The days had begun to grow perceptibly warmer by mid-June, despite the higher altitude and more northern location of Edoras. Lothíriel made it a habit to sit on the small veranda of the healing quarters in a comfortable shade, looking out over the grass plains spread out below the city and the mountains farther still. They must have been very tall; she had expected the snow that covered them to have already melted by now, and yet every morning, she was greeted by the familiar shimmer of the rising sun reflecting off their peaks.
Lothíriel liked this hidden part of Edoras most of all, not only for its spectacular views; it also strangely reminded her of her home in Dol Amroth. She still clearly remembered sluggish days spent on a veranda much like this one, but instead of the wide seemingly never-ending yellowed grass, she used to watch the turquoise sea down below and listen to the calming lull of the waves crashing softly over the rocks and beating on the low-reaching walls of her father's castle. Her entire life, Lothíriel had rarely been allowed to go out of the city gates, one of the exceptions being the beaches, coves and lagoons surrounding them. In her childhood, she had explored every nook and cranny, and knew the exact places where nobody could reach her. She loved taking off her clothes, diving into the clear blue waters and enjoying the calming solitude, away from the ever watchful and critical eyes of her father. Whenever she had doubted her decision to leave her home behind, she remembered those exact moments – how happy and free she felt in those hidden lagoons, and how miserable inside the castle walls.
Lothíriel stretched her legs on the wooden floor and made to stand up, but fell right back on her arse; her entire left leg had fallen asleep while she was daydreaming, gazing over the landscape for who knows how long. She grunted at the uncomfortable feeling of a thousand little ants running up and down beneath her skin as her limp leg was coming back to life. Once she was confident she would not collapse under her body weight, she grabbed the railing and pulled herself up to stand. She left the comfortable quiet of the veranda and walked through the building to exit on the other side, into the large dim room lined with sick beds. The other healers were already hard at work, shuffling between the patients in need of care, a cacophony of low voices filling the hall.
Lothíriel looked around in search of Torhild, and made her way toward the senior healer as soon as she spotted her in the corner, busy refilling all the herb pots Lothíriel could name by heart at this point. She had planned to start off the day the way they usually did, by sitting down in their small study and going over the books and materials she had brought from Gondor. They both found it was easiest to concentrate that way; when they tried to postpone it to the afternoon, or worse, the evening, they were already too tired after a full day of interacting with all manner of people to use their brains effectively.
When Torhild noticed her approaching with a particularly thick volume in her hands, she just shook her head and said: "Ne tōdæg, Méav."
"What do you mean not today?" Lothíriel asked, forgetting to try and translate her words like she usually did.
Torhild simply pointed to a folded stack of clothes on an empty sick bed next to her. "þis is fram þám cyninge."
From the King? Lothíriel took the clothes from the table to get a good look at them, and recognized them immediately – riding clothes. She remembered the King's promise to get her a riding teacher. Was this his way of saying he had found someone?
When she had first arrived in Rohan, she was surprised to see the local women and even ladies of high standing wearing breeches and riding in the saddle like a man, but had in the meantime grown used to the sight. She would never admit it out loud, but in a way, she was impressed by the fact that they could ride their horses out in the open so freely, unconstrained by the uncomfortable sidesaddle and the long heavy riding skirts that were common down south. Lothíriel wondered whether the women of Rohan were more free than their southern counterparts in other areas of life as well; she did notice that Lady Éowyn never had a chaperone trailing after her, something unheard of during her own time as a princess. I could get used to this way of life, Lothíriel often caught herself thinking.
A young healer named Eydis noticed her looking at the clothes and came to her side. She started babbling something in Rohirric, but it was too complicated for Lothíriel to understand. Noticing her confused look, Eydis opted for non-verbal communication instead, took the pants from her hands and pushed them onto her.
"Méav, ðu scealt ðis werian," she said slowly.
"I should wear them right now?" Lothíriel asked and Eydis nodded, although Lothíriel had her doubts whether she actually understood the question.
In any case, she was undoubtedly at a disadvantage without Lady Éowyn assisting her with translations, and so she acquiesced and reluctantly put on the clothes that had been prepared for her. It felt very strange; women wearing breeches was unheard of in Gondor, even among the common folk. She felt the tight material envelop her legs and together with the short tunic leave very little to the imagination. However, the Rohirric healers and patients within the sick hall seemed utterly unmoved by this, and Lothíriel had to remind herself that in this country, it was nothing quite as scandalous as back home.
Eydis started pointing towards the door and kept repeating the word horsstów, but Lothíriel just looked at her helplessly and shook her head. Yes, something to do with horses, but what? It seemed everything in this country had to do with those creatures. Eydis even made an attempt at explaining what she meant by incorporating a very good impression of a horse's neigh into her flow of words, at which both women laughed heartily, but Lothíriel still didn't get what she was saying. Eydis eventually gave up, rolled her eyes, and led Lothíriel by the hand out of the healing quarters, through the large central road that connected the entire city to the other side, where the hill started sloping downwards. From there, she pointed in the direction of the stables.
"The stables!" Lothíriel exclaimed as the meaning of Eydis' words finally became clear.
"Gyse, horsstów," the young healer repeated, smiling.
Once Eydis turned and made her way back to the healing quarters, Lothíriel started her slow descend down the dirt road towards the large compound, which seemed almost as big as the city itself from her vantage point. Lothíriel couldn't help but wonder whether there were more humans or horses in Edoras. If I had to bet, I'd put my money on horses, she chuckled inwardly at her own silly joke.
She didn't see anyone she recognized inside when she entered the large wooden building. She made her way along the boxes, observing the horses as she went by, careful not to disturb the work of the many stable masters and boys buzzing around from one horse to another. Very few animals had impressed her before, but she had to admit now that the horses of Rohan truly were magnificent. Tall, proud creatures with a personality; Lothíriel had heard somewhere that their horses carefully chose who they let ride on their backs, not the other way around. However, once a bond between a horse and his rider was formed, it was a bond for a lifetime.
She stopped by the box of a beautiful black mare with a long flowing dark mane. The mare seemed to appraise her with her gaze for a few moments before she stuck her head out of her box. Lothíriel never had much experience with horses and was scared to touch her at first, but it seemed to her as if the mare was inviting her to do so by stepping closer to the door of her box and moving her head up and down. Lothíriel carefully stroked her nose and was surprised how smooth the dark hair felt underneath her fingers.
"She seems to like you."
Lothíriel jumped up in surprise and looked around to see who it was that scared her so. She expected one of the stable boys, but instead found herself face to face with King Éomer.
"Your grace, you startled me," she said and quickly bowed her head, her heart beating fast.
"I apologize. That was not my intention." He paused for a moment before adding: "I see the riding clothes fit you very well."
Lothíriel noticed him look her up and down and became very conscious of the tight clothing she was wearing. There was a strange look in his eyes as he did so, which made her heart beat even faster. Truth be told, Lothíriel found herself thinking about the young king often lately. She didn't like to admit it, but her opinion of him had been slowly changing ever since she had made this place her new home. The image of an obnoxious savage she had perceived the first time they met in Minas Tirith gradually shifted as she began to understand what weight he carried on his shoulders and heard more and more stories about a king who seemed to be very popular with his people, and for good reasons.
Their last meeting in his firelit study sent Lothíriel's mind reeling in confusion; his demeanor was different than she had ever seen before; different and yet completely unreadable. She could feel an odd sensation in her stomach when she remembered the strange piercing look in his eyes that evening. He was able to coax her into revealing things she had kept deliberately hidden for years, in spite of her better judgment. She felt naked in front of him whenever they talked, in this very moment too, and not only because she was wearing clothes that were much more revealing than she was accustomed to.
"Yes, they fit perfectly, your grace. Thank you," she said and averted her eyes, worried he could read her thoughts even then.
"So, are you ready to learn how to ride a horse?" he asked with a smile on his face, the strange look nowhere to be found. I must have imagined it.
"I am, your grace. If I may ask - who will teach me?"
"Ah, just on time!" the King exclaimed, turning his gaze to someone behind her.
Lothíriel turned to see who he was looking at. A young man with a long fair braid hung over his shoulder pushed open the wooden gate of the stables and made his way to them. He seemed familiar somehow, but she couldn't place a finger on why exactly.
"Uffe, this is Méav. Méav, let me introduce Uffe, son of Lord Léofstan," the King said. "He agreed to be your teacher."
So that's why he seems so familiar, Lothíriel thought. When she looked closely, the resemblance between the two was very easy to spot – the same round face with a pronounced chin, the same confident step, the same laugh lines around the eyes.
"It will be a pleasure, Méav," Uffe said with a polite bow in her direction.
"Well, I will leave you two to it then. Take good care of our guest, Uffe," the King patted him on the shoulder, nodded his goodbye and left.
To her dismay, Lothíriel caught herself feeling disappointed that the King would not be the one teaching her horse-riding. You are acting a fool, she had to reprimand herself. Of course, it was ridiculous to think he had time for such matters, or indeed that he would be even remotely interested in wasting his precious time with a mere healer. It was logical and rational, something to be expected; and yet, the excitement she felt up until that point cooled off considerably.
"I think we've already found you a horse," Uffe said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that descended upon them after the King's departure. "She even looks a lot like you – the only dark horse in this entire stable," he added with a smirk. It was true enough; when Lothíriel looked around, she noticed that all the other horses were white, grey, light brown or various combinations thereof.
"What is her name?" she asked.
"Elfflaed. It means Elven beauty."
Quite fitting indeed, Lothíriel thought and smiled at the mare as she remembered her own distant Elven heritage. And with that, her first lesson in horse-riding began. They never got any further than the small square in front of the stables that day; most of the time was wasted with countless attempts to learn how to even mount the mare, which proved difficult enough. Even if her hair wasn't a great deal darker than the other people's around her, it was clear from the beginning she carried no horse-lord blood in her veins. Once she was finally able to seat herself comfortably on top of the large animal, the only riding she did, if it could be called riding at all, was Uffe leading Elfflaed by the reins around the stable buildings a few times, with Lothíriel desperately clutching onto the saddle and praying she wouldn't fall off.
Despite the less than successful riding lesson, Lothíriel was pleasantly surprised that Uffe turned out to be quite a lovely companion. His fluent Westron was a welcome change for her, if maybe a disadvantage for him – after weeks of having only limited opportunities to truly talk to someone, Lothíriel unconsciously flooded him with whatever stories and anecdotes came to her mind, barely giving him a chance to partake in the conversation. He took it quite gracefully, however, and let her babble on without any complaints.
By the time they finished their last round and stopped in front of the entrance again, the stable yard was slowly emptying, with the last few stable boys finishing their tasks for the day. Elfflead decided to shake her head and neigh loudly, seemingly rejoiced to find her struggle of a ride with Lothíriel was over, which forced Lothíriel to finally shut up and concentrate all of her willpower on not jumping off the animal in a panic. Uffe gently helped her slide off the mare and took the rains from her hands, leading them both back to her box.
"I hope the lesson wasn't too frustrating for you," Uffe said, his voice light with humor, though she could tell he was genuinely concerned.
"No, it was... it was alright. I'm just not a natural talent," Lothíriel admitted with a half-smile. "But I think I'm starting to understand why the Rohirrim are so proud of their horses."
Uffe smiled contently as he patted Elfflaed's neck. "The horses are a part of the people here, you know. It's in our blood. You'll feel it too once you've had the reins in your hand long enough."
Somehow, Lothiriel was less optimistic that she would overcome her fear and get a hang of it eventually, but seeing Uffe's enthusiasm and good humor, she couldn't help but feel determined to at least give it another try. That night was the first spent in Rohan that Lothíriel fell asleep like a baby, her slumber undisturbed and deep as can be. She dreamed of horses racing along the seashore in Dol Amroth, their silky hair glimmering in the setting sun and their hoofs beating the wild waves of the high tide.
ooOOoo
Éomer was racing his horse across the wide grass plains that separated them from their home, feeling a sliver of relief as he noticed the Golden Hall shining in the distance, illuminated by the already strong summer sun. On a regular day he would have enjoyed a ride like this more than anything, but now his mind was agitated, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
A few days back they received word from the Westemnet of a band of rogue Orcs plaguing villagers and attacking, robbing and killing travelers and merchants that were on their way to distribute goods from the capital. Despite many protests from his advisors and Éowyn, Éomer insisted on leading his éored westwards to deal with it. After weeks spent holed up in his study with no company but paperwork, he had to get out there again, out in the world on Firefoot's back, to clear his mind and relieve all the pent up tension. Slaying a few Orcs on the loose seemed like just the right way to do it. However, what was supposed to be an easy hunting mission turned into a fight for life and death very quickly when the Orc numbers turned out to be much greater than they had anticipated. The loathsome creatures even had brains enough to stage a surprise attack, which only made things worse.
Éomer turned to look at a young Rohir who sustained the worst injury of the party and had to ride a horse together with another man to avoid him falling off the animal as he was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was reminded of his own injury every time his stallion's hoofs beat the ground and the dull throbbing on his left side was penetrated by a bolt of sharp pain. I have had worse, he dismissed the thought with a grunt and sped his horse forward, reminding himself that many of his men would count themselves lucky to only sustain a scratch like he did.
They entered the city and galloped uphill in the direction of Meduseld. Some people had already gathered there in expectation, his sister among them. She ran down the stairs leading up to the hall as soon as he got off his horse and jumped into his arms.
"Brother! You're alive!" she shouted, her voice shaky with relief and emotion. Éomer grunted from the pain that shot through his body at the impact.
"It is good to see you, sister," he tried to smile.
"You're hurt," Éowyn's smile turned into a worried frown.
"I'll be fine," he waved it off. "The other men are doing a lot worse. Go tell the healers to get ready, they need their immediate attention."
Éowyn appraised him with a doubtful look, then simply nodded and ran off to give word to the healers.
Those who were still in good shape carried all the injured men into the healing quarters. Despite the dire situation, Éomer's eyes immediately searched for the dark haired Gondorian who had occupied his thoughts lately. With disappointment he found that he couldn't distinguish one healer from the other – they were all wearing caps, face masks and white aprons. So they are learning from her after all, he noted with satisfaction.
"Your grace?"
A familiar voice came from behind him. Éomer turned around and stood face-to-face with Méav, who was just tying her mask behind her ears. It was only a fleeting moment, but it struck him for the first time that her eyes were a light green color, uncommon in the swarm of brown and blue he was accustomed to. I would have expected brown to go with her dark hair, he caught himself thinking, his heart beating a little faster.
"Is everything alright?" she asked hesitantly.
Have I been staring at her again? Éomer quickly cleared his throat and said: "Yes, yes of course. I trust you are well, Méav."
"Better than you, your grace," she replied and pointed to the mess on his left side where the Orc blade had struck him.
"It's probably just a scratch, nothing to worry about."
"Well, your lady sister does worry and she asked me to have a look at it."
Éomer looked around the room and saw that the rest of the injured riders from his éored were already being taken care of, and so he just sighed and nodded. Éowyn would have her way in the end, as always. Besides, now that the adrenaline stopped making his heart beat like the hoofs of a crazed stallion and he could calm down at last, knowing his men were in good hands, he became much more aware of the sharp pain emanating from his side. In the chaos of battle it seemed to him that his armor took the worst of it and the Orc blade managed to only graze his skin, but now when he tried to reach over with his right hand to unfasten his breastplate, he realized that even the smallest movement of his torso caused sharp bolts of pain that made him grind his teeth.
"Let me help you, your grace."
Méav gently pushed his left arm aside and started unfastening his armor, her fingers fumbling for the knot on the lacing. After a few moments she grunted and looked around the room. "It turns out I do not quite know how to do this," she almost whispered, her forehead turning a shade redder than usual. "Torhild, mægst þu helpan mé?" she called out to Torhild, who was just passing with a jug of water in her hands.
"Mægst þu mé helpan," Torhild corrected her patiently, gave Éomer a small curtsy and started removing his armor, admittedly much more proficiently than Méav.
Éomer felt awkward standing there in silence, like a little boy whose mother was helping him out of his dirty clothes. To fill up the uncomfortable air that hung between them, he cleared his throat and remarked: "So, I see you're making progress in Rohirric."
"Well, Torhild has adopted quite an ingenious teaching strategy, which consists of her entirely ignoring me unless I speak your language," Méav admitted with a shrug. "So, terrible as I sound, I don't have much of a choice."
Éomer chuckled. "It seems to be working. You don't sound terrible at all."
"Thank you, your grace."
The awkwardness had resumed only for a short while before Torhild started questioning him about their mission and the injury he had sustained. In a few more minutes, the armor covering his upper body had been put aside and she rolled up the blood stained tunic underneath.
"Good gracious," Méav exclaimed and moved to Torhild's side to examine the wound.
Éomer tried to peer at his left side but the tunic was blocking his view. "How bad is it?"
"Not life threatening, but if I may be so blunt, your definition of a scratch is not quite the same as a healer's, your grace," Méav said, her eyes not leaving the wound.
"Canst þu gefyllan syndrig, Méav?" Torhild asked as she got up and grabbed the jug she had been carrying.
"Gése, yes, I'll finish on my own," Méav nodded, and so Torhild took her leave to attend to the other wounded men. Then she turned to look at him and said: "Your grace, can you please lie down on your right side? This wound will need stitching."
Éomer nodded and slowly made his way on the nearby sick bed, carefully executing every movement to minimize the pain, yet he couldn't suffocate several involuntary hisses and grunts as his body's motion stretched and tore at the open wound. Méav sat on the bed next to him and placed her fingers around the bleeding flesh. Éomer felt a warm sensation and prickly goosebumps pop up on his skin at the gentle touch.
"Oh my, I'm sorry, my hands must be cold," she exclaimed and pulled her fingers away.
I wouldn't care if they were freezing, Éomer thought to himself, knowing full well that cold fingertips were not the cause for his skin's reaction, but then said aloud: "Don't worry about it."
He was glad she chose to position herself at his back and he wasn't forced to openly face her in such a vulnerable position. He felt strangely exposed; the gentle touch of her hands on his bare skin stirred up strange feelings in his mind, and he was left wondering what had happened to him – a few weeks ago he couldn't stand her guts, and now whenever she was around, his heart was playing funny tricks on him inside his chest. He had to admit that the nature of their initial disagreement could be largely attributed to the unfortunate circumstances they had both found themselves in, the frustration and desperation only fueling the harsh parts of their characters, so he supposed it was only natural that once things had calmed down, the tension would eventually disappear. No, it can't be that simple. Was it because she looked so different from all the other women in his surroundings? Or was it the fact that he was sure she was hiding something, and his own determination to find out what exactly it was had drawn him in in ways he hadn't anticipated?
Éomer growled and rubbed his temple with his good hand; the confusing thoughts were starting to give him a headache.
"Just one more moment and I'll be done, your grace," Méav said from above him, misinterpreting his growl as a sign of pain. "There, it's finished. We'll bandage you up and you'll be good to go."
Éomer slowly sat up, careful not to disturb the fresh stitches. He looked down and saw that the wound was quite wide, stretching the length of his left side above the hipbone. How did I think this was just a scratch? He noticed Méav had laid out fresh bandages on the bed and grabbed a mortar to mix a batch of the green herb paste he had seen her use before. Éomer realized in horror that bandaging his wound around his torso inevitably meant very close contact, and in his current flustered state, an embarrassing bodily reaction seemed imminent. He was glad he had chosen not to stand up completely, but rather remained seated on the bed frame.
As if some higher power had read his thoughts and decided to spare him further discomfort, he saw his sister stand up from one of the injured warriors and make her way across the hall to him.
"Éowyn!" he exclaimed when she was within earshot, a bit overenthusiastically.
"This you call a scratch?" she frowned in response and pointed to his left side.
"I swear I had no idea it was this deep."
"Maybe next time you will listen to my counsel and not risk the fate of our line so foolishly, brother," she hissed at him quietly, so the others wouldn't overhear.
Now Éomer felt even more like a little boy, being scolded by his mother for playing outside and scratching his knee on a sharp stone. I'm the king here, dammit, he thought indignantly, yet chose to swallow his words. After all, Éowyn was right. He was, however, getting sick and tired of everyone watching him closely, making sure the heirless King of the Mark was kept in safety, regardless of his own feelings on the subject. Maybe he had better get it over quickly and just marry one of the ladies his councilors had suggested; once the Riddermark had an heir, they might finally stop fussing. Is a loveless marriage a good trade-off for a little bit of personal freedom? he thought sourly.
Méav was standing by awkwardly before she cleared her throat and said: "Your grace, if you would stand up please, I will just finish up with the bandages and be on my way."
"Actually, that's alright, Méav. My sister can take over," Éomer blurted out the lousy escape plan that he had just come up with that very moment.
Both women were eyeing him with raised eyebrows. "Why?" Éowyn asked.
"Well, you decided to help Méav out with her work and so I figured you need some practice too, sister," he explained innocently.
"Alright, if you say so," Éowyn shrugged and grabbed the bandages from the side of the bed. Éomer almost couldn't believe he was let off the hook so easily. Thank the Valar.
"Just make sure to put this paste on the wound first, my lady," Méav said as she handed the mortar to Éowyn. "I'll be on my way then."
"Thank you, Méav," Éomer blurted out just as she was about to turn around and leave, suddenly realizing he must have come off as quite rude. "Let's hope this is the last time you have to patch me up."
"Third time's the charm, as they say," she shrugged. "Besides, your lady sister might already be trained enough to treat you entirely on her own, your grace."
Before he could react, she turned and walked away along the row of sickbeds toward his wounded companions. Éomer sighed and wondered when exactly it was that he completely forgot how to speak to women. Probably for the first time ever, he found himself looking forward to the pile of paperwork on his desk that had undoubtedly tripled during his absence, and that would hopefully occupy his mind enough to push out all the other uncomfortable thoughts and desires.