single moment passing in Dol Amroth. After the first meeting with Éomer, she came across him the following four years. Generally, their meetings were brief, but she enjoyed them.
Soon after her fourteenth birthday, her mother and father called her into their bedroom. They seated her on a chair before the fireplace.
"Lothíriel," her mother began, "your father and I have made an important decision."
Imrahil said, "In two weeks, you will be going to Minas Tirith to finish your education in the Houses of Healing."
Shocked, Lothíriel sputtered, "Send me away? To live with Uncle Denethor?"
"No, not quite, my dear girl," said Imrahil with a chuckle. "You shall live in the Houses of Healing just for a little while."
Lothíriel suspiciously asked, "How long is a little while? Why do I have to finish my education in Minas Tirith?"
"Until you are eighteen," Imrahil answered. "You are a talented child. You have a good deal of common sense, which has developed into discernment and maturity. Whether you realize it or not, you have learned to think like your brothers and act accordingly. Having the education of a healer will, hopefully, teach you compassion, courage, and prepare you for the reality of life."
"But why can I not stay here? Why do you not send for one of Minas Tirith's healers come here to teach me here?" exclaimed Lothíriel.
Her mother said gently, "Lothíriel, we cannot always learn the way we want to. Sometimes the best way to learn is when you are by yourself."
Suddenly, anger surged through her. What right do they have to send her away without her consultation? What good can come out of her being sent away? What if they are just trying to get rid of her? Such questions coursed through Lothíriel's mind. "I will not go to Minas Tirith," she cried, rising from her seat. "Nothing can make me." She dashed out of the room and slammed the door with a loud bang.
Hot tears fell from her eyes as she ran through the castle. She rushed into the sanctuary and wept bitterly. The very thought of Minas Tirith brought dread and the idea of a gilded cage.
"Why are you crying?" a gentle voice asked.
Lothíriel looked up. She sat in a loft, surrounded by mounds of hay. A ray of light entered through a window on the far side of the room. Before her sat Éomer. He held out a clean, linen handkerchief.
Accepting the hankie, Lothíriel dried her tears and answered sullenly, "I am to be sent away from my home to finish my education."
"And you do not wish to go," finished Éomer softly. "That is understandable. There are many times in our short lives that we cannot do what we would prefer."
"Have you had a similar experience?" queried Lothíriel.
"Certainly," he answered. "After my parents died, my sister and I moved to Edoras. It took a good many of lectures from my cousin to at least view the move as something beneficial. In the end, I am glad I moved to Edoras. I learned some things I never would have learned if I stayed in Aldburg."
"Aldburg? Is that your hometown?"
"Precisely, and that is where we are now."
Lothíriel placed her head on knees. After some consideration, she said slowly, "I suppose going away will not be that bad."
Éomer answered encouragingly, "That's the spirit. Never be afraid of what the future holds. Who knows? It may turn out to be better than you would have planned."
Lothíriel smiled. The hayloft and Éomer disappeared. She now gazed at the marble statue of the Little White House. Looking down in her hand, she found that she still held his handkerchief.