The morning after the picnic she had shared with Amrothos on the crown of the city wall Lothíriel woke up early. She woke with a headache; not a severe headache – after all, she had drunk only wine – but a recognizable one nonetheless. In addition her stomach felt slightly queasy. Therefore she came to the conclusion that whilst a certain inebriety might widen the capacity of thought for a short while, it was not enough to justify this lingering indisposition the morning after.

She hadn’t had slept well. First her thoughts had refused to cease spinning around in her head like an overplayed child’s coloured top, and when sleep had finally claimed her, weird and muddled dreams had stopped her from falling into a deep, restful slumber. She couldn’t remember much of those fragmented images flashing up from her subconscious, but she thought there had been a burping flower and an amber furred cat picking feathers out of its fangs.

Lothíriel had to force herself to go through her morning routines. Well, not the teeth cleaning. That actually was the first thing she did when she got up from the narrow bed in her chamber at the Houses of Healing. She had an awful acid taste on her tongue. Despite the mild nausea she felt she couldn’t help grinning - as the action of using her finger to move the wool ball over her teeth evoked memories of a month ago. The sight of a coughing and retching Éomer had been quite comical, and the fact that he had been wearing only his breeches, a more pleasant than embarrassing surprise. Before she had addressed him she had allowed herself to revel briefly in the sight of his half naked body. He had a beautiful back, almost sculptural. She wasn’t quite sure if beautiful was the right word to describe the appearance of a battle-hardened warrior. The use of that adjective had always implied something soft and feminine, but there was definitely nothing soft or feminine about Éomer of Rohan. She wouldn’t however, have known what other word to assign to him. He had, without a doubt, very beautiful eyes and a beautiful mouth and beautiful hair. His bearing, though, was less beautiful. That she would describe rather . . .  as interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Combing her hair came close to an ordeal. Last night she had just undone her plaits and then loosely braided it again into the single one she commonly wore for the night. She had been too tired to comb it, and now it was thoroughly tangled. Every single brush stroke hurting her scalp, just as if someone pressed a pin-cushion against it – one with lots of needles in it. She decided against the torture of braiding it tightly back from her temples to get it out of her face. A single plait from the nape of her neck would have to do for today. After all, it was not as if there was a specific instruction to the healers on how to wear their hair. But she had always found it convenient to have it arranged in a style which prevented any strands from escaping from underneath the veil.

Lothíriel selected a clean gown and tunic from the chest and laid them out on her bed. She undid the drawstring around the neck of her chemise, removed the night time garment and put it into the basket next to the door. One of the washerwomen would collect any dirty clothing later.

That reminded her of a remark Amrothos had made the evening before, when she had accompanied him back to the gate. They had found the old gatekeeper in conversation with a young washerwoman who worked in the Houses of Healing. The serving wench was well known - even famous - for being very, very well endowed. Lothíriel had to admit that the extraordinary bust measurement was hard to miss but that was certainly not an excuse for Amrothos to stare so shamelessly. She had nudged her elbow under his ribs. But her brother had only given her a not in the least embarrassed grin and declared that he couldn’t help noticing - as he was simply not blind. And anyway, as she wished to understand the working of the male mind, she had to accept that a man cherished the sight of a healthy bosom.

Healthy? That had to be disputed. Lothíriel knew for certain that the poor woman suffered from constant back aches and from all the unwanted attention. But Amrothos had just laughed when she explained that to him.

Taking the grey linen gown from her bed she looked down her own nude front with a sigh. It would require a great deal of imagination to describe her bosom as healthy. She wasn’t built like a boy, but she had considerable doubts that she possessed attributes that would cause a man to look twice in the area directly below her neck. At least Éomer couldn’t delude himself. He should have a fairly good idea about her size.

Her stomach muscles tensed as not only her mind but her body remembered the intimate touch. Who would have guessed that such a bold caress would carve itself on her memory so indelibly. And that the memory wouldn’t make her uneasy but made her whole body tingle and crave for more, especially at night. And neither her own hands nor a tightly hugged pillow were an adequate substitute for what her body yearned for; definitely not a substitute for rough palms and for hard muscles under warm skin.

Coming out of her reverie and being slightly flustered by finding herself standing nude in the middle of her chambers, reminiscing, she quickly slipped on her gown and laced the side fastening. She wished she had remembered to ask Amrothos why he thought Éomer had – for the lack of a better word – fallen for her. Something must have caught his attention. She knew her features were quite appealing; she had a looking glass, after all. But the rest was rather . . . well, there was not much. What she hadn’t told Amrothos was that she had not only heard the gossip about his liaison but actually had seen him in the company of that certain female just a few days ago. The lady in question was the widow of a minor noble, very likely a few years older than Amrothos but undoubtedly gorgeous; the voluptuous type. Whichever deity had created her must have thought round at that very moment.

If that lady was visually the kind of woman Éomer would pick out from what was offered to him – Lothíriel couldn’t prevent herself from giving a disgusted snort; somehow that had an overtone of a cattle market – why should she, Lothíriel, have caught his eye? And if it weren’t her looks, could it have been something about her character? Her sweet nature? She gave another snort. Unlikely! If she remembered correctly – and she did remember correctly – then most of the time they had been at odds; quarrelling and arguing.

Looking at the whole affair objectively she couldn’t make out a sensible reason why Éomer should have found himself attracted to her. She should have had asked Amrothos what those clues had been that he had believed himself to have detected coming from Éomer. Probably some typical male thing she wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. If she had learnt one thing from her conversation with her brother, it was that women and men were not overly compatible in their way of thinking and feeling.

Putting on the tunic and leaving the veil off for today she stepped out of her chamber into an open archway. Usually she would have gone to the dining hall for the early meal but she doubted that her stomach would agree with having to accept any kind of food. Besides, she was not in the mood for company. Her mind was in far too reflective a mood to make polite conversation with her fellow healers. She found her way to the chamber where the dried herbs were stored. She selected some seeds from the milk thistle, dried mugwort and lavender and put them into an earthen mug. She carried these to the next treatment chamber, where a fire had already been lit in the small hearth. A cast-iron kettle was set on the hearth, from the spout of which was rising a steady trickle of steam. Picking up the kettle and wrapping a leather oven cloth around its handle she poured the hot water over the herbs. Now she had to let it draw for a while. The herbal tea would settle her stomach and ease her headache.

Lothíriel left the treatment chamber and sat down outside on the knee-high wall edging the open walkway. She leant her back against a pillar and put her feet up. Balancing the mug on her bent knees, she thought about how she would proceed in dealing with Éomer’s proposal. She would formulate her answer and send it to Edoras before her father had returned from Rohan. It had nothing to do with him. This was between her and Éomer.

She only had to find a way to have the letter delivered to Éomer. Messengers were sent out regularly to Rohan with correspondence for King Elessar and his Steward. They could take her answer. Erchirion would know to whom she had to hand it. Or perhaps it would be better if she asked Amrothos first. Sometimes Erchirion fell victim to reason and might possibly ask her to wait with her answer until their father returned.

This evening she would sit down in the library and phrase her reply to the proposal. That thought reminded her of the mess she left behind yesterday when she had rushed out to find Amrothos. Before she began her day’s work she had better go back and return the codices and scrolls to the places where they were usually kept. The Houses of Healing did not employ a librarian. The healers were expected to take care of their store of knowledge themselves. The Warden was known to get very angry if somebody did not treat those tomes and scriptures with uttermost care.

Lothíriel took a sip of her tea. The taste left quite a bit to be desired but the herbal brew would help her to quickly recover her usual well-being.

Swift, slightly shuffling footsteps were to be heard. Lothíriel turned her head to look over her shoulder to see who was approaching. At this time of the morning she had expected all the other healers to be in the wing housing the refectory. In the wards there were fewer than a dozen patients, none of them seriously sick. After all those months of working the whole day round the sudden slow pace was not just soothing but rather drowsy. But it was a welcome change for the healers to be able to sit down again for regular meals.

The person appearing from around the next corner was Ioreth, the oldest of the healers, a wise, capable and garrulous woman. Lothíriel sighed. She really liked Ioreth who had taught her so much, but her solitude was now definitely over.

Mistress Ioreth came to a halt directly next to her so that Lothíriel didn’t have a chance to get up courteously to great her. But the face of the old woman wasn’t that far above hers because Ioreth was short even for a female. Amrothos called her the cube, insisting that she had the same measurements in all directions.

“Well, well, well! Look who is sitting here all on her own. Our runt.”

Lothíriel frowned. Perhaps she didn’t like the old tittle-tattler that much after all.

With arms akimbo, Ioreth took a sniff of the herbal aroma rising from the mug in the younger healer’s hands.

“Milk thistle; mugwort; lavender. Well, well, well! Somebody has got a hangover. What did that pretty brother of yours pour into you?”

Despite her annoyance Lothíriel couldn’t help a short laugh. Being called pretty wouldn’t be to Amrothos’s liking at all. “He did not force the wine into me. I drank it all of my own free will.”

Without being asked – Ioreth considered herself too old to be inclined to being polite – she sat down across from Lothíriel and patted her knee, so that the younger woman had trouble saving her tea from being spilled. She put her feet quickly down on the floor.

“How do you know it was one of my brothers who provided the wine?” she asked.

“My dear child! How many years have you been living inside the walls of our domain? By now you should be aware that everything Arom knows everybody else knows.” Ioreth folded her chubby hands in her lap. “What he does not know, and what I would like to know, is why you felt the intake of too much wine necessary?”

Lothíriel’s eyebrows made a graceful arc. “You feel I drank for a specific reason?”

“I know none who does not, though the reasons are of a great variety.”

“But you will always find a few who say they do it for pure enjoyment,” the younger woman pointed out.

“They are those who either will not acknowledge their reason because they know themselves too well, or cannot acknowledge it because they do not know themselves at all.”

“And to which sort do I belong?”

“That depends entirely on your answer.”

Why should she answer the old chatterbox at all? Lothíriel sighed. On the other hand as the head of the healers Ioreth had a right to know why one of them was nursing a hangover that might interfere with her performance. Best to give her an honest reply. She was certainly garrulous, but she was not a gossip.

“I drank the wine because my brother advised me that certain situations in life are much better confronted under a mild influence of spirits.”

“What a stupid thing to say, especially because he knows it is stupid.” Ioreth crossed her arms under her ample breasts. “So, tell me! What certain situation made you wish to be inebriated – ever so slightly?” Seeing Lothíriel’s irritated expression she shrugged her shoulder dismissively. “Oh, I am nosey; I am unabashed; that is what everybody expects me to be. Now tell me your secret!”

“It is not a secret. Or better said: it is not supposed to be kept a secret. I would have to tell the Warden and you soon anyway. But the news came up only yesterday. I will have to leave the Houses of Healing. My father has betrothed me.”

“That was to be expected, now that the war is over,” the old healer stated matter-of-factly.

Lothíriel blinked in surprise. That reply was certainly much more indifferent than she would have assumed it to be. “Yes, I had to expect it. I just hoped my father was too occupied with other more important issues and the whole business would be delayed for a while.”

“What can be more important for a father than the future of his daughter?”

“In this case I wish he would have devoted less attention to said daughter,” Lothíriel replied in a wry tone.

The old woman tilted her head, her gaze becoming shrewd. “What are you wailing over? You are the daughter of the most powerful vassal of our King, a princess of the Realm of Gondor. Your journey through life was predetermined the day you were born. You have always known that.”

“I am not wailing,” Lothíriel insisted, suddenly putting a defensive note in her voice

“Well I hope not,” Ioreth replied unsympathetically. “You have no reason to. Your father is a good man who has always done everything to accommodate your wishes. When you went back to your coastal home after the death of your mother and said you would ask your father to let you return to the Houses of Healing to be educated in our art, I never thought that the Lord of Dol Amroth would give his only daughter his permission. But he did. You became a healer; a very good one. And you did a very fine job in all those months of darkness. But it is over now. Now you have to go and do your duty to your family and to your land. – Whom are you betrothed to, by the way?”

“The King of Rohan.”

“And you are complaining? You are fortunate indeed, child.” Ioreth declared. “When I first saw that man sitting at his sister’s bedside I thought that washed and polished he would make quite a sight. And when I saw him washed and polished later, I wished I were thirty years younger – better make that forty years.”

Lothíriel had to suppress a smile at that. “I am not complaining about being betrothed.” She paused a moment, wrestling with herself, before she continued. “I am not complaining about the man I am betrothed to. If I am complaining at all then it is about my father leaving me completely in the dark about his plans.”

“Child, you are a noblewoman. That brings many privileges and a few disadvantages. Do not tell me you would like to trade one for the other. That would be an insult to all those who do not have any privileges and many more disadvantages in life. I can spare no forbearance for those who complain they have to eat from golden plates,” the old woman added callously. She chuckled at the look of annoyance that crossed the young healer’s face despite her best efforts. “I have always considered you are practical and pragmatic, and you do know that certain things in life simply have to be accepted as facts.”

“I told you I am not complaining,” Lothíriel reminded her, “and I can accept facts where I see them. I am just upset about the way my father administered this affair.”

“Do you know his reason?”

“As he is still away from our city with King Elessar I have not had the chance to talk to him. He informed me, or rather my brother, about my betrothal by letter.”

“Then wait until he returns,” the old healer advised. “Do not judge and condemn him before you know his reasons.”

“He will tell me he did it in my best interests,” Lothíriel said, resentment in her voice.

“And you doubt that?” Ioreth looked at her questioningly.

“No, of course not, but . . . “

“You do not mind being betrothed to the King of Rohan; you know your father will always strive to do what is best for you. What is your problem, child?” Impatience dripped from the old woman’s voice.

Lothíriel sighed with exasperation. She was sighing much too often recently. “I have a voice of my own. I have a mind of my own. I wish to have a say in my affairs.”

“So it is a matter of principle?”

“Indeed,” Lothíriel admitted.

"Rubbish," came the brisk reply. “So much has been suffered and been brought down because of principles. Do not persist on principles. Better use your common sense. Has anything happened you are truly opposed to?”

She got to her feet without waiting for an answer and patted Lothíriel on her head like an obstinate dog. It didn’t help her headache and she had the feeling Ioreth knew that.

“Finish that herbal brew and clear your head. I’m going to talk to the Warden and tell him that you will not be on duty today. You have worked hard over the past months. Harder than many of the others. You are owed some time for yourself. And if your stomach has settled, eat an apple or two before trying any other food.”

With those words she shuffled away.

Wonderful! If she had understood Ioreth’s words correctly she had just been pronounced spoiled, ungrateful and unreasonable. And she had been given a free day to put at her own disposal. Lothíriel emptied her mug in three long gulps, and rose to her feet to return the earthen cup to the treatment chamber. Cleaning and drying it she put it back onto a shelf.

Was she spoiled? The life that she had known had provided many privileges indeed. She had lived in a beautiful castle above the sea, loved by her parents and three elder brothers, as well as being taken care of by uncountable servants. She was well aware that at an age when the children of the fishermen, the peasants and the craftsmen had already had to work to contribute to their family’s income, she had played with her dolls and pets and had received a thorough education from carefully chosen tutors. She had lived in a well padded world.

That world had changed when her mother had fallen ill, when she had to witness those awful choking fits which became worse and worse with every passing month. She had felt helpless and useless, not being able to do anything to relieve her mother’s suffering. When she had watched the healers, whose knowledge and art at least meant that they had been able to ease the pain and the agony, she had known what she wanted to do in her life. And yes, it had been a surprise that the Prince of Dol Amroth had permitted his daughter to seek an education from the healers. She acknowledged that she was grateful to her father for giving in to her deepest wish despite the many voices raised in concern and disapproval. But was she unreasonable when she expected to become involved in the decisions regarding her own future? Did the love and solicitousness her father had, without a single doubt, always bestowed upon her mean that she had to follow any scheme of his without a murmur, without a right to express her own opinion or objections? Did love come at a price? Had it to be rewarded?

If it had not been Éomer of Rohan or his proposal that granted her a will of her own, she most certainly would have had a whole bundle of objections. If it had not been Éomer of Rohan she would have loved to accommodate Amrothos’s wish and cause a lot of trouble.

Unfortunately her father had found her a husband she actually wished to wed so she could hardly refuse him just to teach the Lord of Dol Amroth a lesson.

Without having truly realized where she was heading Lothíriel found herself outside the library. She opened the door to enter and pulled a face at the high pitched creaking sound. It was time somebody oiled the hinges. Perhaps she would do it herself later today, after she had cleared away the codices and parchments and after she had finished answering the letter from Éomer. It would take some time to write it because she planned to phrase it quite carefully.

As much as she had appreciated the contents of his proposal, the tone should have been a little bit more personal and warm. She would make certain that her answer would be penned in a similar manner to his.

TBC