Lothíriel folded Éomer’s letter and put it into the belt she wore around her waist underneath her tunic.  On leaving the library she thought about where she might find Amrothos at this time of the day. The evening was drawing in and she doubted that her brother had any intention of spending the late hours with a book by the fire. Not that the nights had really turned cool enough to light a fire anyway. The last heat wave had broken but even after sunset the temperatures stayed on the warm side.

When he had left her and Erchirion in the library, he had been still in his riding clothes. Therefore he had probably gone to his chambers in the Citadel to take a bath and change before he ventured off to whatever he tended to do on a usual night.

Lothíriel hastened through the interlocking halls and colonnades of the Houses of Healing. The domain of the healers had been built over a period of several centuries, one wing added onto the other. They were all linked by corridors and open archways. Between the buildings gardens had been laid out, trees and climbers harmonizing the different styles and softening the coldness of the white stone.

For someone unfamiliar with the Houses of Healing, the ground plan might have seemed like a maze; Lothíriel, however, could have found her way blindfolded. She hopped easily off a raised walkway, disregarding the steps ten yards away. Her pace was brisk, partly because she wasn’t used to walking slowly, partly because she wanted to make certain of catching Amrothos before he disappeared from her reach.

Crossing the forecourt toward the ornamental entrance gate of the Houses of Healing, she found the gatekeeper dozing on his bench.

“Arom.”

Even though she had addressed him softly, the old man jolted out of his nap and came to his feet too quickly. He swayed slightly, trying to blink off the sleep.

“Mistress, what may I do for you?”

“In case somebody asks for me, I am going up to the Citadel but will be back for the night.”

“Very well, my Lady.”

Lothíriel felt a brief stirring of irritation. Her station might be ignored most of the time within the domain of the healers; but forgotten it was not.

She let Arom open the gate for her, but hadn’t gone half a dozen steps outside when she stopped abruptly. Amrothos was coming down the paved lane, still in his riding clothes, carrying a rather large hamper.

“As you can see, it is not so easy to get rid of me,” he called out. “I am determined to give a good performance as an attentive brother after all.”

That could be considered a threat. Well, here came the Amrothos everyone loved and feared.

“What will this performance look like?” Lothíriel asked, eyes glinting in amusement.

“Perhaps we could just talk.” He came to a halt in front of her.

Was this thought transference? “Talk about what?”

“Nothing in particular.” He shifted the obviously heavy hamper from his left to his right arm.

“Nothing is not very promising,” Lothíriel pointed out.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.”

“I hope that is not true. I was on my way to the Citadel to look for you. I also want to talk to you. I need some advice.”

“That is convenient.” Amrothos cocked his head. “I am in possession of a great deal of good advice. It is given to me regularly by our father, our brothers and plenty of other people. All for free. I always pass it on generously. It is the only sensible thing to do with it.”

“Then let us hope we will find some answers, within this wealth of wisdom, which fit my questions.”

“I did not say anything about wisdom. Just an accumulation of pieces of advice.” He put the hamper down at his feet. “I have never taken the trouble to organize them in any way.”

“Somehow that does not surprise me,” Lothíriel replied. “What is this?” she asked gesturing at the hamper.

“Food! I thought we could find us a place somewhere in the gardens. Eat; drink; have a nice brother to sister heart-to-heart.”

“And you thought food would be a good addition to such a chat?”

“Indispensable! Whenever you have a serious talk it should involve food. As long as you have something in your mouth, you – as a well bred person - are not compelled to answer right away. That gives you time to think about an evasion.”

Lothíriel sighed silently. This was not going to be easy. Dealing with Amrothos was like trying to sculpt fog. But she had the advantage of surprise on her side; of that she was certain.

“Where would you like to go?” she asked. “Back to the Citadel gardens?”

“Most certainly not!” He gave the hamper a kick with his pointed toe. “This bugger is heavy. I am not hauling it up to the Citadel again. At least not before we have eaten all the stuff inside.”

“Very well. Then come with me. I know just the place.”

She turned to walk back to the gates. Arom was still standing outside, clearly having watched the Princess and the Prince of Dol Amroth with unmistakeable curiosity.

“Me again,” announced Amrothos cheerfully, stating the obvious to the old gatekeeper, who was probably trying to figure out just which of the princes was standing in front of him.

Amrothos gestured Lothíriel to precede him through the gate. “Lead the way. This is your turf.”

She went in front of him, crossing the forecourt again and walking through an arcade. The arcade led down to the outer wall which protected the sixth level of the city. It was more than the double height of a man. There she turned right, following a gravel path running parallel to the wall. Behind her she could hear Amrothos  puffing.

“Wherever you are going? Do you think we will reach it before sunset?”

Lothíriel slanted him a look over her shoulder. “Are you telling me the great Swan Knight is overtaxed by carrying a mere basket? Do you want me to take it?”

Amrothos muttered something under his breath that she wasn’t able to understand; probably a curse he didn’t want her to hear. But the puffing did stop.

Finally they reached the end of the garden, a secluded part Lothíriel particularly loved. Here narrow stone steps led up to the crown of the wall, which was as wide as it was high. From one side the place was shielded by the treetops of the gardens, to the other they had a magnificent view over the lower levels of the city down across the Anduin towards Emyn Arnen.

Amrothos had put down the hamper, letting his eyes roam the landscape.

“Beautiful.” For once there was nothing but appreciation in his voice. But he recovered quickly. “Now let me present the culinary pleasures I lugged to this remote spot by the sweat of my brow.”

He went down on one knee beside his treasures and took out the blanket that he had stuck under the handle. He shook it out and Lothíriel caught the opposite edges. Together they laid it down. He handed his sister a starched table cloth, which she spread above the blanket and he began to pull out dishes of various food: a crusty loaf of white bread, drumsticks roasted in honey, thin sliced cold roast beef, a quarter of a large cheese and ham pie, potted shrimps, smoked salmon, a strong smelling cheese loaf, olives, small date and walnut cakes. The hamper also contained a couple of plates, plus goblets, cutlery and two corked flagons.

Lothíriel viewed the range with raised eyebrows. “Do you expect some more guests to join us?”

“No. It is just you and me.”

“Amrothos, you could feed half a company of starved men with this.” She knelt down on the blanket. “How did you manage to have it all prepared in such a short time?”

“I have established very good relations with the Citadel’s kitchen.” Amrothos poured some wine in one of the goblets.

“Indeed?” Lothíriel said slowly, watching her brother; weighing him up. This might be the chance of an opening. Trying to sound casual, she asked, “Did you seduce a kitchen maid?”

There was a short startled pause. Amrothos blinked in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

Taking a seat, Lothíriel pretended innocence for the moment. She folded her legs elegantly at her side and arranged her skirts. She directed her large, candid eyes towards her bother who glanced at her as if something green had grown out of her nose.

“The relations you established with the kitchen; would they be in the form of a maid you seduced?”

“Excuse me!” he snarled. “I am not in the habit of seducing kitchen maids.”

“No? Why not?” Lothíriel saw his flabbergasted stare, and added, “If not kitchen maids, then whom do you habitually seduce?”

Amrothos plopped down onto his bottom to sit down crossed-legged, looking more than just a little stunned. She could have laughed out loud at the expression on his face.

“Lothíriel, have you taken one of your potions which did not agree with you?” He looked outright worried.

His sister sighed in frustration. That was exactly what she had feared. “Double standards,” she said accusingly, pointing a finger at him.

“What?” He groped for his goblet, raised it and took a gulp of the wine.

“I ask you a question, which - I have no doubts - you would not mind discussing at some length with Erchirion. But because it is me who asks, then you think some substance must have interfered with my brain.”

He took another - very deep - gulp of his wine and sat back, supporting himself on one hand, eyeing her with growing bewilderment. “I can assure you that it is not a subject our brother and I usually discuss at any length.”

“I am certain that is because both of you know everything about it. I do not.”

“You do not need to know anything about it,” he pointed out. Judging by his expression he was himself surprised by the arrogant know-all manner of his tone, truly worth of Elphir.

“But I want to,” Lothíriel declared in all simplicity.

He stared at her as if she had just announced that she wished a warg as a pet. “Why all of a sudden, for the love of the Valar?” he nearly yelled. Somehow it was an unexpectedly satisfying feeling to have Amrothos for once startled out of his lazy imperturbability.

“I need to know how the mind of a man works. – Generally!” she replied, reaching for a plate and a fork.

“What for? I - as a man - would never pretend there is a need to know a female mind. I do not believe it to be necessary.”

“But you . . . deal with women every day,” she pointed out, “therefore you should be in possession of some knowledge about them.” She began loading food on her plate.

Amrothos decided to follow her example, pronging a drumstick.

“I know just the bare necessities about females as such; the simple bare necessities. I know what they look like.”

“That is indeed bare.”

He shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “That is all you need to know about the opposite gender, believe me. You must only be able to identify them,” he stated matter–of-factly.

“I have considerable doubts that that is enough when you are suppose to wed,” Lothíriel observed wryly.

Amrothos let out a bark of laughter at that, surprising his sister “Ah!” He shot her an amused glance. “Now I understand. You do not want to know about the male mind in general, but about Éomer.”

“He is a man, is he not?”

“So, you have noticed?” He gave her a slow smile and raised his eyebrows mockingly.

Lothíriel shoved some bread into her mouth to gain time for a reply, following Amrothos’s earlier advice. She couldn’t let him get the upper hand in this conversation. It was easier to nail a pudding to a wall than to get a sensible answer to anything out of him when he was in his usual state of mind. She nearly groaned. She was so out of her league!

“That cannot be overlooked,” she finally answered, aiming for nonchalance. “I do recognize the difference between the genders. After all, I am a healer.”

“But your knowledge is more of the theoretical kind,” Amrothos grinned, cutting off a generous bite of salmon and forking it into his mouth.

What a dumb presumption! She had treated dozens upon dozens of men over the past months. If that didn’t count as practical experience.

“On the contrary. I can assure you, my knowledge is of the most practical kind.”

Amrothos started to choke. He must have inhaled the whole piece of salmon. His face turned red and his eyes watered. Lothíriel watched him slightly alarmed and was about to put her plate aside and get up to assist him, when he smacked the heel of his fist forcefully against his breastbone, sending a large pinkish lump sailing across the blanket. It narrowly missed his sister’s ear.

Lothíriel frowned. “Really, Amrothos. Could you not have put your other hand over your mouth?”

Amrothos was still coughing violently. Carefully he put down the plate he held in the other hand, slanting his sister a threatening glance.

“It will help if you take a sip of wine,” Lothíriel advised pragmatically.

Her brother took the advice and drained his goblet.

“At the risk of repeating another man’s words,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Do you always understand everything you say?”

Lothíriel just raised her shoulders questioningly.

Amrothos cleared his throat. “Of what practical kind is your experience with men?”

“You do know what I am doing,” she answered impatiently. “I have been treating all those wounded men for months.”

“Ah, yes!” her brother exhaled with what could not be described as other than deep relief. “You were talking about your work as a healer. For a moment I was afraid those practical experiences of yours had something to do with our dear Éomer.”

Without forewarning Lothíriel was ambushed by the mental picture of a certain sleeping warrior in a bath tub – a very pleasant view – and she blushed.

Having watched her closely Amrothos groaned, his just relaxed expression changing into one commonly seen by men with severe toothache. “Lothíriel, please tell me this is another misunderstanding and the bright pink of your face does not mean you have done something . . . I would rather not know about.”

Belatedly catching up with the entire meaning of Amrothos’s inferences, the colour of her cheeks deepened by several shades, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Amrothos!” she strangled out with difficulty. “What makes you think . . .? How can you . . . ?” She was at a loss of words. “I have not done . . . anything.” Her voice trailed off, images resurfacing uninvited: the treatment chamber; a firm mouth; demanding hands; a hard body. Involuntarily honest she added: “Almost.”

“Almost?” Amrothos’s voice was a good half octave higher than usual. He grabbed the wine flagon and filled up his goblet. He downed the contents of the silver drinking vessel in one and then stared into it. “When this is over,” he muttered, “I am most certainly going to be drunk.” He glanced at his sister.

Lothíriel was very much occupied with banishing all those bewildering memories, with their possible connotations, from the fore of her mind when she felt his penetrating gaze. She realized she had wandered into treacherous territory. It would be a wise thing to retreat to safer ground. But newly discovered, decidedly more daring elements of her nature lured her forward. She looked up, her eyes far steadier than her heart, and raised her brows audaciously.

“What,” Amrothos asked after an unnerving pause, “comprises almost?”

“Nothing you would not have done in broad daylight,” she replied promptly.

For a moment stunned again Amrothos searched her eyes, which were looking at him, innocent and provocative at the same time. At last his sense of absurdity won and he grinned.

“And what do you know about what I have done in broad daylight?” he mocked her.

She tried to look brazen, but her cheeks were starting to turn pink again. “Cease treating me as if I were an imbecile. If I am ignorant about certain things in life then it is only because nobody cares to explain them to me.”

“Nobody cares to talk to you about those things because they are of no consequence to you.”

“And who has made the decision on what is of consequence to me and what is not?” Lothíriel demanded, using her fork to point at her brother.

“Do not ask me such complicated questions.” Amrothos groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “Anyway, I am most certainly not the one who will explain anything regarding this subject to you.”

“And who will do it then? Elphir?”

“Elphir?” Amrothos just snorted. “You plan to ask Elphir? Well, good luck. I say he would rather jump off the Bastion than to answer any questions that will offend his sense of propriety, especially regarding you.”

“Precisely!” she pointed out triumphantly. “And therefore you will talk to me now.”

“Well, excuse me! I must have already had too much wine because I cannot follow you. Why should I do such a thing?”

She waved his objection away with an elegant swing of her fork. “Not long ago you said when you find yourself in a certain position, you ask yourself what would Elphir do? And then you do the opposite! So, in this situation - let me ask that as a purely rhetorical question - what would Elphir do?”

“I did say that?” Amrothos sensed his defeat. “Sweet Elbereth,” he muttered, “I think it is about time I took notes about all the nonsense I deliver. It begins to haunt me.”

Lothíriel raised one shoulder in a graceful movement. “So, what is it? Are you going to stay true to your word or are you going to turn into another Elphir?”

“You mean I have the choice between a mountain troll and a cave troll?” he growled. “Is Father aware of the fact that he is handing Rohan a dangerous negotiator?”

“I am flattered,” Lothíriel said wryly. “But no further evasions, if you please.”

Amrothos stuck out his lower lip and blew the strands of his hair from his forehead. Then he chuckled and parted his hands, palms outwards in a gesture of defeat, surrendering to the inevitable

“Very well, what would you like to discuss?”

Lothíriel put her plate aside and reached under her tunic to pull out the letter from her belt. It was thoroughly crumpled.

“Ah, the love letter.” Amrothos picked up his fork, twirling it between his long fingers. Having come to terms with his sister’s determination in this matter, the deliberately provoking look of innocence had returned to his features.

“If this were a love letter I would hardly pass it around to be read.”

“You mean you gave it to somebody else beside your favourite brother?”

“If you want to be re-established in that position you have to behave very, very well this evening.” Amrothos just rolled his eyes and she continued, more seriously, “I want you to read this and tell me what you think; for I am not certain if I have not misinterpreted its contents.”

Her brother stretched out his hand and took the letter from her. But instead of unfolding the parchment he dropped it beside him, reached for the second goblet and filled it with wine. He offered it to Lothíriel.

“Here, drink up,” he ordered.

“Have you got a bad feeling about this? Are trying to get me drunk?”

He looked at Lothíriel, his eyes crinkling at the edges with a suppressed smile. “Not drunk, I mean not rolling drunk. But if I have learnt one thing, then it is that many things in life are much better confronted in a slightly inebriated condition.”

Lothíriel wasn’t sure what to do with this piece of wisdom. “You are not a very good influence on me.”

Amrothos chuckled a little.“I doubt that I am a good influence on anyone. At least that is what I am determined to avoid.”

“And you are not very encouraging,” her mouth twisted ironically.

“You feel you need courage?”

To that Lothíriel knew the answer without first having to think about it. “Yes,” she sighed.

“That came out of the soles of your feet,” Amrothos commented wryly. He took the letter, studying it. “Impressive seal,” he stated, unfolding the parchment and beginning to read.

Lothíriel sipped at her wine, watching him over the rim of her goblet. He couldn’t have read more than half a dozen lines when he snorted.

“And I always thought only our tutors had us practising those abominable idioms. Looks like the royal offspring of Rohan did not escape similar exercises.”

“At first I presumed it might have been written by a scribe.”

“No, it is his own script,” Amrothos said without hesitating or looking up from his reading.

“How do you know that?”

“I once saw a roll written by him.”

“How did you come by a roll written by the King of Rohan?”

“He left it in the Great Library.”

“What were you doing at the Great Library?”

“I followed your dear king.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“What is this? A cross-examination?” Amrothos asked, and they locked eyes for a heartbeat before their laughter overtook them. He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head and continued, “Lothíriel, one day this irresistible urge of yours to ask questions will land you in dire straits.”

“Only if you ask questions will you avoid staying ignorant,” she protested.

“As long as you get the answers.”

“May I remind you that you agreed to give me those answers.”

Amrothos tilted his face heavenward and began moving his lips.

“What are you doing?” Lothíriel asked with a surprised giggle.

“I am pleading to whatever deity may be listening that you will refrain from asking those questions.”

“I am deeply sorry, favourite brother, but I can assure you, those deities are not listening today.” Lothíriel took a gulp of her wine, conjuring an innocent expression, while her brother just snorted in response.

Amrothos let his eyes return to the letter, sighing in dramatic resignation. But then he suggested in a completely normal voice – well, at least normal for Amrothos: “Eat something with the wine, Lothíriel, or I will have to drag not only the hamper out of these gardens.”

She followed this advice, put her goblet aside and helped herself to a piece of pie and some green olives. She popped one into her mouth and followed it by some light, creamy pie.

“So, why did you follow Éomer King into the Great Library?” Lothíriel asked through a mouthful of food, for once disregarding all good manners.

Amrothos ignored her, keeping his eyes on the parchment, finishing his reading. The contents seemed to be fascinating, because he had his brows drawn together in contemplation. Finally he put it down beside him. A gentle breeze was caressing the crown of the wall. To prevent the parchment from being blown away he secured it by placing the earthen dish with the potted shrimps on it.

As if he had all time in the world he broke a piece from the loaf of bread and selected some more food to put onto his plate. Lothíriel watched him with growing impatience. But if Amrothos chose to play the little game of ‘how to drive your sister crazy’ there was no point in letting herself fall for the bait. It would only play into his hands.

He poured himself some more wine, his eyes searching for another dish he might fancy. They came to rest on the small bowl of olives in front of Lothíriel.

“Do you intend to keep them all for yourself?”

She wanted to pass them on wordlessly but just couldn’t restrain herself any longer.

“Well?”

Amrothos pronged a slice of roast beef, put it into his mouth and took his time to finish chewing it, all the while looking innocently at his sister. After taking a couple of sips of his wine he said, “During the preliminaries to Elessar’s coronation, whilst we were all lazing around here in the city, one day I saw dear Éomer ambling towards the Great Library.”

Lothíriel stifled a sigh. Of course she had asked him about his earlier remark, but right now she wasn’t really interested in an explanation. She rather wished he would tell her what he thought about the letter. But there was point in trying to stir him towards that matter. It would only lead him to hum and haw about it.

Amrothos selected an olive with care, popped it into his mouth and chewed thoroughly. Only after having it swallowed he carried on.

“I thought he might have got lost and – good-hearted as I am - intended to offer my assistance to return to the right path. I mean, why should he seek out the library? After all, he does not appear to be the studious type or a secret lover of poetry. And I was right. He was looking for some plans or descriptions of the construction and later repair of the Súthburg, or Hornburg as it is now called. He jotted down what he required and left it with the archivist.”

“And you read it?”

“Of course. The roll was just lying around there. That is how I came to be able to identify his script. So, yes, this letter was written by your King himself.”

He tapped with a finger on the parchment beside him. When his knuckles came in contact with the small bowl he had placed there earlier he looked down.

“Ah, the shrimps. I knew I had seen some.”

He replaced the dish with a small knife as a paperweight. He dug into the bowl with his fork, fishing out a single shrimp. Slanting his sister one of his more serious glances he said pensively, “I think you have understood the contents of this letter quite well. This is an official proposal, thought-out and adorned with the State Seal. You are expected to consent or to refuse.”

He gave the shrimp on the tip of his fork his full attention, whilst continuing. “If you refuse his proposal, no matter what his agreements with Father, he will not hold you to it. He will not insist upon a union. He will refuse a union without your consent. He is giving you the choice and this choice is now yours alone.” 

He put the shrimp into his mouth, savouring its taste. Slowly his expression turned into one of pure mirthful malice. “You can cause a lot of trouble,” he stressed, happily contemplating that possibility.

Lothíriel couldn’t help laughing at the mere tone of his voice.

“And you would love to stand by watching me causing trouble.” Her expression turned sober. She tossed the fork onto her plate with a clatter and then she said something she would have never thought she dared to voice, “He would deserve it.”

“Father?” Amrothos put the shrimps down, eyeing his sister with a look of mingled sympathy and amusement. “Lothíriel, we have a loving but ruthless father. He is used to getting what he wants, and he is not always particular about the way he chooses to reach what he aims for. But when it comes to his children you have to grant him, that as a rule, he has the best of intentions. Of course, it would be preferable if he asked those children from time to time what their wishes are.”

Below the ironical tone Lothíriel sensed a hint of bitterness, and nothing could have surprised her more. Her brother was supposed to have a skin as hard as mithril. Nothing ever got under it. She had always assumed behind this armour Amrothos lived a careless and deliberately feckless life. Before she had the chance to ponder about this rare insight into his true nature, her brother continued.

“But this is not about what Father deserves – or what trouble I would like you to cause him – this is about your wishes.”

Her wishes. She had wanted to have a choice. That had been given to her by Éomer. Now she had to make it, truly make it. When she had read the letter first, she had seen Éomer’s proposal as a graceful gesture, rather a mere formality with which he wished to express that she mattered. But Amrothos was right. He had given her a genuine choice. If she refused not even Imrahil of Dol Amroth would be able to induce Éomer to wed her. Now she had to decide what she wanted. Now she had to be honest with herself.

Amrothos watched her over the rim of his goblet.

“You are not indifferent to him.” It was not a question. Lothíriel shook her head, looking down at her own empty vessel.

“Would you mind being confronted by a purely hypothetical question?” Amrothos asked incidentally and went on without a pause in a rather chatty tone. “Could it be that you have fallen in love with Éomer?”

A stunned silence descended. Lothíriel’s first reaction was a vehement denial but she realised at the same moment that it would probably be the first time ever that she had lied to herself. But what was the truth? Not necessarily the opposite. The truth was . . . .

“I do not know.”

She thought she saw scepticism in Amrothos’s gaze.

“I do not know,” she repeated. “I do not know how it should feel to be in love.” She wrinkled her nose. “My frame of reference is somewhat limited.”

The corner of Amrothos’s mouth curved slightly at her suddenly surprisingly wry tone. He glanced at his sister. “That is reassuring to know.”

“Amrothos, could it be that you are just another hypocrite?”

“Probably, but I am certainly not worse than the rest of our society.”

He uncorked the second flagon and refilled Lothíriel’s goblet. She watched him, asking herself if she really should have more wine. But Amrothos might be right after all. Perhaps certain questions should be decided best in a state of mild inebriety. Thoughts appeared to form themselves much more clearly.

“How am I supposed to know what my wishes are, if I do not know why he wishes me to be his wife? I mean other than Father having somehow forced him to consent” she added, averting her eyes and playing absentmindedly with a piece of bread.

Amrothos smiled and raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Ah! Now we finally come to the question of how a man’s mind works.” He paused for a moment and took another sip from his own refilled goblet. Putting it down, he raised his hand. He ticked off points on his fingers. “First and foremost I doubt very much that there is a man in the whole of Middle-Earth who is able to force Éomer King into doing something he is opposed to. And secondly, regarding the question of why he should want to wed you; well, let it put me this way.” He took another meaningful pause before he continued, lips twitching. “If I see a cat watching a bird then I know what the cat wants to do with that bird.”

His grin widened when he saw the bewildered expression on Lothíriel’s face.

“That night during the welcoming feast at Merethrond, after Erchirion rescued you from the terrace - I wondered how he managed to have a remotely intelligent conversation with Father and King Elessar. He was hardly able to keep his eyes off you. It is surprising enough that the food found its way to his mouth via the fork.”

His words seemed to remind him of his own cutlery and he took up his plate and fork and devoted himself to his food again, which did not prevent him from continuing.

“And Erchirion and I were not the only ones who noticed. Father did as well. He interrogated us the next morning even before giving the sun the chance to rise. I would say that that was the day he formed the idea that dear Éomer would make an ideal husband.”

At his words Lothíriel’s hand stopped on its way to her plate. Instead she took up her goblet. “What did you tell Father?”

A wicked glint appeared in Amrothos’s eyes. “The truth.” He watched her speculatively. “That is if we are allowed to assume that Erchirion and I were not subject to some invented story when you explained where and under what circumstances you met your king.”

Lothíriel felt her face grow warm, remembering those circumstances. That night she had blushed, and that had been a first in a very long time, but since then it had become a rather annoying and not suppressible habit. “I did not lie to you,” she stressed, hiding her face behind the goblet.

Amrothos let out a low chuckle. “No, you did not lie; you did revise.”

“If you felt I had not given you a full summary, why haven’t you said anything?” she challenged.

“You mean me; or Father; or Erchirion? Or all three of us?” Amrothos had perfected his innocent look long ago. She should take lessons.

“Anybody. All of you.”

“Well, Erchirion probably thought it best to just leave it,” he mused. “Father probably thought it didn’t matter, because he was planning to wed you to him anyway. And I thought that your king has probably applied to himself the same rules as I have.”

“Cease calling him my king. And what rules are you talking about?”

“General rules about women.”

Men applied to themselves generally acknowledged rules about women?

“What are those rules?”

He barely managed to suppress a groan. “They are of no consequence to you in detail. Let us just say that you belong to the sort of females that a man without serious intentions had better give a wide berth or he might get into trouble – especially,” Amrothos raised his forefinger for emphasis, “when three brothers and a not to be underestimated father are involved.”

“What you are trying to tell me is that I am not the sort of woman a man usually finds ....”  She struggled with herself to use this particular word. It was hard to admit it even to herself but that was what she wanted to be – to Éomer. “. . . desirable.” She got it out on a cushion of her breath.

“That is not a question you should ask your brother.” Amrothos said with one of his crooked half-smiles. “But I think you were not listening to me carefully when I mentioned the cat and the bird.”

The cat and the bird? She wasn’t certain she wanted to be caught, chewed and swallowed – not to mention digested.

He had paused for a moment, seemingly trying to carefully word what he was about to say. Finally, he decided to be blunt. “I should not be saying this, but . . . oh, bugger.” He threw up both hands dramatically. “Éomer wants you. And you are the sort of woman one has to wed before one can have. So if he is willing to make you his wife in order to get you, then he must want you very badly.”

That was certainly a claim she had to think about. She reached for the wine flagon and was slightly quicker than Amrothos who watched her with a mixture of mirth and concern when she refilled her goblet once again.

“What comprises this ‘want’?”

“Lothíriel, do not force me to spell it out, or I may start blushing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a look on his face that could mean he was going to burst out in tears or in a fit of laughter at any moment. It was the last. It was one of his very own self-mocking giggles. He had one eye closed when he looked at her.

“For the love of the Valar, you must have an idea what happens between a man and a woman.”

“Well, I have a fairly good idea what happens, but where my imagination fails is the how.”

The why had also mystified her in the past but had gotten its explanation when she had found herself pressed between a wall and a hard body. She took a gulp of her wine.

“And at this point we let your imagination fail until your husband illuminates it.”

“That is not fair. Why should men know everything while women are just left ignorant?” she asked sulkily. Sweet Elbereth, she never sulked.

Amrothos’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

“Lothíriel, when was the last time you had that much wine to drink?”

“I usually do not drink any wine at all.”

“That is what I was afraid of. Eat some more.” He gestured towards the still plentifully available food. “If Father ever learns about this lovely get-together, he is most certainly going to tar and feather me,” he muttered.

Obediently Lothíriel took up her plate.

“But I suppose the lady you are involved with is not ignorant.”

“What do you know about . . . How do you know about my involvements?”

Lothíriel just raised her fork and pointed it at her right ear.

“You are listening to gossip?”

“If you are not deaf it sometimes cannot be avoided.”  She pondered if she should ask him about one more piece of gossip she had overheard and which had not necessarily bothered her but had made her curious. “They say that this certain lady, before she became involved with you, had been involved with Éomer.”

Her brother gazed at her thoughtfully, searching her large, guileless eyes. He shook his head. “That does not mean anything. It is not of your concern.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how many things are not of my concern or are of no consequence to me, not even a lady who was romantically involved with the man I am supposed to wed.”

Amrothos snorted. “There was no romantic involvement. It was a liaison.”

“What is the difference?”

“A liaison is not about romance.”

“But . . . ?”

“Pardon?”

“If it is not about romance, what is it about?”

Amrothos pulled a face, probably wishing he were right now rather with his liaison than with a sister who suffered from a misdirected thirst for knowledge, and an unaccustomed thirst for wine. The combination of the two was proving quite troublesome. But he wouldn’t have been Amrothos if his quirky sense of humour hadn’t won the upper hand and he searched his vocabulary for a proper, non-offensive answer to her question.

“Carnal gratification,” he finally enlightened her.

“Oh,” said Lothíriel, as she thought about it. She frowned. If she understood these reluctantly given explanations correctly, then a man’s desire was not necessarily only for one woman, but rather some urge that men felt for women in general.

“I do not like this ‘Oh’. Whenever you use this ‘Oh’ you have come to a conclusion, but not necessarily the right one.”

“Oh?”

He gazed at her in a most amused manner. “I did not want to give the impression with my wording that Éomer indiscriminately goes after any female.”

“As you do?”

He looked slightly taken aback. “Well, excuse me. Even I have my standards. Nevertheless, what I am trying to say is that your future husband does not chase women. He does not have to. Somehow he reminds me of Aunt Ivriniel’s carnivorous plants.”

Lothíriel gave him a faintly bemused look. “Aunt Ivriniel keeps carnivorous plants?”

“Yes. In her hothouses.”

“Does Father know that?”

“I do not know.” His expression settled into a frown. “I rather suppose not. He never goes into the hothouses. He does not like the boa.”

“I am not surprised. She gives me the creeps.”

“He.”

“Pardon?”

“He. The boa is a ‘he’. His name is Denethor.”

“I am not surprised,” Lothíriel said again. “Aunt Ivriniel never made a secret out of her dislike for her sister’s husband.”

The siblings looked at each other, afflicted by the same uneasy memories about an uncle they both had not particularly liked. In her years at the Houses of Healing Lothíriel had met the then Steward of Gondor less than a dozen times. Her aunt wasn’t that far off. His cold eyes had reminded her of a reptile.

Aunt Ivriniel and her weird menagerie. Carnivorous plants seemed rather harmless in comparison to some of the other members of it.

Lothíriel sighed, looking at the smoke drifting lazily up from a chimney of one of the houses on the level below. There was something else she had wanted to ask. The wine no longer cleared her thoughts but had somehow dulled them. What had she wanted to know? Right, Amrothos’s peculiar comparison. 

“Why does Éomer reminds you of a meat eating plant?”

“They are not precisely meat eating,” he pointed out. “I mean you do not have to feed them mice or chicks. Actually, they are quite beautiful. They just sit there in their pots and wait for a smitten fly to come close and then . . . snap.”

“Do I have to understand that metaphor?” Lothíriel asked indulgently.

Amrothos remained silent for a moment, studying her with an unnerving glint in his eyes. When he spoke he did so deliberately slowly and comprehensibly. 

“What I am trying to explain to you is that Éomer does not have to take great pains when it comes to women. They come to him and he can pick out whoever he fancies.” He pointed with his chin at his sister. “You have fallen for the very same appeal. Unsurprisingly, as you are just a woman after all. Or surprisingly, as you have gone through the first 20 years of your life being blissfully unaware of the opposite gender.” He frowned mockingly.  “Well, at least I think so.” Picking up some crumbs from his sleeve he went on. “What is even more surprising is that your . . . that in return the King of Rohan has fallen for you. And if I am still able to interpret the clues that I get from a fellow human male correctly, then it has caught him totally unawares.” He shot her a wide, waggish grin. “You can meet on equal terms. You are confused; he is bewildered. Hence, you make the perfect couple.”

Lothíriel was undecided if she should take offence at Amrothos’s assessment that the biggest surprise in the whole affair was that Rohan’s King might have been affected by her. Fallen for her, as he had phrased it. In that case Éomer’s unrestrained kisses had to be regarded as an indicator that he wanted her; even desired her? She sighed. She was still confused. This conversation with Amrothos had given her only a few useful answers but brought up many more questions. That was very dissatisfying.

But what she knew with certainty was that she wanted to consent to the proposal; she wanted to become Éomer’s wife. She wanted those feelings back. The ones she had been captured by when he had held her in his arms. Even that frightfully disorientating feeling of passion. And she wanted to know where it would take her . . . them.

Belatedly, she realized that Amrothos had resumed talking.

“. . . your annoying obstinacy and his well-known temper will be quite an interesting combination. You are not only going to be partners in life, you are going to be sparring partners.” He grinned like a little boy who had just been promised unrestricted access to all the sweets in Middle-earth.

“The future will be far from being dull.”

TBC