*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 2

A Jade’s Trick

*~*~*~*

As the meal passed, Éomer found himself reminded greatly of the first time he had met Princess Lothíriel. She had been relatively quiet in his presence that first time—perhaps it had been the influence of two kings in her presence—but he had not seen her thus since. And in her cousin’s house, she did not check her tongue. This Éomer found somehow irritating and amusing. He was not unused to women of strength and stubbornness, having Éowyn for a sister, but he had never expected the daughter of his friend Imrahil to have such a temperament.

“Tell me, Éomer,” said Imrahil; “what news have you brought from the Mark? I have heard high praise of your reign, but little of detail.”

He cleared his throat and took another drink of the fine wine which his brother-in-law had at the table. “I fear the details are of little interest to most,” he replied. “The new wall at Edoras has been completed at last. Homes have been rebuilt, and this year’s harvest promises to be the largest in several decades.”

“I have seen some of the reports from others in your command, Éomer,” said Faramir. “The people across the realm of Rohan are calling you Éadig.”

Éomer shifted in his seat, a little embarrassed. He had hoped that the party here had not heard that name. But then Lothíriel asked: “Éadig? My lord, what does the name mean?”

He glanced down, and Éowyn took his moment of hesitation as an opportunity to answer for him. “It is an old word in Rohirric, Lothíriel, and one which has not been used in at least a century,” she replied. “It means ‘blessed’.”

“And so it would be used for anyone who ruled in this time, after such a war,” Éomer added. “It is hardly a name of any consequence now, Princess, and I am certain it will wane in use again once the restoration is complete.”

“My brother is modest,” said Éowyn. “He underestimates the people’s love for him.”

Lothíriel did not press the subject. Instead she commented: “Rohirric seems to me an interesting tongue.”

“Aye, Lady, it is,” said Éomer. “But not an easy one to learn.”

Imrahil laughed a little at this. “My daughter is rather adept with languages, Éomer. She proved invaluable during the War, because she is fluent in Haradric.”

“This is something I have never heard,” said Faramir. “What service did you render, cousin?”

“Our men captured a group of Haradrim scouts and confiscated documents written for their leaders in the South,” she replied. “They were sent to my father before he answered your father’s call, and I translated them.”

“And thus we were able to intercept a large force of Haradrim before they neared the Pelennor Fields,” her father added.

Faramir lifted his cup to his cousin. “We should have employed you as a spy, Lothíriel,” said he.

She laughed lightly. “That would never do, cousin, for I cannot capture the spoken tongue. I read it well enough, but I cannot speak Haradric well enough to pass as a native of that land. It is a rough language.”

“You might find the same difficulty with Rohirric,” said Éomer. “It has no written form.” At Lothíriel’s puzzled look, he added: “The Lords of the Mark took little interest in written records until after the Common Speech was adopted in Rohan. It is unfortunate, for much of our poetry and lore exists only in oral tradition.”

Imrahil chuckled at this. “Lothíriel, when your collection of mariners’ songs and tales is complete, you should learn Rohirric and develop it as a written language, so you can compile a volume of Rohan’s legends and ballads.”

At this Éomer gave Lothíriel a rather patronizing look. “I would imagine that many of the songs that are sung around the campfire of an éored would be rather much for a lady of Dol Amroth’s delicate ears.”

Silence fell in the room immediately, and across the table from Éomer, Lothíriel arched an elegant brow. “And what do you mean by that, my lord?”

The Rohirric King resumed eating. “Merely that Rohirric war songs do not spare the details of war as the songs of Gondor do. I would not imagine that many women who were not brought up in Rohan would be able to stand them.”

She set her fork aside and regarded him quizzically. “Perhaps you do not understand: I have been collectiing the songs of sailors.”

Éomer laughed. “They cannot compare to the songs of the Rohirrim, I am certain.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to rebutt him, but Éowyn held up her hand. “Please, Éomer, Lothíriel, some of us would rather be spared the details of these songs.”

Éomer looked at his sister in mild surprise. “I wager you know as many of these songs as I do, sister,” said he.

“I have no doubt,” she replied, “but I try not to think on them while I am eating.”

Éowyn gave him a small smile, and the silver sound of Lothíriel’s laugh filled the dining room. “I apologize, cousin,” she said. “I fear I do not avoid disputes well.”

Éomer hid a smirk by looking down at his food once more while Imrahil laughed. “That is a light way of putting it,” he said.

The young King looked up at his opponent to see her blush softly. “My apologies, Father.”

“No need, child,” he replied. “I blame it solely on those brothers who spoiled you.”

She raised her chin in playful defiance. “I can hardly help that I am their ony sister.”

“And I was not much better than they,” Imrahil replied.

The remainder of the meal passed rather quietly, but occasionally Éomer would meet Lothíriel’s gaze and read an open challenge there in her striking blue eyes. The Rohirric King chose to remain silent, knowing that there would be time enough to wrangle with her on whatever topic might surface. In his sister’s house he would try to remain polite with Lothíriel. But with every glance he became more and more certain that his heart was certainly in no danger where this Princess of Dol Amroth was concerned. She was far too exasperating for that to ever become an issue.

*~*~*~*

Emyn Arnen was an odd place. Gently rolling hills turned into low-rising mountains, into which the Steward’s house was set, and thick forests carpeted much of the region, not unlike the rest of Ithilien. To the south, as the great forests ended, rock quarries began, and there the white stone of Faramir’s house had been cut. Tributaries of the great Anduin spidered through the region, making travel interesting. One of the Steward’s plans in his rule of Ithilien was to construct bridges and fords to make transit easier, though with the many other tasks he had, both those for the King and for himself, he had not yet accomplished this.

But it was a beautiful place, and Éomer could not imagine his sister finding a happier home. Little of that, of course, was due to the landscape: there was the matter of the man who had brought her there to dwell. And as he and his sister sat on the porch and watched the stars come out over Ithilien, he spoke to her of this, and she smiled.

“He has made me happier than I believed possible, Éomer,” she replied. “How did I ever think that being Queen would bring me joy?”

“Aragorn is lordly, and did great things for our people,” said Éomer. “That you would find yourself admiring him was understandable.”

“Aye, brother, but I know now that there is none who compares to my dear husband.” Éowyn rested her hand against her abdomen and sighed.

At that Éomer frowned a little, remembering the first time he had been told that a child would be born, only to learn a few months later that Éowyn had lost him. The miscarriage had hit her hard, he was certain, and he had grieved that he had been unable to be with her. But he chose to trust in his brother-in-law, and seeing her now so happy and healthy told him he had been right to do so. “I am happy for you both, sister,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

A look of concern crossed his sister’s face. “I hope you were not offended, Éomer, by what Faramir and I said to you this afternoon,” said she. “You must understand that we only wish for your happiness.”

Éomer favored her with a wry smile. “I think, dear sister, that you did not only wish for that, but also to have your fun with me while I am here.”

“It is true, I admit,” she replied, laughing. “But I need all the distraction I can come by now.”

He looked down at her stomach. “Are you uncomfortable, Éowyn?” he asked.

“Every moment,” she replied. “I am anxious for the birth.”

“As are we all,” said Éomer.

She smiled. “And how will you like being an uncle?”

“I cannot yet tell, sister,” he replied.

“Think of it as practice for fatherhood, then.”

At that he turned to her and raised a brow. “Other things must happen before I need practice in that area.”

“And if those other things never happen,” she immediately replied, “you might have this child on your hands anyway as your heir.”

“And what of an heir for Faramir?” Éomer asked.

“Imrahil has grandsons enough to provide for this house as well as his own, should it come to that.”

Éomer shook his head and stood, gazing up at the starry sky. “And we presume yet further,” he said. “You are as likely to carry my sister-daughter as my sister-son.”

He looked over his shoulder at Éowyn to see a small smile on her face. “I carry my lord’s son,” she replied. “I am certain of it.”

They stayed in silence for a while, until Éomer looked to the stables and saw a boy leading a snow-white horse up to the house. Éowyn saw this too, and a smile lit her face. “My husband,” she murmured; and Éomer took her to mean that Faramir had sent the boy up with her horse.

He helped her from her seat and down the stairs to the last of the steps cut for a horse’s stride. By then the horse and the boy had reached that step, and the horse whinnied. Éowyn stroked the mare’s mane and said: “No, I have not forgotten thee, Alassë.”

The horse rubbed her nose against Éowyn’s cheek, and she laughed. After a few moments more, Éomer said: “I am surprised that Faramir would give you a white horse. I would have thought that black or grey would have been his choice.”

“She was not Faramir’s gift,” Éowyn replied. “Aragorn gave her to me.”

“A noble gift,” said Éomer, stroking the horse’s neck.

The boy had bowed and run back to the stables, so when Éowyn’s maid arrived at the door and told her that Imrahil wished for her company, Éomer was obliged to take the mare back to the stable as Mithlomi escorted Éowyn inside.

*~*~*~*

After dinner Faramir and his cousin went for a walk as Éowyn and Éomer talked on the porch. Lothíriel made a good correspondent, giving Faramir plenty of information without stooping to gossip. Her nieces and nephews were growing and Faramir wished very much to see them again. Her news that her eldest brother planned to bring his family to Minas Tirith in the next winter made him very happy indeed, for he would be able to see them soon.

With his cousin on his arm, Faramir turned toward the stables, despite the mild chill of the spring night. When Lothíriel expressed a slight curiosity, he replied: “I want you to see my brother-in-law’s gift to us.”

Despite having lived her entire life in a port city and loving the sea greatly, Lothíriel had ample appreciation of horses. She could tell without much trouble that Éomer’s gift—most of the horses in the stable—was quite a kingly gift indeed. “So many black horses,” she commented. “In Dol Amroth all our horses are grey.”

Faramir laughed, patting the neck of his own grey stallion as they passed its stall. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, leaving her with his horse and approaching a stable boy. He was back at her side quickly, and the boy led a white horse out of the building. At Lothíriel’s curious glance, Faramir said: “That is Éowyn’s horse. The boy is leading her up to the house so Éowyn can see her.”

Lothíriel smiled. “Such a thoughtful husband,” she replied. “If only I could find one half so pleasant.”

“I believe you will have to put more effort into finding a husband if you wish for that, cousin,” he said with laughter. “Though I heard occasional rumors during the war.”

“You heard of that?” she asked.

“I heard only of an engagement. I have often wondered what happened.”

Lothíriel looked to the ground, half-wishing that the exchange of gossip between the Courts of Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith had been more efficient. But with considerable detail she related to her cousin the story of how she had accepted a young noble’s proposal. Gondor’s prospects in the war had not been favorable at the time, and for the most part she had accepted the man because he was in need of heirs. Yet before they could be wed, he had been called home to defend his family lands to the south of the city. In the meantime Imrahil and Lothíriel’s brothers rode north to Minas Tirith, and when she was not busy with the rule of the city of Dol Amroth, she began to regret what she had done, especially when the war was won and things were not so desperate.

How great her relief had been, then, when he had returned to the city and told of how he had rescued a maiden in the course of their march and then fallen in love with her! He had been willing to fulfill his obligations to her, but she had been more than willing to release him from those obligations. So Lothíriel remained unmarried; and when she had finished with this tale, Faramir laughed. “You would have been miserable,” he said. “I know you well enough to know that much.”

“Yes, but sometimes I wish I had married him.” At his curious expression, she smiled. “You know not how the nobles try to woo me.”

“You could end that quite easily,” he replied.

“And how would you suggest I end it?”

”Marry my brother-in-law.”

Lothíriel stopped abruptly. “You are worse than my brothers!” she cried. “They at least would not wish to marry me off to a man who cannot bear my presence.”

Faramir laughed. “I believe he likes you well enough. You need only give him a little encouragement and you will have him in the palm of your hand.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Do I want him in the palm of my hand?”

“Your behavior at dinner tonight would say you do.”

“Faramir!” she cried, laughing. “Whatever gives you such an idea?”

“Such dalliance as I witnessed tonight,” he replied. “Shameful behavior for a Princess of Dol Amroth, though I admit that the King of Rohan was not much better.”

“Dalliance?” Lothíriel shook her head, though she smiled. “Faramir, marriage has turned you more romantic than I would have thought.”

And the Prince of Ithilien merely smiled and patted her hand. “You know I see you as my own sister.”

“Yes, and you have learned from my brothers how to tease me as such.”

But then they reached the deepest reach of the stable, where a horse with a shining black coat stood with his nose buried in a pile of hay. “Oh, what a beautiful creature!” she cried, forgetting her dispute with Faramir for a time. “Éomer King gave you this one as well?”

“No,” said a new voice, and Lothíriel looked over her shoulder in surprise to see Éomer at the entrance of the stables, the reins of Éowyn’s white mare in his hand. The black stallion before her lifted his head and turned as Éomer approached. “Fleetfoot is the horse who occasionally allows me to ride him.”

Faramir laughed softly. “I will see to Alassë, brother,” said he, and deftly removed the reins from Éomer’s hand, leaving him with Lothíriel.

“He is magnificent,” Lothíriel said at last. “What breed is he?”

Éomer stroked the horse’s neck. “Mearas,” he replied.

“Mearas?” she repeated. “These horses are legend in Dol Amroth. . . .I never thought to see one with my own eyes.”

“The breed is dying,” said Éomer. “And Mithrandir took the noblest of them all with him over the Sea.”

On impulse Lothíriel reached out to run her hand across the horse’s neck, but Éomer suddenly grabbed her wrist. Their gazes met, and she favored him with an imperious glare. “I will not break him, my lord,”she said.

He lowered her hand. “I have no fear of that,” he replied. “He does not always take well to new faces.”

Brow raised, she looked back at the horse. “Which bears no striking resemblance to your own character, I am certain,” she said dryly.

“I had no problem with your face. It was your tongue I took objection to.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, though Lothíriel was not entirely certain why. “With a sister like yours,” she replied, “I would have imagined you to have no problem with a woman speaking her mind.”

“I have no problem with hearing a woman’s opinion, so long as she does not patronize me while she gives it.”

“Patronize?” she repeated. “You are bold, my lord, to rebuke me for patronizing.”

“And you are the most headstrong, impertinent, insolent woman I have ever met!”

If nothing Éomer had said had gotten her attention before, that certainly did. For half a second Lothíriel could only stare at him in shock, but that was soon turned to anger. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. “Enough!” he said. “I came here to return my sister’s horse, not to wage war.”

With that he turned and stalked off, leaving Lothíriel quite distracted. When a few minutes had passed she left for the house, forgetting that she had come out there with Faramir, and unaware that he had witnessed this entire exchange from Alassë’s stall.