Acknowledgements:

Glory Bee: Thank you again for being my faithful reader! I wonder how long it would take him too. I have drafted the part which he eventually realised but it might be a chapter or two more.

Shy: Thank you so much for making the effort despite forgetting your password! I hope you can find your password or simply re-register!

b5delenn: Thank you for the motivation :D I think the friendship that grows between Éothain and Lothíriel. Éothain is just full of character! He is always full of surprises!

AHealingRenaissance: Thank you very much ;) Sometimes the more we defy it, the strong it gets - at least I would like to think that way.

Reading note:

Some might find this chapter a bit lengthy. I am sorry! It needs to be the foundation for the next chapter which will change the relationship between Éomer and Lothíriel forever.

Writ of Shadows and Phantoms

Chapter 15: of Kitchen and Yearlings

The furthest distance in the world is not being apart while being in love
But when plainly cannot resist the yearning yet pretending you have never been in my heart.

~ Anonymous

"We just arrived at the camp. We were dead tired and everyone was very much so in need of sleep. Though at night, the place seemed haunted. There was something implacable that kept watching us. Strange noises were coming from everywhere, making sound that resembled high pitched demon voices if you like. I heard them, mocking us and laughing, yet they were invisible to our naked eyes. Peculiar as it was, it seemed to pose no threats. So we were once inside our safe tent, we felt at ease, longing for our well deserved sleep," he began.

"However, it appeared that the high pitched demon voices longed for something as well. For us. Suffering. Badly. The noises took a new height, both in voice and altitude. They elevated themselves to unreachable heights, disguised themselves with the cloak of the night."

"They! They prepared to strike. And strike they did," he continued, widening his eyes with animated gesture.

"Our earned nightly peace was interrupted by a sudden thump. Subtle as it was, it was enough to wake one from his deep sleep. Awaking yet dosing off again, another followed. And, another."

"Once I got outside, however, there was nothing. Though, the ticks were sounding all around us. As if little rocks were thrown at the trailers that were stationed in rows of two, as far as the eye could see. 'It must be the rain,' said of one the riders," his voice continued to deliver mental imagines into the mind of his listeners.

"I cursed, still numb from brisk awakening and confused by the lack of rain, I returned to my dreamland. Once asleep and once more, but it was back. Tskk, tskk, it went and kept going on and on and on. Not an eye was shut that night and every time I checked outside, there was nothing but silence and shadows."

"Anger arose. My heart was thirsting for vengeance. I sneaked out like a born ranger, silent and stealth I was. I saw shadows lurking in the trees. They were all around us! Ten or twenty but no less! In the trees and all around. Hammering their objects at us! Arrow on my bow, I pulled my string. And behold, the demons that haunted us while we slept that night, the shrieks that tormented everyone with fear! With no mercy, no fatigue and least of all—"

Whack!

A small stone impinged on his helmet and interrupted him.

All the children turned around to see where the attack could have come from.

"Éothain, your break finished five minutes ago."

"Yes, Sire," rubbing the dent on his burnished helmet, the young Marshal obeyed to the order and left his audience, hanging them at the cliff of curiosity.

"My King, you should not be so hard on that young man," said his old advisor, his voice snickering.

"He is not slapped enough as a child," sighed, Éomer shook his head.

All the children then came around, surrounding him, with their blue eyes begging for him to conclude the unfinished story. Most of them were no taller than the Halfing Merry.

"So, what was it?" Asked a boy clinging his little hands on his mail skirt.

"What was what?" He asked back, looked down at the small figure, frowning, confused by the question.

"The creature that Marshal Éothain was telling in his story."

"Oh, that! Let me tell you, my child. It was a….." Gamling stepped in and scoped all the children aside towards their shelter. The children face shone with amazement as the old solder continued the tale of the unfinished adventure. Éomer grinned at the clever move of the older man. He had done so to leave his King some peace.

After the funeral of Théoden, Éomer finally came around to the most important and first task of his reign – rebuilding Rohan. Many fields were burnt and livestock were destroyed by the persistent attacks from the Orcs and Dunlendings during the War of the Ring. Rohan was nothing a scarred land with not crops to feed its people. He had nothing to reward his vassals and reimburse the families of the fallen riders. The aid of Gondor was welcomed but he wished not and did not like to rely on it. It was not his nature. Rohirrim had always been self-sufficient and he intended to restore that way of living as soon as possible.

The supply Rohan received would be sufficient to last until next spring. But he had ordered his people to start sowing the seeds for next crop, grinding any grains they could save and weaving the wool of the remaining sheep. The healing was slow but progressing. Crops and grains were just tangible help he could offer. There were some wounds that would never completely heal. Many families now had to struggle and continue their life without the men. Women lost their brothers, fathers, husbands and sons. Many children were made orphans.

After urging the children back into their shelter, Gamling peered into the horizon. From time to time, he would find his young king, gaping absently across the plains of the Mark, dwelling himself in a long reverie. It was early winter. The cold snap had showed mercy on them and there was no trace of wintry blizzard which made its visit every year, as far as Gamling could remember. Everything was getting better even under the increasingly cold weather. But the first few months were tricky. There was no end to discussion at the council every morning. The list of rebuilding tasks only grew longer and longer. And the constant argument between Éomer and their Gondorian diplomat only caused headaches to those at the council table.

"No! You cannot do this. You must see to the children first!" She insisted at one occasion.

"My decision is final," Éomer did not back down either.

"These children are robbed of their parents! Nobody is willing or able to take them."

"So are the soldiers who can no longer ride, so are the farmers who can no longer harvest their crops and thousands of mouths that need feeding! The children will be fine where they are," he shot back at her earnestly.

"If you do not wish to see to it now, I will, with or without your approval."

That ended the council that morning, leaving Éomer in a rather foul mood. He was not cruel but sometimes there were other priority that came first and others had to be set aside. Not a decision that would please everyone. Lothíriel was not the most amiable person Gamling came across. She was stubborn and would go against Éomer openly. Having said that when she took matters into her own hands, she always had a way to resolve them better than he initially anticipated. One such instance was the construction of an orphanage in at The Terraces, next far from the east watch-tower. Many planks of lumber were shipped from Dol Amroth and she oversaw the construction since the first day when the earth was dug. It was completed by the end of autumn and was enough to house all the parentless children they found within surrounding settlements. And it was built to Rohirric quality. Part of him actually held some admiration for this woman. Her strong will drove his king mad but nonetheless she was a keeper of words. High echelon like her bore no lavish welfare of a princess, given that she was Imrahil's daughter and by birth right, she was a princess.

When they first arrived at Edoras, she had demanded not to be lodged at any fancy quarters. Well, even if she had not made the request, there was no spare accommodation. Most well-kept quarters were offered to the party of King Elessar and the company of the fellowship. And, many came from all over Rohan to pay their respect to their fallen king and swore their loyalty to the new. The city was saturated and all rooms were cramped to fit as many as possible.

"My lady, I am truly sorry that this is the best I could offer," Gamling said in an apologetic tone as he led Lothíriel and her two companions to a Rohirrim cottage.

"Thank you, Lord Gamlin. This will suffice. Having a roof is better than none," she smiled, looking around the wooden cottage.

It was not an impressive cottage. There were two sleeping chambers at the back. The fire pit sat in the middle, a signature of all Rohirric buildings. Next to the fire pit, there was a stoned stove with a small food safe. The stable laid next to the front entrance. Opposite it, there were wooden table and benches for dining. It was simple with all the necessity. But that did not make everyone happy. Her maid, Moriel was fastidious with the dwelling that she had to live up for the unknown months they stayed in Edoras. She was fussy with small details. There was no wardrobe for the start. And the stable was too close to the bedchambers. The front porch was nothing more than a thatched roof. On top of that, she found the cottage too small for three people and she found it incredibly inconvenient to have to share it with a young boy. Gamling believed that it was one of the many side reasons why Lothíriel had pushed the completion of the orphanage, so that Hannor could stay with the rest of the children that shared the same fate.

"Good morning, Lord Gamling," greeted the dark-haired woman as she vaulted off her horse.

"Good morning, my lady," he smiled. "Good ride?"

"Yes, as Rohirric saying puts it: horses lend us the wings we lack. The best place to ride freely on the Middle-earth, I must say, has to be the plains of Rohan. Absolutely exhilarating! I don't think I will ever get tired of it!" She answered breathlessly, patting her majestic grey mare fondly on her neck then before passing the reins to the stable-master. Lothíriel climbed up the hewn-stoned path, weaving her way up to the old soldier.

Gamling continued to grin at the young woman. "I am glad to learn that you are blending well into our lifestyle."

"I am ashamed to admit that horses are the animals that are yet to suffer an early demise in my hands!" She laughed. A few loose strands of her braided raven dark hair flew in the air like outstretched wings.

Gamling chuckled.

"It will be Yule soon."

"Yes, time passes rather quickly this few months."

"Let us hope, this winter will be kind to us."

There was a hint of grimace in Gamling's voice.

"Do you celebrate Yule in Rohan?" she asked, trying to change to a lighter topic.

"We do. It might be different from the Yule you are accustomed to in Dol Amroth though. How do you celebrate Yule Festival in Dol Amroth?"

She began explaining with animated enthusiasm.

"We have firecrackers. There will be a feast at the city square that lasts for five days. Fishermen will bring back huge crabs and salmons from the sea. There will be an open fire pit and anyone could bring his provision and share with others. My father would open the gates and welcome any visitors to the City. The children will be showered with gifts. All families gather together and share stories and jokes at the dining table….."

Her voice died down. She lowered her eyes slowly, fluttering her lashed. Her expression sunk with evident trace of sadness. She was missing her family and home. A home she could not return to.

"My lady," seeing the sadness in her eyes, Gamling turned to her and put his hand on her shoulder, in a convincing tone, he said, "I will make sure you feel at home this Yule. This is your first Yule in Edoras. I will see to it myself that you will enjoy it."

He somehow felt for this young woman. It was unimaginable to him to be away from his land for so long, to be in a foreign land, to be among people whose culture that he knew little about.

"Lord Gamling, if you would excuse me please," seeing Hannor waving at her, she bowed and dashed to the orphanage.

He watched her as she sprinted down the pavement. His scepticism towards her eased over the course of the months. The young woman had proven her quality. He was impressed. He only wished she could get along better with his King.

"Gamling!"

"My lord."

From the look of it, Éomer had finished the daily practice with his royal cavalry.

Brushing off the thin layer of sweat from his forehead, Éomer saw some men, women and children dropping whatever that was in their hands; nimble and quick, bounded across the green to the direction of the orphanage. He arched his straight eyebrow, throwing his old friend a querying cast.

"Lady Lothíriel has decided to start some teaching lessons. Today is the first lecture. Our people seem to be quite keen about it."

His eyebrows furrowed, Éomer murmured, "Teaching lesson, what is she thinking?"

The Rohirrim had always maintained the culture of their ancestors. They sang songs but were not particularly interested in writing or reading. And, now this woman wanted to introduce lesson?

Gamling observed his King. He could tell that he was not very impressed by that. His heavy-booted feet stamped on the paved hewn stones in annoyance.

"King Éomer, where are you going?" Gamling shouted.

Éomer lifted his head and viewed him with a raised brow. Gamling could not tell if his young king was smiling.

"First lesson, Gamling?"

It was almost ten o'clock in the morning. Lothíriel was busy preparing the materials for her first ever teaching session. She hoped it would go well. She was nervous. Her palms were sweaty. She kept checking her stationery again and again. A large piece of parchment was stretched and pinned on the wall.

Hannor opened the door and they were stunned to see the crowd that gushed in.

The longue was spacious and lined with tables and benches. The children were already sitting. As soon as the door opened, there were peasants consisting of farriers, farmers, smiths, woodworkers, foresters, tailors and so forth that quickly filled up half of the room. Some of them were still wearing their work aprons, some had tools in their hands, some carried their farm baskets with them. Lothíriel also found among the present were riders, some royal knights, bold young squires and grizzled old men-at-arms, with spears and swords and axes hanging on their belts, and clad in their armour. The rather spacious room looked small and narrow with men and women standing along the wall.

Eyes closed, drawing a deep, long breath, she turned to the attendees.

"Wesaþ hāl!" She greeted them in their tongue. She had picked up a few lines in Rohirric and was still learning it. She was not as good as Hannor.

"Wesaþ hāla!" They replied in unison.

"Welcome to our first lesson. Today we begin with the history of Middle-earth. We will look at the creation of the Timless Halls and the race of Ainur," she switched to Westron and began the tales of Middle-earth.

Her students of young and men were astonished as she continued to enlighten them. Her voice rang loud and clear through the corridor. For a moment her confidence was raised to its peak, then when the tens of pairs of eyes shifted from her to the door, she realised something was not right. They all stood up and were about bowed, "Hail Éomer King!"

From the corner of her eyes, she detected some tall and huge object blocking the door. That was right. Éomer had been standing at the door, observing her teaching. It only required one pair of less attentive eyes that wandered from the front then everyone noticed their king was here. Who could possibly not see such someone with such a noticeable presence? She cursed under her breath, thinking that she was naïve enough to assume he won't pay a slight interest at all in all her show and play – which otherwise would suit her well. Her hand clutched tightly to her chalk. The words of her brother came back haunting her.

"Do not fall for him, Lothíriel," Erchirion warned.

"What are you saying, Brother," she moved to the edge of the patio, trying to shadow her face in the dark.

"Éomer is a dangerous man. He is not someone you can handle."

Unlike Elphir who was very protective of her, Erchirion always left her to decide for herself and he was always able to predict her reactions and thoughts. It was difficult to conceal anything from him.

"If you hold any feeling for him, kill it now. It will only be vain," he urged.

She remained silent. Her mind was racing. Her fomenting affection for him did not escape her brother's eyes. Had he seen the emotions that leaked from her eyes? Or was it her deliberate behaviour that burst her cover. The more she tried to conceal it, the more she felt she had failed.

"Do you not understand? He will not be your husband. He will not love you," her brother grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her.

His sister blinked a few times at him. It was cruel words that he said. She thought deeply, and she turned her eyes wistfully to the great doors of Meduseld behind which the Lord of the Mark sat.

"He agreed to Father's request with one condition," her brother continued, his eyes closed, could not bring himself to spat out the harsh truth, "that you will never be the Queen of Rohan!"

His words paralysed her brain and heart. She dazed trying to rewind his words in her mind. She sat herself down at the stoned steps and gazed blankly into the fire of the torch. Her heart sunk and died out like the flickering flame lost its ember in the strong wind.

Gathering her wits, she decided she should listen to her brother; that she should seal and bury the feeling she had developed for the Horselord, that she should invest her passion somewhere else. As her lone journey in Edoras began, it was never an easy task to face him every morning at the council. She could have chosen not to attend it, but she somehow felt that she owed the people of this land. Gondor would not have survived without the Rohirrim. It was a solid fact that nobody could deny. Trying hard to pretend and lie to herself that she held no more than silly infatuation, she turned an blind eye to her thoughts. It was easier said than done. Building a wall around one's heart is as if you stab your heart with a butcher knife and tell yourself that it is fine whilst it continues to bleed.

"Lady Lothíriel?"

"Oh sorry, Hannor." Waking up from her momentary reverie, she quickly regained her composure and resumed where she left.

Two hours anon, the first lesson completed without no more surprises. Her students seemed pleased and enthusiastic about it. She was thrilled. Some were enquiring Lothíriel about the next lesson. Others were suggesting allowing their children to come along.

Éomer could not say if he was too impressed, at least he was not disappointed and was glad to see that some good use came out from their Gondorian diplomat. More importantly, the children were over the moon with the stories. Despite her limited verbal skill conversing in their language, the lesson was delivered with remarkable creativity and surreal images. Hannor had helped with many translations. The orphan boy was very proficient in both Westron and Rohirric, he learnt to speak their tongue easily as soon as he settled in.

"Éomer King?"

"Yes, Gamling?"

"May I suggest that we get ready for lunch now?"

"Of course!"

They headed to the entrance and Éomer stopped abruptly, remembering something. His old friend nearly crashed into him. He turned around to his adviser.

"Gamling?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Get more tables and benches made. Nobody should be standing in a class."

"I will see to it."

A warm smile appeared on old Gamling's face. His King always had a kind heart beneath his rough hardened look - the attribute that most people often overlooked when they judged him.

The children were scampering around the front yard when Gamling and Éomer came out from the orphanage. Éomer squinted. There were some men and women busy dressing tables. Puzzled, Éomer turned to Gamling but his old friend just shrugged.

"Lord Éomer!"

A shout came from the direction of Meduseld. Waving at him, Mægen, the old kitchen maid of his household, hastened down the hewn stones. Mægen had always been the kitchen maid as long as Éomer could remember. She knew his uncle very well. She always remembered Théoden and Théodred's favourite dishes. Age caught up with her. Grey strands and line were dominating her appearance. She appeared shorter day by day.

"Mægen, what is the hurry?"

"My lord, I am sorry. I have forgotten to tell you that lunch is served outside today. We will dine with the children."

"How is that so?"

Éomer cast the old woman a questioning look.

"Lady Lothíriel has prepared all the food," Mægen was delighted that things were a little different today that instead of her preparing the meals, she would love to be pampered and just sit down and enjoy somebody's else cooking.

Other than children, there were many that came. Éomer glared across the porch. There were farmers bringing out wines and ales, knights helping with chairs and spreading the rugs, women distributing fruits and nuts to each table.

Gamling walked under the sun and let the beam warmed his wrinkled face.

"It is a good day, my lord. Shall we?" Extending his hand, he motioned for Éomer to join the busy bunch.

Éomer smiled faintly at his gesture. They strolled down to the Terrace where the tables and chairs laid.

"Éomer King?"

A small voice spoke up. Éomer looked down and recognised the small face. His father, Déorwine, a knight of Théoden, fell at Mundburg, one of the many who paved the battle with their deaths. He smiled, leaning over.

"Yes, Déornyd?"

"Would you like to join us?" the boy asked, pointing at the dressed table not far.

"Yes. Lord Gamling and I would be delighted."

The boy beamed instantly at his answer.

"Come with me! I will show you where your seats are!"

Pulling the hand of his King, Déornyd led the two grown men to a table, just next to where a few big cast iron pots of stew were sitting.

Her steps halted when Lothíriel saw Éomer. She had gone to the kitchen to fetch a few ladles and despite knowing he might make a presence here, she did not expect to see him so soon. And so close to her stews. She chewed her lower lip.

"You should not get too close to the stews, my lord. You might get burnt."

An unnecessary warning. Not that she expected him to get burnt, she just did not want to be in close proximity within his presence.

She shovelled a ladle each into the pots. Looking down at the stew, she stirred it vigorously.

If there is no chance that the other person will ever return your feeling romantically, it may be best to suppress knew deep within, yet these feelings were pure misery. She must make them disappear from her conscious awareness. She must consciously push away any thoughts of this man that came to her mind. Her will needed to stay strong. Some tools of distraction would definitely facilitate that – such as stirring the stew, very very vigorously.

"Don't speak so freely, my lady. I have survived Orcs and Uruk-hais. Your stew could be no more vicious than them. Unless there are some ingredients that man knows not."

She threw him a leer. And he returned it with a hard stare.

"I should have last time," she murmured.

The awkward silence that had varnished for a few weeks finally made surfaced again. It was thanked to Mægen's timely interference that broke it.

Standing next to Lothíriel, Mægen struggled to keep her balance. She staggered whilst trying to find her footing on the bench.

"Mægen! What are you doing? The stew could fall on you!"

Lothíriel grabbed the old woman by her arm before she fell over.

"My lady, I am trying to reach the ladle. It looks like the table is too high for me," she pointed with a dripping ladle at the stew in front of her.

"Mægen! Don't hurt yourself at the very end. You are about to retire for Béma's sake!" Éomer walked past Lothíriel. He lifted the old woman and set seated her on another bench.

"Let me help you with this," he removed the ladle from Mægen's hand and stood next to Lothíriel. He started to unbuckle his vambraces and then peeled off his leather gloves. With a ladle in his bare hand, he swirled the content of the pot in front of him.

She turned her head away and cursed. Damn! Why did he have to stand so close? She could feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent seeped into her nose. Her heart was thumping loudly. And her thoughts were tumbling. Focus! Focus! She must focus.

"Hmmm, this smells incredibly familiar. Stew of the Kings?" He lifted a ladleful to his nose and asked, tilting his head to beckon at her.

"Glad to know that you still remember," she replied not exactly answering his question.

"I survived." Came the measured answer.

She continued to ignore him. She needed a diversion and then her eyes lit up with mischief. With a loud clank, she banged the ladle against the metallic pot and in a loud and clear voice, she shouted, "Children, I hope you all will feel so honoured today that your King will be serving your lunch!"

That drew all the immediate attention, especially the children of course. They gathered quickly around him with bowls and spoons in their hands, all appearing very eager as if the stew would taste different if it came from his hands.

He frowned and glowered at her with sullen displeasure. He was certain that she did it deliberately to annoy him.

"Fine." A silent sigh.

"Form up! Line up!" He urged the small figures. Instantly the children formed a queue.

"Typical."

A low murmur but he heard her. He shook his head but said no more.

"Thank you, Éomer King!"

"Enjoy! And watch your step, little one!" Éomer reached out his hand to steady a child.

"Will do, my lord!" beamed the chubby face, dancing away with the stew in her hands.

Every child that had his or her bowl filled was absolutely overjoyed. They knew Éomer as a king and have heard stories about his deeds but they never actually had him so close. It was a new experience. They felt it was a special. They felt love and compassion when their King talked to them. They did not feel unwanted anymore.

Then a familiar figure came into sight. Éomer traced the blackened leather gloves, the maroon tunic, the burnished vambrace with black horse leather imprint and his eyes rose quickly to find a man with a ear-to-ear grin standing in front of him. Éothain widened his grin and extended his hand with a bowl. He was asking his King to serve him.

Éomer narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the young rider. He was fine with children but felt rather offended with that smile beaming from his bodyguard.

"Éothain! Over here!"

Lothíriel thought she saw the anger flashed briefly in Éomer's eyes. She pulled the young rider's extending arm and dragged him forward.

"It is not funny to do that to your King!" she hissed at him as she filled his bowl.

"But he is already serving the children!" he defended.

"Children are children. And you are no child! He is your King! Show some respect! Don't ever again take the gimmick on your King!" she reminded.

"Yeah! Yeah!" he responded perfunctorily.

"Now go before he scorches you down to your very last bone with his blazing glare!" she urged, pushing him forward.

The rest of the Royal Guards picked up the lesson quick and reformed their queue in front of their Gondorian diplomat.

"My lord." Gamling chuckled.

"I told you he is not slapped enough as a child."

"He is young."

"He needs to learn," Éomer said without giving much thought. "And, Gamling, allow me."

Éomer extended a filled bowl to his adviser.

The courtesy that Éomer showed astonished the old rider.

"My lord, I can't."

"Gamling, it is an honour to have you by my side. Please take it, my friend."

"The honour is mine, my King," still stunned, he reluctantly accepted the bowl and gave his king a bow. It was something he had not expected. Many riders now looked at him with the highest regards and admiration in their eyes. Emotions gushed into his chest. He felt a little moisture sneaking into his eyes. The feeling of appreciation was beyond words. It was not title or wealth that he seeked when he chose to continue serving his young King. Éomer was not a person generous of compliment but his action just now spoke the highest regard that he held for his old friend.

Gamling did not know how he found a seat. Looking up from the table, he thought he saw the most amazing picture of the day – his King was finally happy and contented with his role and responsibility, and beside him the woman, who somehow drove him mad in every possible way, always uncovered the unseen side of his King. That brought another smile to the old rider's face.

"You should eat before it is all gone," she spoke whilst emptying the last drop of the stew out of pot.

"I thought we had enough?"

"Not if there are more greedy souls coming for their refill," swapping the empty pot with another full one, she filled a large bowl and passed it to Éomer. "Eat and say no more."

He stared down at the bowl. Lothíriel became annoyed. That same face again!

"Stew of the Kings, improved and braised with the very special royal taters of Rohan, my lord," she removed the pot from the table and sat down with a filled bowl for herself.

"It is not poison if you fail to remember," she reminded without looking at him.

He finally sat down. Unconsciously she shifted her body a little away from him. He noticed and tended her unease but she only kept her attention to her bowl. A deliberate act of distancing herself.

There was a long pause.

"Mægen is going to retire before Yule," he suddenly said, breaking the silence.

"So I heard. She wants to take care of her grandchildren."

"For as long as I can remember, she has always been our cook in Meduseld."

She could not help but detect the sadness in his voice.

"There are things and people that you cannot hold on to forever. You have to let go at some point," she inserted, sipping her tea. You have to let go at some point - was it meant for her or him, she could no longer tell.

"So we need someone to replace her," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"And?" she asked without giving any attention.

"I thought you would be the ideal candidate."

"I beg your pardon?" Fighting back the sudden choke, she tried to find her voice. "What do you mean?"

"I am offering you a position in my household."

"Are you actually asking your diplomat to be your cook? This is unheard of!" She rolled her eyes, disbelieved at his words.

Noting that she did not take his offer seriously, he tried another way.

"Unless you are not interested," he said casually, pouring himself some wine.

When Mægen announced that she was going to retire, many came up suggesting the Lady of Gondor would be the best option. Many knew about her obsession with culinary and food. She had prepared the meals for the orphans and occasionally his riders would sneak in and treat themselves with some. She learnt the Rohirric cuisine quick and often the followed results were surprising. His men had praised her dishes more than once in front of him. Mægen often spoke of her talent that even the pickiest man in Rohan would have not said no to her food. Éomer was not meticulous about what he ate but he believed keeping a man's stomach well fed would get any job done better and faster – something he learnt from observing a life example: Éothain.

"I am certain your most loyal admirer over there would be delighted," he continued and pointed at the direction of Éothain.

"He is not my admirer!" She hastened to correct.

"He is a good friend," then she inserted in a milder, slower tone, feeling a little overreacted earlier.

"The task will be no more difficult or easier than what you are doing now. You can still take care of the children. They are welcome to dine in Meduseld."

Her father once told her that dining with the soldiers was the best way to get to know and understand them. She had seen Éomer at the table with most of his advisers, Marshals and knights. The éoreds would join them too if they were not on patrol. Sometimes he would ask some dwellers in Edoras to dine with him. One night it would the smithies and they would talk about armours and weapons and ore-mining. The next time it would be the provisioners and suppliers and he would listen to them go on about the supply of grains, crops, wools and hays. Another time it might be the woodworkers and carpenters and builders with endless talk about lumbers and thatching. He knew his people and he knew them well. That was the way how King and his people should be.

"So, do you think you are capable enough? To run the royal kitchen," he pushed his effort.

His challenging tone set all her rationale aside. Enraged, she agreed without fully comprehending the possible after effects of her decision. "When do I start?"

Right after the words left her mouth, she regretted it. All her sanity and rationale came back mocking her why she had accepted his offer. What was wrong with her? Was the daily debate at the morning council not troubling enough? Why did she have to dig herself another grave? She was so stupid, totally out of her mind, she admitted silently, biting her lower lip.

"Mægen will go through the routine with you tomorrow," he stood up, sliding his hands into the leather gloves and buckling his vambraces.

"We will be training some yearlings this afternoon, if the children wish to come," his voice trailed off as he made his way up the slope to the horse enclosure of the city.

The afternoon went quickly. She only remembered taking the children to the small field. Éomer was already there with his Royal Guards and a few breeders. The children began all sort of fun with drawing and painting. Some of the younger ones who had not prior experience to be on a horse back were given the chance. The laughter echoing in the field caught attention of many.

"Ha! Well done! There you go, boy!" Éomer laughed, clapping his hands to encourage a chestnut yearling after it managed to learn a new trick.

She looked up and saw the first smile he ever flashed since she met him. His whole face lit up and the dimples were deep and craved onto his cheeks. It was warm and almost contagious not to laugh along. She could not help herself but felt her lips curled up slowly.

The children flattered the men in the field with loud cheers.

Wiping the sweat off his brows and catching his breaths, his eyes turned to the children only to glimpse at her smiling.

At him.

TBC

Chapter 16: The change in Lothiriel's life after she begins her life as the cook for his household. Éomer's decision that almost ruins their 'friendship' (or whatever you like to call it!) and Lothiriel nearly betrays her will.

Footnotes

Mægen = strong (Old English)

Moriel = Lady Crowned with Black (Sindarin, feminine). She is Lothíriel's maid whom she grows up with. Her role is important as the next twist comes.

Wesaþ hāl = Greeting (Old English, plural)

Wesaþ hāla = Greeting to a female (Old English, singular)

Déorwine = A Royal Knight of Théoden. He was killed in the Battle of Pelennor Field.

Déornyd = son of Déorwine, now an orphan

Déor means bold, wine means friend, nyd is just another suffice for male name with no particular meaning.

Vambraces = (noun, of armour) Forearm guard

Yearling = (noun)young horse

Chestnut = (adjective)brown colour, often used to describe animals

Note1: The layout of Edoras is based on Decipher map designed by Daniel Reeve (who is also the map artist for Jackson's Trilogy)

Note2: The thing in Éothain's story is actually a squirrel.