Chapter 36: Gifts
Éomer awoke to a cloudless blue sky, the sun glinting brightly in his periphery. He lay upon uneven ground, grass tickling his skin. For a moment he thought he might be lying wounded on Pelennor Fields, the victim of an orc or Easterling. But as he took a moment to grasp his bearings Éomer realized he lay in a tunic, not armor and could detect no indication of injury. Craning his head to the side he recognized the rough hillside of his homeland, the warmth of the sun rivaling the relief flooding through him. He was not stranded upon the fields of war awaiting a slow death or the merciful blade of a sympathetic companion. Long had he suffered those nightmares but it seemed this was not one.
Sitting slowly, the sound of pleasant laughter graced his ears. It seemed far off, echoing across the terrain as the wind rippled the grasses. It was summer by the looks of the vegetation and the heat radiating from the earth. Éomer was bemused by this, his memory harkening back to his visitation to Gondor. What dream had he strayed into? More perplexing was the small form curled beside him. With a frown, the King of Rohan shifted slightly to get a better view of the little one. Nestled against his hip, the child began to stir as Éomer moved but did not wake. Before he could investigate further, the sound of laughter rose up again as a form appeared at the crest of a nearby hill.
Lothíriel came strolling across the sage colored grass, a baby settled upon her hip. She looked positively radiant, her dark hair twisting in the light breeze. Her face was flushed from her ascent up the hill a smile lighting her face as she saw Éomer. The hem of the lavender dress flourished at her feet as she made her way toward her husband. Éomer could not help but return the smile as his beautiful wife came to stand above him.
"Elies was enamored of the horses," she stated, seating herself beside him and transferring the baby girl to the ground. The dark thatch of hair on the child's head glinted richly under the sunlight as she looked at Éomer. Lothíriel watched as the baby reached for a blade of tall grass, entranced by thin stalk as it wound around her chubby hand. The Queen leaned against her husband, gazing then at the sleeping boy next to him.
"Elfwine slumbers on," she observed quietly, reaching across Éomer to tuck a strand of golden hair behind the boy's eye. Unmoved, the child made a face before curling closer to the king's hip. Éomer was speechless. Surely this was some brilliant fantasy.
"Are you well?" Lothíriel's grey eyes caught his gaze with a flash of concern, her hand winding around the baby's waist so she would not stray. Éomer nodded with a smile as his wife as she settled closer to him. Although this was surely a dream, he could smell the richness of the earth and feel the heat of her body, his expression relaxing. He felt such peace and serenity laying here in the sun with his family. Perhaps it was a premonition. He dearly hoped so.
As the dream lingered on, Éomer felt a shift in the air. He couldn't quite determine what it was, but as Lothíriel lay sleeping beside him in the grass, he realized there was something off. After lifting the boy to put him beside his mother, Éomer picked the baby up and stood. Lothíriel and the boy did not stir, resting peacefully beside one another. The little girl in his arms gurgled appreciatively, her toothless smile warming his heart. She had Lothíriel's hair and lips and his eyes. It was certainly the finest dream he'd had in some time. All the same, he took a glance down at his wife and son snoozing and shifted the girl in his arms. Walking a short length away, Éomer tried to locate the source of his sudden discomfort. The landscape had not changed and the sun still exuded heat upon them as if nothing had changed. But there was something amiss.
As he tried to search for it Éomer felt himself being pulled from the throes of sleep, regaining consciousness steadily. The scenery began to fade, the baby evaporating from his arms slowly as if she were a specter. As he fought to retain this dream-state he caught sight of a figure standing beyond his wife's sleeping form. Trying to walk toward them, Éomer found himself trudging as if stuck in mire, unable to return to Lothíriel. The figure did not move, watching like a phantom at the edge of the dream. He couldn't discern much of the form save for dark hair and piercing blue eyes, which all but glowed amidst the darkening scene.
Éomer woke gradually, frustration and anger clouding his mind. It pained him to return to the present where he lay alone in a bedroom in Minas Tirith. Reality set in as the King of Rohan begrudgingly blinked sleep from his eyes. Despite the delightful pleasure he experienced in the dream he could not shake the feeling of trepidation and threat from the individual stalking the darkness. The man was definitely not familiar, but nor was he foreign. This thought plagued the King as he made ready for his final full day in Gondor.
A leisurely breakfast with Aragorn, Arwen, Eowyn and Faramir set the day off well. There was only one council meeting scheduled for the day, the rest of the hours available for Éomer to do as he pleased. He lunched with his brother-in-law, far more comfortable with the man than he'd been on his sister's wedding day.
"I regret arriving so late," the Prince of Ithilien commented before finishing his tankard of ale. Éomer offered a disarming shrug as he leaned back in his chair. They'd shared an amiable leisurely lunch discussing the various matters of their respective lands.
"We all do what we must," the King of Rohan replied with a slight smile. He was warming up to Faramir and found himself enjoying the man's quiet observational manner. He was a beneficial ally to have. "You have both a city and a family to attend to. I dare not fault you for letting either come before making a visit."
"You are sure you must set out tomorrow?"
"Indeed," Éomer nodded, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. "Rohan has been without her King for long enough."
"As has its Queen," Faramir returned with a simpering smile. The King raised his eyebrows as the man chuckled lightly. "Has my cousin taken to running the whole place on her own?"
"Most likely," Éomer answered with a return grin. He paused to take a bite of bread before continuing. "You were close with Lothíriel?"
"Closer with her brothers, I admit. But I spent many summers with her between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. In truth, she was closer to Boromir. I have fond memories of her as a girl when my father would send us to the sea."
"She misses the ocean," Éomer murmured with a touch of regret, his gaze downward. "I can see it in her eyes when she thinks I am not looking."
"It is difficult to move away from something so familiar," Faramir agreed with a nod. "But do not worry yourself over it. From her letters it seems Lothy has found a place among your people. She is happy in Rohan."
"I am glad to hear it."
"You would be made aware if she was unhappy, Éomer King. Let me assure you. Her letters sound cheerful of late. Are you looking forward to becoming a father?"
Éomer's gaze jerked up to meet Faramir's inquisitive stare. No one had put it so bluntly and after the bliss of his dream, he realized it was constantly on his mind. When Faramir smiled at Éomer's silence, the King of Rohan cleared his throat and readjusted himself in the chair. Scratching at his trimmed beard, Éomer nodded with a smile.
"Yes," he answered at length. He was at first worried Faramir would think him insincere but the jovial grin faded into a knowing smile. The other man extended a hand to clap the King's shoulder.
"You're a nervous wreck until you see the little one's face," the Prince or Ithilien assured him. Éomer glanced at him as he retracted his hand and relaxed into his chair.
"I pray Lothíriel remains in good health," he murmured. It was not like him to divulge his concerns to a man he wasn't fully comfortable with. "And the child too."
"She will be well," Faramir replied with an understanding and assertive nod. "She's always been a strong girl. And spring is a good time for a woman to be with child. No ice or cold to chill her bones."
Éomer nodded his agreement and they sat in comfortable silence until the servants removed the plates. Faramir then excused himself to see to his son. Éomer was left at an empty table with the shadow of the dream plaguing his mind. It would've been a blissful premonition had the shadowy figure not tainted the final moments. Éomer was losing the memory of the individual as the day wore on but he knew the man was not entirely unfamiliar. Something about his countenance and striking eyes lingered in Éomer's mind and made him exceptionally uneasy. So engrossed in this thoughts was the King that he nearly broke the hand that silently lay upon his shoulder.
"By the breath of Bema," he hissed, simultaneously standing and turning to find the halfwit dumb enough to shake him from his reverie. Before him stood a lanky man with a lopsided grin, windblown hair and grey eyes. Amrothos, brother of Lothíriel.
"Hail, King of Rohan. Never did the Horselords have such a jumpy sovereign," the man offered an affable smirk as he bowed before the King. Éomer's face revealed annoyance but quickly adopted a sardonic grin at the other's words.
"Hail, Prince. Never did Dol Amroth have such a foolish, one-handed son."
The other man laughed deeply, putting Éomer at ease despite momentary wariness. Lothíriel's closest brother in age had a streak for the fanciful and mischievous. Though he was a skilled warrior and a loyal follower of the King, Amrothos was known for his antics in Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and among his family. Lothíriel and Elphir had regaled Éomer with stories of their youth, Amrothos' tomfoolery chief among their memories. Even when he'd met the man for the first time years ago, Rohan's King immediately noted the spark of trouble in the other's eyes – reminiscent of Elfhelm. After clasping the Prince's arm in a warrior's greeting, Éomer indicated to the empty chair.
"No, thank you, Horselord," Amrothos declined with a cant of his head. "I could no sooner sit than feel the urge to fidget. If you are not embroiled in the crisis of kings, I entreat you to walk with me to the stable."
"I would be honored," Éomer nodded, following the man. Amrothos was perhaps a year or two his junior, but the youthfulness of his features and the light in his eyes suggested the countenance of a boy. His hair was more auburn than his sister's, catching the rays of the sun with occasional flashes of red. Like his siblings, his features were strong and carried Elven heritage, though his skin was of a more ruddy quality – brought about by his years at sea. The brightly colored scarf tied around his head was likely the bane of the court-folk in Gondor.
"When did you arrive?"
"This morning," Amrothos answered, unceremoniously sidestepping a guard as the men quitted the dining hall. They strode down the palace hallway, offering an occasional nod to passersby and members of the court. The Prince had a swagger in his step and a roguish grin that caught the eye of many a fine lady.
"Is your father among your company?"
"No," the Prince replied with a momentary wink to a young woman who passed them with a ceremonial curtsey, her eyes downcast as a blush spread up her neck. Éomer could hardly contain a smirk at his companion's demeanor. Handsome, rakish and wealthy Amrothos had no dearth of available women but the man was an endless flirt. Although he found that characteristic an irritant in others there was something about Amrothos that didn't aggravate Éomer as much. Perhaps it was his intense loyalty to Aragorn or the respectful manner in which he conducted himself around other men or his love for Lothíriel. But there was no arrogance or deception to him, only the attributes of a mischievous boy.
"What brings you to the seat of Gondor?" the King of Rohan queried as they stepped into the sunlight. Minas Tirith was buzzing with activity but both men were offered bows and respectful salutations as they passed. Amrothos shrugged with a vague wave of his hand.
"This and that," he replied, chuckling when Éomer cast him a glance. "Nothing secretive, mind you. My father's entangled in some nonsense regarding the Corsairs. Sent his little whipping boy to handle the affairs of the King here in Minas Tirith."
"Aren't you a bit petulant to be a whipping boy?"
"Of course I am," Amrothos granted cheerfully. "I was referring to my dear brother, Erchirion. I'm just here for the feasting and the ladies."
Éomer responded with a laugh and an indulgent shake of his head. The man may be an excellent warrior but off the battlefield he was a rascal. They reached the stables where their horses were housed, finding it relatively empty. It could hardly be called a barn given the immaculate condition of the place; the floors were swept hourly and the walls looked as though they'd never seen a cobweb. A stable boy fetched their respective steeds; though the men declined to have their horses tacked. Taking up a brush, Éomer set to work on Firefoot's coat. Amrothos began methodically removing the dust and hay from his own gelding nearby.
"Have you got anything for my sister's nameday?" the Prince asked casually, glancing up from the bay's narrow withers. Éomer paused mid-brush to stare at his companion, eyebrows raised. Lothíriel's nameday? Amrothos broke into a hearty laugh, his teeth flashing pearly in the dim light as his voice echoed among the rafters.
"Don't tell me she forgot to mention it!"
"Is… is it soon?" Éomer queried, feeling embarrassment flood his mind.
"Less than a fortnight," the Prince replied still chuckling. "I have gifts from our family for you to bear to Rohan. Worry not, Horselord, my sister has probably forgotten it herself."
"What does one get their wife?"
"You're asking the wrong Prince," the Gondorian man answered woefully. "I used to give her frogs and slugs under her bedsheets. Inquire with Elphir or Erchirion. Or our cousin, Faramir. They'd likely give you a more suitable answer than I."
"But they aren't here," Éomer pointed out, having stopped grooming entirely to address Amrothos. "Do I get her clothing?" the expression on the Prince's face told him that was a poor choice. "Jewelry?" another face. "Then what? I have only today to manage an acceptable gift for her."
"Is her bugger of a horse still alive?"
"Yes."
"Well never mind."
"I need your assistance. You are my brother by marriage," Éomer reminded him, pointing one end of the bristled brush at the man accusingly. "If you do not help me and I end up getting her something she despises I will place blame solely on your shoulders."
"A blow dealt most cruelly, brother," Amrothos winced and shook his head. "I would receive a beating no doubt."
"Well then? A suggestion at least." The Prince of Dol Amroth pondered this question for a moment, taking long brush strokes across the bay's coat, his face set in concentration. Éomer waited silently, his chore all but forgotten as he pondered a fitting gift for his wife. He wanted to bestow her with something she would adore and as well as something practical. She was not a woman won over with trinkets and baubles. As such, it seemed a poor choice for her nameday. The more he thought on it, the more pressure Éomer felt to get her something perfect. After several moments, the King was ready to prompt his companion again before the man looked up with a grin.
"I have it!"
A/N: Another long wait. I sorries! Lame chapter name but I'm not majorly skilled at titling the chapters. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, I changed the name of this story from "Smoke and Shadow" to "Heartlines." Just seemed more appropriate. Please let me know your thoughts on the gift Éomer should get his loving Queen. A Lothy chapter is comin' up. 33