Two days passed since Éomer's prose with Prince Imrahil, and those were the days of great anguish. Sometimes he was convincing himself that he did the only right thing possible; sometimes (especially at night) he felt like he was standing on the brink of precipice and was appalled by its depth and imminence. His betrothal was not announced yet, things still could be undone. But Éomer didn't feel like he was the protagonist of his own story anymore and watched silently as the figures moved, as the scene changed.
He managed to escape all the merry-making at the palace and went down even for meals reluctantly, he was the last to come and the first to leave. He tried those days not to look at Lûne much, lest his will would be shaken. But one time when he came down for dinner Éomer wasn't careful enough, and his eyes almost involuntarily sought her. She was seated close to Queen Arwen and when Lûne noticed him, her whole face glowed and she waved feebly to beckon the King of Rohan to have a seat by her side, as before. Éomer's heart leapt to his lips, but he turned away to seek a place near the Dol Amrothian party. He turned left and never saw Lûne's face shadowed and her eyes glistening suspiciously.
After the meal (Éomer took no heed of the taste or look of the dishes served) Prince Imrahil asked Éomer to join him in his chambers. He walked there obediently and tried not to think why he felt so gloomy and estranged. Éomer noticed that Imrahil looked excited and unusually well-dressed that evening. Normally the Prince used to wear the same black waistcoat with a small embroidered swan on his chest; today he wore a magnificent white surcoat with rich silver fringe. He paced the room for a minute, and then turned abruptly and asked Éomer,
'Is your decision made irrevocably, Éomer king?'
Éomer had no difficulty in answering him, though his lips felt numb and dry.
'It is, my friend. If I am not the master of my word given, may I be named a king of my country?'
Imrahil searched his face and sat down.
'So be it. Then tomorrow before the eve-star appears in the sky my daughter and you will be announced betrothed.'
He held his breath for a moment and then continued in a low voice.
'Personally I think that my only daughter deserves more than a husband, madly in love with another woman.'
For the first time in two days Éomer felt moved. He tossed his head up, his fierce gaze piercing Imrahil. But his friend's eyes were steady and he continued matter-of-factly.
'Come, Éomer, you know my words are just. But still both you and my Lothíriel hold to this decision, so I can't do anything... and not that I want to,' he added gently, caressing his ring with pearls, that he usually wore on his little finger. 'Tonight I hope that the woman I care for will have my ring as a promise to be mine.'
And at this moment Éomer felt as if all air suddenly escaped his body. His eyelids burnt violently, oh, so that was a reason for Imrahil to dress up. Well, he can outlive this nightmare, can't he? Wasn't he the one to insist on marrying Lothíriel and thus abandoning his dream forever?
'You are a good man and I wish you to be happy,' Éomer managed to utter and he was surprised to hear that his voice was rather steady.
Imrahil took Éomer's right hand in both his vast palms and shook it. And so they parted.
...
While Éomer king was trying to reach his chambers, stumbling on his way over the carpets, with his eyes veiled with pain, the pharadine was sitting in the Houses of healing. She had some work planned for this evening and was now enjoying the twilight in a small room, weighing ingredients and mixing herbs. She wanted some light but had no inclination to lighten the candle still, so she sat by the window. That is how she came to see Prince Imrahil striding up the stairs in magnificent robes and with his quaint mithril crown on his high brow. She liked gallant and gentle Prince, but couldn't imagine what business took him to the Houses after the sunset; so she stood up and welcomed him rather clumsily, when he'd entered her study. Lûne had never seen Imrahil wear such fine robes before, so she searched him inquiringly and smiled sheepishly when he looked back at her. His eyes were strangely dark, yet hesitating. He asked how her work was going, and questions like that always made the pharadine speak unreservedly.
'See, my lord, there are some tinctures to lessen the pain of those wounded,' she petted the vials on the table with her slender fingers. 'There are still too many of suffering warriors in the western wing, I'm afraid.'
Imrahil gave her no response, but the tension slowly drained from his face. He felt easy in her company, and suddenly it seemed not so difficult to say things that he came for.
'Forgive me my baldness, pharadine, but may I ask you a personal question? Are you inclined to stay in the West?'
Lûne looked startled at first, but then she smiled and spoke slowly.
'The candour of you, Man of the West, still surprises me, but frankness should be met with frankness and amity — with amity. I will not play my eastern elusiveness and you can have my answer — I will stay here, if someone to my liking wants me for matrimony. But — alas! — there are no suitors for me, though everyone is ever so courteous and amiable,' she concluded half-jokingly.
'What about Éomer king?' asked Imrahil harshly, and rather inaptly it sounded after Lûne's light tone.
Her face fell a bit, but she was composed.
'I had the privilege to know the king of Rohan before I came here. Naturally, he tried to amuse me in a new land, as a friend.'
'Naturally. Friend or no friend, but he is the reason why there are no suitors for you, no one would like to have his head cut off clean,' thought Imrahil, but dared not to say these words aloud.
'My lady, I am glad to know that and not without hope I am to ask you the next question.'
Prince Imrahil knelt and took off his crown. He placed it at her feet to Lûne's utter astonishment, and she saw in his eyes tenderness and decision.
'From the first day I saw you I was dazed with admiration. You are brave and clever, soft and daring, bright and warm. You are a woman after my heart, queen to the core, and I only ask you to be my queen, princess Lûne of Khûr.'
He paused and took a ring off his little finger.
'If you will have me, please take this ring as my first gift to you and a token of my affection.'
Lûne was staring at him wildly, her chest heaving, her cheeks crimson. In her high colour the thin crescent in her neck became visible more than ever, and her fingers trembled.
'You took me by surprise, Prince,' she said quietly and dropped her lashes. 'I am honored to be the woman of your choice, but it all comes too unexpectedly. May I take some days to form my decision?'
'By all means, my lady. I will not rush you,' he added and stood up. Suddenly, Imrahil felt that the best thing he could now do was to leave, so he picked up his crown and went away. However, at the doorstep the Prince paused. Then he turned back and added hastily, much less courteously, but more sincerely,
'I know that you don't love me yet, pharadine, but I will do anything in my power to make you happy and protect you from any harm. My principality is wealthy and you will love the sea. You can have any room in my palace and any ship in my fleet. There are vast gardens in Dol Amroth, and, though I am a widower, do not question my feelings for you. I will make sure you would not regret your decision a day.'
He stopped abruptly, turned red, and went out without asking a permission from the lady. Lûne was standing erectly, but once she was left alone, she collapsed on her stool, her arms flung over her head. The darkness crept through the room, and the only thing glistening was a small ring of pearls, left by the Prince on the tablecloth. Lûne took it slowly and without any particular thought put it on her finger. It shone beautifully in the moonlight, but it felt so alien to her, that the princess pulled it off and by her jerk she toppled all her beautiful vials with precious draughts. They broke into shatters and tinctures spilt all over the floor.
But Lûne didn't notice it, for when she lifted her head up she saw Éomer, standing in a doorway. His face was white as a chalk and he looked ghastly.
Before Lûne could mutter a word, he was gone.