All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.

Names of original characters are generated from LOTRO name database.

Writ of Shadows and Phantoms

Chapter 5: of Blue and Grey

The rustling sound grew louder. From a distance Éomer emerged with a little curled figure in his arms. Ignoring the pain in her foot upon seeing the boy, she ran towards Éomer and took the little boy in her arms. After checking he was not hurt, she embraced him and kissed him on his head, "Hannor!" Sign of relief in her voice. Her shoulders relaxed.

"Lothíriel, I am so sorry!" Hannor was still sobbing, feeling the guilt of making others worried about him.

"We should return to the camp. Come with me, boy." He offered his hand to the little one. Hannor took his big hand and was carried to the horses. Lothíriel was confused with his action. Then Éothain came and poked her on her shoulder, "Your horse is too small to carry two, my lady. Now let us go."

The joy of finding Hannor alive and unhurt overwrote the pain in her foot. She did not feel it until they were back at the Rohirrim camp. It was already dusk.

Now if she landed it would only get worse. She must get see to it at once and remove the splinter. But she did not want to have it tended at the Rohirrim camp, knowing she expected no words of welcome from their king. She had had enough of the cold shower of his words washing down her. She did not need more. They stopped in front of Éomer's tent. The pain was becoming unbearable. She must go and leave the boy for a while.

"Hannor, you stay here with Lord Éomer. He will take good care of you. I must go now. I will see you later." Then she turned to the Horselord. "And, thank you so much, my lord. I am in your debt." She bowed and turned and rode back to The City of Minas Tirith.

"Weird woman," Éothain muttered to himself. He was baffled by her reaction. Just moments ago, she was all concerned with the boy and now she just left him with a group of strangers. Bizzare, indeed.

The healer gave a thorough examination on Hannor. "The boy is unharmed, my lord. Just little sratches. Nothing of great concern. He should be himself again after a good sleep tonight!"

"Thank you," he was finally relieved that the boy was not hurt himself for his cause.

"My lord," the young boy gave him another timid smile and pulled his chainmail.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" He kneeled down to meet those little eyes.

"These are for you but they are all squashed now." Hannor could not hide the disappointment in his voice when he took the squashed flowers out of his pocket carefully like a precious treasure.

Éomer's gaze softened and he took the flattened plants and placed them on his desk.

"Why did you want to get more flowers for me?" Laying his hands on the little shoulders, the Rohirrim King asked him gently.

"Because I like you." The boy downcast his eyes, embarrassed by his answer. His voice was getting quieter and quieter. "And, you are going somewhere far away and dangerous. I want to see you again. So I thought the more flowers I get you, the more blessing you will get." By the time he finished, his head was so low that Éomer could no longer see his eyes.

Éomer was moved by this small wonder. He took the boy's hands and held them tight with one hand and put another on his shoulder. "Hannor," he called the boy's name. The boy looked up with his brown eyes. "I promise we will see each other again in Minas Tirith. You see these hands of yours?"

Hannor nodded.

Éomer held them tighter and continued, "One day they will grow big and strong. And, you will use them to protect your people and your land. This is what I am doing and why I must go to somewhere far away and dangerous."

To his surprise, the boy hugged him tightly with his little short arms around his neck. "My father said the same to me when he went out with Lord Faramir but he never came back."

"Lady Lothíriel will look after you now," he cupped his little chubby face.

"I think she is angry with me. She left in such hurry," the worried expression on the boy's face reminded him again of Helm's Deep. It was no surprise that such thought crossed the mind of the young boy. It was true that Lothíriel's reaction did not seem to sum up, given that she was so concerned earlier in the afternoon.

"I will talk to her after dinner. I will make sure she is not angry anymore." He patted his head and rubbed his hair to reassure the boy.

Her horse trotted through the City of Minas Tirith without drawing too much attention, Lothíriel returned it to the stable at the sixth tier. She dismounted and checked that there was no blood stain on the stirrup. Good, there wasn't any. The inside of her shoes now felt sticky and very damp. Her sock was all soaked. Luckily none of the blood managed to leak through the sole. She was relieved that she won't leave a bloody trail behind. Her father won't be pleased to learn about her reckless disregard for her own safety.

The Houses of Healing was just a few steps away. Normally it was easy. But now, she was limping and had to pretend hard to be as normal as possible despite the screaming pain beneath her foot. She sneaked in and made herself look busy with the medicine chest. She hid some bandages, a pair of tweezers, a vial of spirit and a jar of painkiller beneath her sleeves. She still had some cotton balls in her chamber. She also happened to pass through a few basins of hot water and needed to carry one to tend some patients. Not very proud of herself, her action made her feel like a thief.

Padding as slowly as she could, she finally reached her temporary accommodation. It was a small chamber in the fabric shop, not far from the sixth gate, on Rath Bein, fifth tier of Minas Tirith. The owner of the shop vacated her store before offering Lothíriel to stay. It was a perfect location. She was close to The Houses of Healing and The Citadel. She pushed the door ajar, leaving a very narrow gap but too small to for anyone to be able to look inside her chamber.

After settling the medicines and the basin of hot water on the small wooden table, she hopped on one foot, lifting the punctured side. Supporting herself with the side of her bed, she sat and brought her injured foot on her other knee. Carefully she untied the lace and removed her suede shoe, then pulled the blood-soaked sock off. She hissed as the sock tore away from the splinter. Putting the candle closer, she examined her foot. The splinter was sticking out from her hindfoot. Damn! This is going to hurt so much. Her face etched as she was trying to pull the splinter out.

A knock on the door shocked her and she nearly lost her balance. "Lady Lothíriel, would you like to have dinner?" It was Moriel. She must have missed her at dinner and brought her some food.

Trying to sound as normal as she could, she just answered, "Yeah, please, Moriel. Can you please leave it at the door please? I am occupied now. Just leave it there. Thank you! I'll have it when I am done. Good night, Moriel. I will see you tomorrow." She was not good at lying but she must send Moriel away without causing too much suspicion.

"Good night, my lady." The fading sound of Moriel's footstep reassured her that she was now alone. She pushed the door open more to see that Moriel had left some bread and ham on a plate at her doorstep.

Moriel was making her way down to her accommodation when she nearly ran into Éomer. Seeing that he was the handsome man from the morning, she blushed. She was surprised and pleased to see him again. Now it was such an eye candy to her that he was in his armour. She had always adored men of honourable heritage especially in heavy armour.

"Good evening, my lord!" She bowed and could not hide the excitement in her voice.

Éomer was not taking notice of her tone. He had something in mind that he had promised Hannor that he would do. "Good evening. Can you show me where Lady Lothíriel may be?"

The smile wiped instantly from her face. "She wishes not to be disturbed, my lord." She replied dryly.

"It is only a small matter regarding Hannor. It won't take much of her time." Éomer insisted.

Hearing that it was a matter of the orphan boy, Moriel was now less reluctant to show him the way. She lit a faint smile on her face and pointed to the upper tier. "Lady Lothíriel has a chamber in the fabric shop. You will find her there."

"Thank you." He nodded to acknowledge her assistance and ascended through the stone gate. City of Minas Tirith was truly a work of magnificent craft, he thought to himself as he strolled up the stone pavement. Then he saw the fabric shop. There was light – a good sign that the dwellers were still awake.

Lothíriel clenched her teeth. She had been trying to pull the splinter out with tremendous effort not to magnify the gnawing pain but it proved easier said than done. With careful manoeuvre of the steel tweezers, she could see a third of the splinter was now visible. But there was still the rest which was embedded in her foot. Her forehead glistened with sweat. All her thoughts were on her foot that she hardly noticed anything else around her. Under her heavy breath, she cursed at the excruciating pain.

Éomer found the front door unlocked. He pushed it a little only to see the lounge was empty. It was gimmer with the candles flickering in the mild wind. Some smell caught his nostril. The unmistaken metallic odour that was sickening sweet. His body buckled up and his senses alerted with the possible thrill of danger. He reached for Guthwine and unsheathed his sword. His movement was slow and very quiet.

The clinking of metal and glass seemed to originate from one of the chambers further. There were occasional hissing and angry grunting of a possibly man. His gut wrenched on the thought that there might be some enemies within Minas Tirith that they failed to see. The cursing became louder as he approached the last chamber. His boots nearly kicked the plates of dishes sitting at the doorway. He inhaled deeply and all he got was the sickening sweet of blood. Readying himself for combat, he kicked the door wide open and charged towards the enemy.

It took them both a while to learn the situation. One moment she was busy dabbing some spirit on her wound, another moment she found that she was pinned down in her bed with a hand locked at her jaw and a sword-tip very close to her throat and an angry man baring all his teeth! Her heart stopped in her chest. For a moment she dared not breathe. But she was released very soon and then her senses only reached her brain after. She choked and suffocated from all the sudden shock.

Éomer was panting heavily. He sheathed his sword and pulled her up. For Béma's sake, he nearly killed her again. Collecting himself rather quickly, he straightened up and looked at her apprehensive face. His face scrunched when he saw her room was cluttered with blood-soaked cotton balls. Blotches of crimson trailed along the bottom frills of her dress and her hands were colour of liquid ruby!

"What on Middle-earth are you doing?" He pulled her up from her bed. He could not understand this woman's doing most of the times. She did not seem to possess any intelligence or sense to her own doings. Unbelievable.

"I should be asking you that! What are you doing in my chamber?" She shot back, fumed by his uninvited presence and the close call to death he just offered. Just to make everything worse, she had dropped her tweezers when he attacked her. And she needed to stand up to find them!

He grabbed her arm again and gave her a hard stare. "What is the fuss with all these blood?" He demanded. Blood was never a good sign for a soldier.

She flung off his hand and refused to face him. She hated his blazing glare. "It is none of your business. Just leave."

"You did not do that when we first met." His eyes followed the trace of the blotches and stains, and he noticed her deliberate movement of hiding her feet. He did not hesitate and reached for them. She shrilled. She kicked protesting while his fingers were locked on her left foot. The pain was exhilarating up her spin. It was almost bearable for all this time until now.

"What is your problem?" Words came out from her clenching teeth.

"You should go to the Houses of Healing." He suggested.

"There is no need for that. There are enough worries at hand." She declined.

He did not bother to look at her anymore but her foot. The red flowing dampened his gloves. The splinter was still deep inside her flesh. He pulled a chair over and rested her foot on it. She watched as he unbuckled his gauntlets and peeled off his gloves. He went over to the table and started washing his hands in the basin. Drying his hands with the cotton towel, he continued to ignore her, knowing she won't agree to what he was about to do. He turned around to remove her foot and rest it again on his knee. He wrapped his fingers around her foot. His thumb crimped around the swollen wound, pressing it down. The red flow continued, running down his thumb, filling the groove between his thumb and nail. The bleeding had not stopped.

"A little warning might help." She cast him a glowering look before breathing in deeply to ease the piercing pain. She did not let out a hiss of pain when he pressed his thumb down. What a stubborn woman.

She threw him a disgusted cast. This man stormed into her room and attacked her. And, how on the Middle-earth did this man walk around in all those armour without making a sound? It was just eeriely creepy.

He lifted his eyes to meet her. Brooding was his face. He seemed to read her thoughts. "Quiet horses kick the hardest. You might want to bite onto something."

"Like your arm?" She raised her eyebrow.

Shaking his head and ighing at her respond, he returned his focus on her foot. Her eyes followed every move of his. They narrowed when she saw that his fingers were holding the end of the splinter. He gave her a warning look, followed by a small nod. He was ready to pull the splinter out. She returned the nod and looked away.

The pain peaked. She felt her heart pounding at exceptional rate to calm her senses.

He watched as her face etched trying to swallow the pain. He brought the splinter to take a closer look. The edge was pointed like a razor. It could have easily punctured through her foot. He left it on her table, and then wet a towel with some spirit.

"This will sting." He warned. She nodded again. Her face was now more relaxed and showed less resistance after having gone through the worst part.

He pushed her foot upright, brought himself closer and his right arm pressed on her shin and knee. Laying the wet towel in his left hand, he exerted enough pressure to force the excessive liquid into her wound. Her jaw tightened. Her reflex fought with his strength, trying to pull her foot back. But he was strong. She could not move her foot at all. He threw her a grave cast as he continued to push the liquid into the open wound. Her leg started trembling uncontrollably as the waves of pain crashing up along through every bit of her nerve. Her fingers dug into her palm. Cold sweat sent the chill down her spine. It was unbearable.

"It will be over soon." He could hear his own heavy breaths.

The tides of pain gradually came down. Her foot was just numb. She inhaled greedily for fresh air. He removed the sanguineous towel and began wiping the excessive blood. He dabbed some painkiller ointment around her wound. After that he unrolled the bandage and started wrapping it around her foot. His palms and fingers were fully of whitened calluses. She had seen the same on the hands of swordmen and archers. So this man could kill with spears, swords and arrows. To have all three weapons stuck on a body must be an agony. She started to feel some pity for his enemies. Subconsiously, her eyes followed his hands to his face. They were fixed on him. His expression was unreadable. His blond locks curtained the sides of his face. His eyes glinted under his lashes. His skin was mottled with sunburn and grim. The lines on his forehead told her that he always frowned. His brows were thick and straight. There were small hardly visible scars just above them. Beneath his straight nose, his beard ran along the side of his lips, covering his chin and jaw down to his neck but sat just above the protrusion. Valiant and honourable, that was how her brothers described the Horselords.

Sensing her radiating gaze, he raised his only to lock himself in her grey hollow ones. Quickly releasing, it was rude of him. He cleared his throat, "Your bandage is done." He pulled himself back, allowing her foot to drop freely on the chair. He lifted himself off the chair and put on his gloves and gauntlets.

Like awaken from a dream, she felt silly and embarrassed. What was she doing? The withering look on her face did not escape unnoticed. She took a deep breath and uttered, "Thank you." She could not bring herself to look at him again.

"Good night." He made the intention to leave.

"Same to you. I hope we wont' try to kill each other again the next time we meet." Her voice was still loud enough for his ears as his steps got closer to the main entrance.

She did not see that the corners of his lips curled up when he heard those words.

Note: Tolkien's work mentions Imrahil arrives with grey horses. So, it is likely that his daughter also has a grey horse.