Chapter 24
Her feet in their too-large boots stepped carefully upon the shore, a line of oaks, beech and yew standing between her and the Field of Cormallen. The sound of an active camp was heard beyond and the rushing of the river was at her back. Lothíriel hesitated beside Gaelen as others joined them at the banks. She lifted the skirt of the helfdaer, its brown fabric the color worked leather, to keep the hem from grazing the top of the boots and stones as she moved along the shore. The dark blue cloak hung at her shoulders, its hood nearly hiding the curve of a thick braid pinned in a bun to the base of her skull. A boat had ferried her, her trio of guards and several others across the narrow channel as dawn broke along the eastern horizon.
"Are you well, my Lady?" Gaelen regarded her with a furrowed brow, his words quiet as she stared ahead.
"Yes. Yet, I do not know… I am caught between what I've wanted for so long… and fear of what lays beyond those trees." Her voice had dropped to a murmur as Gaelen leaned toward her. He took a breath as Elfhelm came to her other side, having heard the tail end of her comment.
"Have heart, Lady Lothíriel," the Horselord commented with a quirk of his lips into a smile. She returned it and followed them up to the bank where soldiers from the Host of the King greeted them. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to Cair Andros she felt relief wash over her. She'd made it. She adjusted the smaller bag over her shoulder and followed their guides through the trees.
Initially she planned to wait until the horses were moved across, riding with the group in the later afternoon. But Evandor and Gaelen encouraged her to take the little boat in the morning, joined by Elfhelm and a handful of their company. When it was made known that Baranor was not among this small group she was even more enthused by the earlier arrival.
The Field of Cormallen opened before them, a vast meadow of grasses and wildflowers blooming in the morning sun. Tents, stables and small pavilions gave the appearance of a tiny city; pathways cut through the grass and carefully defined sectors marked by standards and sigils. The main road down the center of the site was wide enough for two or three horses to ride abreast, the smaller lanes bisecting it leading to various camps. She saw the pavilion of the King of Gondor, his standard flying above the pinnacle of the tent.
Men were at work around them, farriers, carpenters, a butcher, weaponsmiths, cooks and other laborers moving about the field as though it were a town. Each seemed to have their own stalls for their craft and it was bustling. It was strange to behold, though Lothíriel imagined this was standard for the court of a King at war to maintain such a functional camp.
The fellow leading their small party pointed to this and that as they went, pausing to gesture to a long shelter off to the side: the medic's tent. Lothíriel wavered between breaking away from the group and installing herself with the healers or remaining for the tour and arriving at the pavilion of Dol Amroth, whose banners she'd seen earlier near the King's. She paused, gazing at the tent as the rest of the company walked on.
"My Lady," Evandor's voice broke her from the hesitation, looking immediately to him and seeing he was gesturing toward the eastern corner of the camp. There the pennant of Dol Amroth shone in the morning sun, leveled lower than the King of Gondor's but no less resplendent. She looked back at Evandor, prepared to share his joy at their shared banner but realized he was indicating to something – someone – else.
The Prince of Dol Amroth was cutting through the crowd on a diagonal from their location, parting men as he strode toward them, an elated expression on his usually stern face. Lothíriel's heart and visage were delighted to see her father as she moved toward him. They met at the edge of the wide lane, his arms around her immediately as they were given space.
"Lothíriel!" he murmured against her hair as she felt his hand on the back of her head. Pulling away she caught the glimmer of tears in his grey eyes as he looked upon her.
"Ada," she whispered before stepping back and smiling fully.
"I scarce believed the words of the Halfling when he said you were on the road! But here you are!"
"Father, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see you. Are you well?"
"I am."
"And the boys?"
"Mithelphe!" Amrothos' voice cut across the bustling camp as he followed the path cut by their father, practically running to join them. He swept Lothíriel into a hug that swung her off her feet. Setting her down he grinned. "I knew it was no tall tale," he commented with a glance to Imrahil.
"What brings you to us, dear one?" her father asked after Amrothos released her. Her group of companions took this opportunity to depart, leaving the woman with her kin. She caught a kind nod from Gaelen and Elfhelm as they followed the guide further into the camp. Evandor seemed to have disappeared entirely, but she wasn't able to look for him as she returned her attention to her family.
"The generosity of Lady Éowyn," she replied, glancing between them. "She encouraged me to take her place in the company riding to Cair Andros. She remained in the city to continue her recovery but kindly offered her spot to me so I might see you and continue healing in the court of the King."
"I am grateful to her," the Prince remarked with a smile. Amrothos studied her for a moment before speaking.
"You rode from Minas Tirith to the island?"
"Yes. Faramir was good enough to send me with three fine guards. Travel was uneventful."
"We shall have to thank them personally," her father commented as he put his arm about her shoulders. Looking at the men it then occurred to her that they were missing a fourth.
"Where is Erchirion?"
Imrahil and Amrothos shared a look that quailed her heart, their smiles fading. She pulled away from her father's arm as her eyes darted between them. Gripping the strap of her bag the woman took a breath as her father took the responsibility of answering.
"Recovering."
"What happened?"
"He fought as valiantly as you would expect. He received a grievous injury as the battle was concluding."
"He is alive, though?"
"Yes," Amrothos assured her gently. "He has a nasty wound across his head."
"Is he with the healers?" Lothíriel was already backtracking toward the medic's tent, trailed by her father and brother.
"He is, but he's resting. Loth," Amrothos reached for her upper arm but she skirted away, making it across the thoroughfare and weaving her way to the tent. Her brother shadowed her steps as he tried to slow her down, to no avail. She reached the opening, the flap already pulled back and secured to allow easy entrance and air to circulate within. Cots were set up in the same manner of the House of Healing, with rows and bays to allow the healers access to the patients. Pausing just inside, Lothíriel turned to Amrothos.
"Where is he?"
Amrothos reluctantly pointed to a corner in which sheets had been hung vertically to provide privacy for recuperation and surgery, informing her Erchirion was in the third stall. Imrahil joined them at the entrance of the tent, a hand on Amrothos' shoulder to stay him from restricting Lothíriel from approaching the private division of the makeshift ward. As she drew closer fear gripped her chest, unsure of what she would see when the partition was pulled back. Swallowing the trepidation she entered the space, drawing the curtain away as she slipped inside.
There her middle brother lay upon the pallet, bandages wrapped snuggly around his skull. Unbidden, the memory of Halgeir flashed before her with his marred face and paralyzed body. Erchirion's torso and legs appeared relatively uninjured but his face was partially swallowed by the crisscrossing of dressings. As she came closer it became clear the bandage shielded his right eye and cheek, extra padding evident beneath the cloth. His breathing was measured and his other eye remained closed, even when she approached the pallet and knelt at his side. Imrahil joined her then, standing at her side.
"He has lost the eye," he murmured as she gingerly touched her brother's wrist. When he did not stir she slipped her hand into his, unable to control the tears from welling in her eyes. His skin was clammy, bordering on feverish but his breath remained steady. Dropping her head Lothíriel forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose to avoid a sob. Composing herself she released his hand and stood, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Imrahil stood close but did not embrace her, knowing his daughter well enough to give her the space she required.
"I should like to get to work," she mumbled after a moment, grey eyes meeting his to implore his approval. The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded with a tight-lipped sorrowful smile.
"I'll have your belongings brought to our chambers." They departed Erchirion's small quarters, returning to the wider bay and rejoining Amrothos at the entrance. "Continue your occupation here, Daughter. The King is expected to arrive this evening – will you join us then?"
"Yes, Father. Let my hands be put to good use in these walls and I will return in the evening to greet the King."
TTTT
Lothíriel tossed the cloth over her shoulder as she stood up and wiped her hands on the linen apron protecting the front of her gown, the soldier on the pallet before her shifting his attention to the entrance. Both of them were caught by surprise at the sound of horses and trumpets announcing the arrival of someone of great import. It was barely midday, well before the King was expected, but the fanfare was unmistakable. Joining the other healers leaving the tent, Lothíriel shielded her eyes from the immediate brightness of the day, squinting to locate the source of the commotion. Down the main thoroughfare of the camp rode the heralds of the King, few in number, followed by the standard of the Elendil. Just behind Gondor's sigil was the banner of Rohan, its white horse on a forest green field and golden embroidery glinting in the sunlight.
Following the heraldry rode the King of Gondor, uncrowned but mighty in his saddle. He was the selfsame man who'd healed her cousin, Éowyn and Merry, among many others. He was dressed in the attire of royalty, so unlike her introduction to him in the Houses of Healing. But he was immediately recognizable, his eyes sparkling and expression placid as he nodded to the men greeting him with bows and welcomes. Removing the cloth from her shoulder, Lothíriel began wiping the remnants of salve from her hand in case her father called for her to attend the King of Gondor, her gaze upon him as he rode toward his pavilion. But her attention was drawn to the rider who trailed him, now in full view as the standard that shielded him departed.
Éomer's dapple grey trotted several paces behind Aragorn, the Horselord's helm removed as he surveyed the crowd. He and Lothíriel locked eyes with a suddenness that caused her heart to beat erratically as she froze, towel still enveloping her hand. He too seemed to hesitate, sitting the strides of his horse with wide eyes fixed upon her. There was enough distance between them that she couldn't quite identify his expression. Her eyes stayed with him as he regained his wits, dark brows furrowed with confusion and… disbelief? She had the sense to eventually nod her head to him and he was forced to break their gaze as he caught up with the King of Gondor, passing her in mere seconds.
The moment, which felt like an age, passed as the rest of the company rode in behind the Kings. She caught sight of the Elven twins, Elrohir and Elladan, bearing the sigil of their house moving through the line to flank the two kings. Turning away from the riders, Lothíriel took a deep breath. This was not how she anticipated seeing Éomer, nor how she wanted him to see her without explanation. Slowly her heart regained an acceptable cadence as she returned to the healer's tent, unsure of her next move. Go at once to the court of the King? Stay in the tent? Await word from her father? She felt paralyzed by indecision and overthinking.
Eventually she chose to remain in the healer's tent – if she was expected to attend the arrival of the Kings she would be summoned. Returning to her prior activity of making a poultice, the woman took the opportunity to collect her thoughts. The tent had emptied to attend the host's arrival and she was cut off from the patients in their cots by a closed flap of canvas serving as a doorway; the solitude was welcomed.
After many minutes of immobilization, she set to crushing the herbs in the mortar, breathing in the sharp scent of camphor and kingsfoil that soothed her nerves. The pestle worked methodically as the woman stared ahead of her at the beige wall. The sound of folk eventually returning to their activities barely stirred her for she was left unbothered. When the makeshift entrance opened behind her Lothíriel continued her task, awaiting the order from the fellow healer who'd joined her.
"Lothíriel?"
His voice was soft and tentative, halting her work. Her head turned first before her body pivoted to face the King of Rohan. He was dressed for war, the burgundy plates of armor punctuated by the silver the maille beneath, both contrasted by the golden hair loose at his shoulders. Hazel eyes watched her with puzzlement and something else she could not discern. She tilted her head in a small downward arc, dropping her gaze to offer the King the respect he was owed. The pestle remained in her hand as she looked up at him once more.
"King Éomer," she greeted him. Here she was; without the missive from Éowyn and in the midst of her task, unprepared to properly greet him and without the company of her father. "You seem to find me when I least expect it."
"Your being here is unexpected."
"Yes," she agreed, rotating slightly to set the pestle on the table. "I have a letter for you from the Lady Éowyn in my –"
"So she has not come?"
"No."
Distress and bemusement flashed across his expression, gaze shifting away. He appeared to collect himself, resting a hand on the crossguard of the sword at his hip. Lothíriel smoothed the front of her apron, considering an explanation before he spoke again.
"She is still cross with me?" though his words were spoken with firmness, the tone of his voice exposed a measure of hurt.
"No, my Lord," Lothíriel replied gently. "She is not. She regrets being unable to join you here."
"Then why hasn't she come?"
"I cannot say," the woman answered carefully, catching and holding his sharp gaze as she spoke. "But I imagine the letter will explain."
"It was good of you to convey it. Did your father send for you?"
"No. Your sister bade me come in her stead."
Éomer frowned again, this time the bemusement was replaced with displeasure. Lothíriel observed how a muscle in his jaw tightened, barely visible beneath the beard. His brows furrowed as he took the information in, seemingly contemplating how these events transpired.
"Éowyn did not come but sent you in her place?" Before she could respond he turned away, as if looking at the woman was unsettling. "I cannot fathom a reason she would decline to ride forth and then send you in her stead like a squire to bear her decision."
"I think you misunderstand her intentions," the lady countered, nearly stepping toward him, though she thought better of it and remained still. "She has reason to stay in the city. She offered me her place out of charity. That I might see my family and continue my work as a healer."
"Hmm." The King seemed unconvinced but his posture softened and he turned back to her. "Perhaps her letter will illuminate this further for me. Forgive my intrusion. I'd hoped she would be here and did not think of the impropriety of bursting in on you. You must believe me most ill-mannered."
"I take no offense," she assured him with a smile. While he did not return it his expression relaxed as they stood together.
Both seemed to realize their proximity and, with the topic of Éowyn's absence resolved there was a weighted silence that lingered. Thoughts of stepping closer to him passed through her mind but it would be both unseemly and possibly rejected. But she could not deny the impulse to move nearer to the King, even if she would not act upon it. It was Éomer who spoke first, his voice capturing a courtly tone.
"And are you well, my Lady? Was the journey smooth?"
"Yes. Notably uneventful. I was fortunate to have the company and protection of Lord Elfhelm, along with men of Gondor and Dol Amroth. The Steward made sure I was well guarded on the road." The King's brows rose, an amused visage replacing the usual stoicism.
"I am glad for it."
"And you, my Lord? Are you well?"
"I'm alive and for that I am grateful. A few more scars and bruises since last we met but I count myself fortunate to be standing. Have you… How fares your brother?"
"He is managing. He has a long road toward full recovery."
"That is the fate of many."
Lothíriel studied him as he broke her gaze, looking about the small room. Her heart felt full to behold him again, unable to ignore the pull between them. She recalled their parting words to one another, promising to reunite in Minas Tirith. To be here felt peculiar, as though she were trekking through an unfamiliar land. He seemed to notice her watching and he offered her a slight smile.
"I'll not trouble you further, Lady Lothíriel. When you are able I should like to receive Éowyn's letter."
"Of course," she answered with a nod, wiping her hands on the apron and starting toward the exit. Éomer stepped toward her with as he interjected.
"No, not now. I meant – "
They halted within such proximity she could observe flecks of gold in the irises of his eyes as they stared at each other. His face tilted toward her as the negative space seemed to draw them even more near, threatening to close the gap entirely. Her hand drew up to his chest to assert space as she had in their last meeting but once she connected with his armor-bound body she could not push him away. His scent of leather, horse and smoke triggered the memory of their parting in Minas Tirith and she recognized the same look in his eyes.
"Ever do you catch me like this," she breathed, hoping levity would bring them to their senses before the impropriety continued. The corners of his lips pulled into a slight grin that only made her desire to see his full smile.
"I am incapable of decorum around you," Éomer answered quietly before disengaging and stepping back, causing her hand to fall to her side. It felt painful to extract themselves from this momentary intimacy but far too dangerous to linger in such a space. Clearing his throat the King of Rohan looked away from her and rubbed his jawline. Lothíriel also took a step back and willed her heartbeat to resume a healthy rhythm.
"I will join my father tonight when he attends the King's court. Your sister's letter will be with me, if that suits you."
"It does. Thank you."
"Good day, Éomer King."
He stared at her as if he were stunned by this apparent dismissal. Then the woman canted her head respectfully he recovered from his surprise and responded with a low bow. Lothíriel returned to the mortar and pestle, positioning her body so she wasn't completely turning her back on him. Catching him in her periphery she noted Éomer lingered for another moment, his eyes on her hands as she worked. Before he took his leave he bid her adieu, his voice marked by fondness that warmed her.
"My Lady Lothíriel."