Chapter 8
"I should like to join you," Lothíriel commented as her father and brother put the final finishes on their outer apparel. She sat at the table in the foyer of their apartments, watching her menfolk with a forlorn expression, the remains of their breakfast on the plates in front of her.
"I know," Imrahil replied contritely. "But you've been afforded a great honor to embroider your mark on the burial shroud of a king."
"And I am grateful," she answered quickly, earnest gaze raising to meet him. "Truly. I just wish these ventures weren't at the same time."
"I'm certain Éomer or his sister will take you on a tour of the Mark," Amrothos put in as he buckled the belt. Any previous discomfort between the siblings had dissipated, his expression affectionate. "Mayhaps we'll be switching places at the turn of lunch. Women riding the field while the men sew."
"Would that I'd be so lucky," Lothíriel murmured as she stood. She followed them out of the guest chambers, Faramir joining them as they traversed the corridor. He was also dressed for a day in the saddle, which soured her expression further. Her cousin nudged her arm as they walked into the warm outdoors, the sun only just cresting the horizon.
"I take it the news was shared?"
"Regrettably so," she replied. "I suppose they decided on the schedule last night."
"Something tells me Éomer would not be disappointed if you tagged along."
"She's joining the womenfolk in the hall," Amrothos commented, walking backwards a few steps along the path as they made for the front of Meduseld. "Besides, she had a nice soak in the tub – it'd be a shame to ruin it with the smell of horse and sweat."
Lothíriel rolled her eyes as Faramir grinned, Amrothos turning back as they came to the steps of the Golden Hall. The terrace was busy with horses being led to and fro, riders taking their mounts and servants assisting. Faramir's mount appeared, as if on cue. Accepting the reins he offered Lothíriel a kind smile.
"I'll put a word in that you and I might take a ride later in the day."
"That is kind of you," the Princess replied, reaching a hand to hold his horse as he was given a leg-up by a stable boy. Collecting the reins he looked down at his cousin as she stroked his mount's neck. Leaning forward so only they could hear each other Faramir glanced to the side before speaking.
"If it were up to me, I'd trade places with you to sit with Éowyn and you could ride with the men."
"You would look fetching in this dress, Cousin," she replied with a smile as he sat up again and winked at her. Éomer came then, astride Firefoot, greeting them with a nod. He looked down at Lothíriel, her hand still on Faramir's horse, gaze softening slightly.
"Good morning, my Lady."
"A fine day for a ride," she answered with a small bow. He looked away, eyes scanning the valley beyond before looking back down at her.
"Indeed. I hope you may take a tour with my sister later today."
"I would like that."
"But I am heartened you will join the women in finishing Théoden's burial covering."
Éomer pulled Firefoot up alongside her as Faramir's steed moved away to join her brother and father. The pair were relatively isolated now as the group of men and Elves began filing down the hill. She stood by Firefoot's shoulder, near enough to rest her hand on Éomer's stirrup, were they on such close terms. But she dared not, instead placing a hand on the grey horse's neck gently as the King looked at her, speaking softly then:
"I think my uncle would like to know the healer who saved so many of his countrymen and his niece also had a hand in his final vestments."
"You do me a great honor, allowing me a part in such a noble rite."
"You might speak to my sister about the funeral dirges."
"My Lord?" came an indistinct call from the group. Éomer looked up and raised his hand. Returning his gaze to her he offered an apologetic nod.
"I'll look to see you upon our return."
"Farewell."
Éomer rounded Firefoot about and trotted off to join his party. Lothíriel watched them for a moment before turning to Meduseld. With the horses cleared away it was far less crowded but folks were sitting outside, enjoying the fair weather and there was a steady hum from the city as the day started.
"Lady Lothíriel!"
Craning her head up the steps to the stone platform outside the Hall she beheld Ros, waving once their gazes met. Picking up the russet skirts, the Princess ascended the steps to join Elfhelm's wife at the top. The pair had matching buns, Lothíriel silently thanking Elayn for giving her a hairstyle that allowed her to assimilate to the Rohirric ladies.
"They are laying out the shroud. We've completed most of it but the edges need finishing," Ros explained as they entered Meduseld.
The tables and benches were still tucked along the walls from last night's feast, but a wide table was set in the aisle, a fine fabric draped atop its surface. High backed chairs surrounded the table, most of them occupied by ladies of the court. Elven minstrels were playing quietly near the dais.
Arwen and Éowyn stood as the women entered, Ros and Lothíriel bowing to each in turn. The Queen gestured for Lothíriel to sit beside her. Ros took her place across the table next to Éowyn, who was already seated and stitching. A smaller table was placed behind Lothíriel and Arwen, upon which sat two goblets of wine and food. A thimble, thread and needles were provided to the Princess as she took a quick sip of wine.
"Good morrow," Arwen welcomed her softly, resuming her work on the corner of the fabric. Lothíriel found Ros was correct, the piece was nearly complete, the edges wrought with golden thread needing a final hem. In the center was the white horse of Rohan above the sword of the Kings. It must've taken weeks if not months to complete the impressive work.
"Good morning, my Queen," she answered before looking to Éowyn. "Thank you for the opportunity to join you."
"Of course," the shieldmaiden replied, eyes meeting Lothiriels' across the table. "My uncle would be humbled by the presence of you and the Queen at not only his funeral but the creation of his mantle."
"Will the Lady of the Golden Wood join us?" Ros put in quietly, brown eyes looking to Éowyn.
"Nay," came Arwen's response. "The Lady Galadriel rides with Mithrandir and my father this morning, their course independent of the menfolk. I suspect they have much to discuss."
"We were pleased to meet Lord Faramir," a woman to Ros' right added after a pause, leaning forward to see the Lady of Rohan. Lothíriel recognized her as one of the courtiers identified the night before but could not recall her name. "He seems the kindest fellow, if not a bit quiet."
"Thank you, Lady Wídwyn," Éowyn replied. "It does me well that you should all meet him. Though I do not wish to stain the somberness of Théoden King's funeral."
"Nonsense!" came a brusque heavily accented voice from further down the table. Lothíriel paused in her stitching to look at the older woman whose sharp eyes caught the shieldmaiden in their gaze. "Your Lord Uncle would be delighted by your happiness. It was his greatest wish. Your joy gives us hope in this sad time."
"Thank you, Lady Aldwena," Éowyn answered, her voice soft and meek in timbre, surprising Lothíriel.
"Once you've been officially betrothed," Aldwena continued as if Éowyn hadn't spoken, "we can turn attentions to the new King. He'll need a queen soon, being you two are the last of the house."
"I do not think marriage is at the top of his mind," Ros interjected casually, gaze trained on her sewing.
"And why shouldn't it be, Roswytha, wife of Elfhelm?" Aldwena challenged firmly, though her tone was courteous. Lothíriel glanced at Arwen, who sat quietly working on her corner, expression placid.
"Well, what eligible lady would you propose?" Wídwyn inquired.
"It's not for me to suggest," Aldwena replied curtly. "Only that his advisors would be right to encourage him to select a bride."
"My brother will take a wife when he is ready," Éowyn stated firmly, gaze meeting Aldwena's. The older woman nodded her head deferentially as a silence fell over the women.
Lothíriel found herself suddenly uncomfortable surrounded by the women of Éomer's court. Was there a lady Aldwena had in mind for the King? She was brought back to the conversation on the road between Amrothos and Gaelen and the uncertainty rushed back in. Her affections for Éomer may be earnest but both were constrained by expectations of their roles. Lothíriel focused on her stitching as conversation around her turned to safer topics.
"Are you well?" The Queen inquired softly, her Sindarin barely a murmur.
"I am, I thank you," Lothíriel pivoted in her seat to face Arwen, relieved they could converse without eavesdropping.
"Has Lady Éowyn asked you to participate in the funeral?"
"Nay." Dark brows rose as she looked from the Queen to the Lady of Rohan. "Should I expect it?"
"I believe so. She inquired if an Elven lament could be shared on the day of internment, which has been agreed upon. I would not be surprised if she came to you as well."
"Lothíriel was there," came Ros' raised voice, eyes moving to the Princess as she turned back to the group before looking at Ros with raised brows. "At Minas Tirith when the siege was laid."
"I thought women and children were evacuated! Were you too late to leave?" a woman beside Lothíriel inquired.
"No. I arrived with my Lord Father to assist – him with his Knights, myself as a healer."
"And they permitted you?"
"Her father is the Prince of Dol Amroth," Éowyn replied coolly, eyes on her work, voice loud and clear. "Her Lord Uncle the Steward and cousin the now Prince of Ithilien. None would dare dispute her place."
"It was likely due to lack of hands and dire need of healers," the Princess stated, her cheeks reddening at the attention. "I had the fortune of meeting Lady Éowyn at that time."
"And Éomer," his sister put in, gaze sliding across the table. "Lady Lothíriel played a crucial role in my rehabilitation and spent time in the company of our soon-to-be King, which I know he is grateful for."
Grey eyes stared at the shieldmaiden, the Princess of Dol Amroth feeling unsure what her friend was wordlessly saying. It seemed both an assertion and a challenge to the group but spoken with such mildness that Lothíriel couldn't quite tell what Éowyn was angling at. After her statement the Lady of Rohan resumed her work, leaning to Ros and whispering something. The other ladies continued their labors, breaking off into small factions to chat amiably. Lothíriel and Éowyn locked eyes and the blonde woman offered a quick smile before breaking her gaze to accept a cup of wine.
They worked steadily for another hour, after which they broke for tea. Queen Arwen bid the group goodbye to retire with her kin. Éowyn took Lothíriel's arm as they moved away from the table, Ros departed to tend to her son and the other women milled about, eating and drinking as they chatted.
"I hope I did not put you out earlier," the shieldmaiden stated as they walked toward a table set with platters of food.
"No, my Lady," Lothíriel replied with a smile. "I fear I wasn't paying attention until Ros spoke up."
"The ladies of the court are good folk," Éowyn explained as she selected fruit and cheese for her plate. "But I overtire of their gossip."
"They seemed perfectly genial to me."
"Good," the woman replied with a nod, glancing at a group of women across the hall. "I think they've had too much time on this hill to sit and scandalize. I do not like that they bring my brother into their chatter."
"It seems natural, though. Being that he is king."
"Perhaps," Éowyn canted her head as she offered Lothíriel food from her plate. Accepting a small slice of cheese the Princess of Dol Amroth looked at the women her friend was observing. "I suppose I cannot stop it. But Éomer does not need a herd of ladies gossiping in his Hall about who he ought to marry."
"Would it not be one of their daughters, or kinswomen?" Lothíriel swallowed the cheese, feeling suddenly parched for a drink. Éowyn shrugged lightly before biting into an apple slice.
"If it were up to them, I'm sure. There are only a few women eligible for the King. Three are already betrothed so I think that leaves," she paused to think, brow furrowed. "Two? I could not say."
Lothíriel did not say anything to this, instead breaking her gaze from the courtiers to look at the nearly complete funeral shroud. She slipped her arm from Éowyn's to approach the table, grey eyes on the white horse. Her friend followed silently, setting her plate down on the side table.
"Not in his wildest dreams would Théoden have guessed his death mantle would be embroidered by the hands of such great women from across the land," she murmured, following Lothíriel's gaze. "Nor that his funeral would be honored by such folk as the Elves and King of Men."
"He may cross the seas to his ancestors with high honors indeed."
"Cross the seas," Éowyn tilted her head with a small smile. "Yes, that would make sense."
"Forgive me. To whence do the Lords of Rohan depart this world?"
"To the great Hall of their forefathers, upon their horses."
"I'd like to think the Lords of Rohan and Dol Amroth might end up in the same Hall, if over sea or field."
"That seems reasonable." Éowyn nodded, crossing her arms loosely over the pale blue of her bodice. She spoke then, after a lengthy pause, tone curious. "I have entreated the Elves for a song of mourning," she commented, eyes trained on the embroidered mantle. "Seeing as this may be our only opportunity for such a distinction."
"The Queen shared as much."
"May I ask you for a similar privilege?"
"Me? Or Dol Amroth?" Grey eyes met Éowyn's blue with bemusement.
"Well, I will take what you might offer," the blonde woman replied with a smile.
"I fear I cannot rival the lay of the Elves, nor their laments. But," she paused, looking back at Théoden's burial shrouds. "If you have a harp on hand I would put my hand to the strings to honor your uncle."
"Please!" A bright smile lit the shieldmaiden's face as she extended a hand, resting it on Lothíriel's forearm. "That would be lovely. We have a harp, though I suspect it needs tuning. I'll set a minstrel to work on that before the funeral."
"Will you sing?"
"Yes. We have a dirge prepared. And my uncle's versifier has composed a piece."
"He will have a wonderful sendoff, as he deserves."
"Did you have an opportunity to mourn your uncle?" Her question caught Lothíriel by surprise, looking at the shieldmaiden as her expression faltered slightly.
"No, I didn't."
"Then perhaps you might play your harp for him as well."
"I should like that. And Faramir's brother."
"Pardon me, my Ladies," came a soft voice from behind them. Turning, the women faced a lady of slight build, her blonde hair in ringlets around her shoulders. She dipped into a curtsey, Éowyn and Lothíriel bowing in response.
"Lady Lothíriel, this is Lady Dera of Aldburg," the shieldmaiden introduced, picking her plate up once more.
"A pleasure," Lothíriel greeted her with a smile, which was returned.
"I didn't wish to interrupt but I'd wanted to apologize for Lady Aldwena's statements earlier," Dera said, glancing at Éowyn quickly before looking back at the Princess. "She can be… harsh at times. I hope she did not offend you."
"Not at all," Lothíriel replied warmly. "I am a guest in your lands. She was speaking her mind."
"I often wish she wouldn't," Éowyn muttered with a small shake of her head. Dera grinned as Éowyn finished off the last of the cheese before addressing the pair. "I have a few more items to attend to this morning, if you'll excuse me. Lothíriel, I leave you in the capable hands of Lady Dera."
They bid the shieldmaiden farewell and stood before the table. Dera ran her fingers along the tasseled edge of the shroud, her expression solemn. She and Lothíriel were probably of similar age, though the Princess was at least a head taller. The woman was as slender as a filly, her hair the color of sunlit wheat.
"Are you kin to the late King?" the dark-haired Princess inquired after a moment. Blue eyes met hers and Dera shook her head.
"Not I. My father was a member of his court for a time. He rode with the King's éored but I knew little of the King. Especially these last few years. I was kept at Aldburg for most of the conflict."
"That seems wise, considering the wickedness of the wizard's hold on Edoras."
"There was a time," Dera continued softly, her voice containing undertones of sadness. "A time that I was considered a prospect for the King's son."
"Oh," Lothíriel faced her fully, brow furrowing. "I am sorry for your loss, Lady Dera."
"I mourn what might have been. But that is the case for so many women in the Folde. The wars are won, but it is the women who pay the heaviest toll."
"The grief of women is often overlooked," the Princess agreed with a nod. "I hope you can heal from this loss and find happiness once more."
"Thank you, my Lady," Dera replied, looking at her companion with warmth, her smile wide. "I pray it will be so. And I am grateful for your favor."
"It is good to find companions so easily here," Lothíriel answered as the diminished group of women began returning to the table, taking their seats. Without Arwen, Éowyn or Ros the Princess felt out of sorts but was glad to have Dera take a seat beside her.
They worked for another hour, tying the final thread for the shroud just before the noon bell. By the time they neared the end there was just one woman sewing, the others chatting and keeping company. Lothíriel learned much from Dera about the customs of Rohan and expectations for the days to follow. When they broke for lunch the other woman promised to find her at the feast in the evening and introduce Lothíriel to her father, Iowen. Slipping away from Meduseld, the Princess reveled in the sunlight on her face after hours in the dimly lit hall. She flexed her fingers, though she hardly did any sewing compared to the other women.
Walking in the direction of the stables, Lothíriel considered her pledge to Éowyn to play the harp. Although she was versed in the art of music it had been an age since she'd played a funeral lament. There were a few staples in her repertoire, but they were elegies on romantic love, not meant for the burial of a King she hadn't met. She would have to ask Imrahil for an appropriate piece or offer her father or brother instead. Granted access to the barn housing her mare the woman selected a grooming box hanging on the interior wall. This barn was largely empty besides a few stable hands who gave the Princess a wide berth. She found the bay enjoying her lunch, black tail flicking away the flies as Lothíriel entered, setting the box down outside the stall after she selected a brush.
"You're lucky you needn't be constrained to courtly engagements," she murmured to the horse as she ran a hand along the mare's back.
She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing in the stables, hardly dressed to ride and probably expected to be somewhere. As much as she'd enjoyed her time with the women of Rohan's royal court, she felt an outsider and unsure of herself. Knowing Dera and Ros was certainly helpful but she felt cautious about making friends of the women only to depart and perhaps never see them again.
"I suppose you miss home," she commented to the mare, brandishing the coarse brush to use on her coat. The horse snorted a puff of dust off the stall floor before resuming her nibbling. "Or perhaps you enjoy the adventure, hm, old girl?"
"Old girl?" came a familiar voice. Lothíriel turned to see her cousin leading his horse down the aisle, having stopped in front of the stall door to observe her. "She's seven at most."
"Old in heart then," Lothíriel countered with a grin, setting the brush down. Faramir was joined by a horse-less Éomer, who looked between the cousins.
"Should I be surprised to find you here?" he inquired with a raise of his eyebrow, gaze settling on her.
"If she wasn't in the barn, I'd wager she'd be bandaging birds in an aerie," Faramir stated as he led his horse away with a single wave of his hand. She watched him disappear around a corner before turning her attention to Éomer.
"You're back sooner than I expected."
"It was only intended to be a brief tour," he replied, resting his forearms on the half door of the stall, one hand resting atop the opposite wrist. "I have too much to attend to here to be galloping across the Folde, however much I would like to."
"A pity."
"Yes," he agreed with a nod, looking then to the horse as she ate quietly. "How did it go with the needlework?"
"The shroud is complete."
"I meant with Éowyn and the other ladies. I trust they were not too overbearing."
"Not at all," she answered, setting the coarse brush down and starting to work her fingers through the tangles in the mare's dark mane. "They were most welcoming."
"Good." Éomer gave a short nod before standing up straight. His gaze lingered on her and she paused in her ministrations to the horse, turning to face him. He caught her gaze, hazel eyes, for a moment, full of longing that nearly stole her breath. He looked away, busying himself with the removal of invisible dust from his sleeve.
"Could you hand me the bucket?" she nodded to the side of the door where she'd placed the grooming tote. He looked down, locating and fetching it, opened the half door to step into the entryway of the stall. She accepted it from him with two hands, the space between them the width of the small box. His fingers grazed hers as she paused, looking down at the contents of the tote.
"Thank you," she whispered, unable to meet his gaze so close.
"Eala," he murmured, brows drawing together. "How can it be that I am so undone in your presence?"
"It cannot be my stench for I've bathed," she answered with a small smile. He did not return it and she felt immediately out of sorts. She took the box from him and turned away, unwilling to trust herself so close. She felt Éomer stand there for a moment before stepping back. When she pivoted to the side, he'd already vacated the stall, closing the door behind him and keeping his eyes on the mare.
"I'll see you tonight?"
"Yes. Tonight."
He departed and Lothíriel released a breath, turning to the horse with a frown. She picked out the comb and set the tote down with an annoyed sigh.
"I doubt you've met such an idiot in all your seven years," she muttered quietly to the bay. "Amrothos would have a day with that line. Talking about my stench like a tavern boy, for Ulmo's sake!"
The horse said nothing, though she raised her head to look at Lothíriel with dark eyes that conveyed both understanding and indifference. Shaking her head the Princess resumed her task of untangling the coarse hair, internally kicking herself for such a shoddy response to Rohan's King. She would endeavor to redeem herself at the feast tonight.