This was love at first sight, love everlasting: a feeling unknown, unhoped for,

unexpected - in so far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness;

it took entire possession of him, and he understood, with joyous amazement,

that this was for life.

(Thomas Mann 1875 – 1955)

Éomer pulled the door of his chamber shut behind him and, leaning his back against it, he finally allowed himself an audible chuckle. It was truly impressive how many arguments Lothíriel could produce when she set her mind to it and her brain to work. He wondered if she was simply able to come up with all those reasons just like that, or if she had truly given the matter profound consideration beforehand.

According to her explanation, riding came only seventh on the list of tasks she felt she had to tackle in her new station as Queen of the Riddermark. Had she really made such a list or was she just trying to prevaricate? Obviously not. She had been able to rattle through all the other deeds, ticking off the points on her fingers, without having to think about them. No doubt, Lothíriel believed in ‘be prepared’. And she certainly didn’t like it when somebody tampered with her planned agenda.

She had definitely not approved of his suggestion to Winfrith that the handmaiden should choose a riding-habit for her queen this morning. An amazingly fierce glare from those beautiful fawn eyes had told him that she strongly objected to him meddling in what she probably considered a rather female affair. But she also had a pretty good idea why he particularly wished her to wear such a outfit; meaning that he had taken note of her earlier reasoning but had no intention of conceding to it. It was advantageous that her upbringing as a proper Gondorian princess prevented her from emphatically expressing her displeasure with his – admittedly – heavy handed conduct in front of her handmaiden and within earshot of the other servants who were busy in the adjoining chamber.

It was just a question of how long propriety would maintain predominance over the temper that lay hidden under that polished mantle of serenity and poise. And it was there. A woman did not respond to a man’s lovemaking the way Lothíriel had responded to him last night without a true fervid temper simmering inside her, just waiting to erupt. She might not know yet what to do with it; she might not even know yet that she possessed it, but he had sensed it as early as the day he had kissed her the first time. On that day her reaction had surprised him; the depth of her sensuality combined with her pure innocence. Back then, he had realised that her response to him must have frightened her. No wonder, as it must have contradicted all the moral values and the sense of decency she had been brought up to comply with.

But the same values – or Lothíriel’s very own interpretation of them - now told her that she didn’t have to hold back anything from her husband in any way. Physically she had – after her initial nervousness - responded to him with abandon, and he was far from complaining. What sane man would?

He had known she was a thinker, but the examples he had been given last night of the range of her train of thoughts had eventually surprised him. He had an inkling that in the future he had better always be prepared to be permanently confronted with a wealth of ideas. Not that he would complain about that either. He could hardly wait to watch her dealing with Aldhelm or to watch her dealing with her new people. After a few months of getting accustomed to each other, the Rohirrim would find themselves unquestionably in the palm of their queen’s hand. Who could withstand that unique blend of wisdom and innocence, of grace and heart? And of a stubbornness that rivalled any mule. They would not know what had hit them, but then: why should they fare better than their king?

Éomer pushed himself away from the door and made his way along the corridor. He assumed that their guests would be found in either the Great Hall, where the morning repast would have been provided, or that he would find Aragorn and Imrahil in his study where they had normally met when the Dúnedain had stayed in Edoras during the past summer.

Just a moment before he opened the door to the hall, someone must have drawn aside the wall hanging that covered it from the other side and now ran blindly into him, apparently his visual faculty temporarily limited because of the different lighting in hall and corridor.

“Arrg,” the figure grunted and stumbled against the wall where he found an obviously needed support.

Éomer nearly echoed the groan when he realized who it was that – with some effort – had managed to stay on his feet.

“Amrothos!”

“Where is my sister?”

Rohan’s King looked slightly baffled at the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth. Usually the latter’s tone of voice was chosen to irritate but he had never heard Amrothos sounding so irritable. He would have expected that – especially in context with the tenor of his question - from Elphir. 

“My wife,” he declared, “is just fine.”

“I did not asked how she is, I asked where she is,” Amrothos corrected him impatiently. He appeared to have difficulties with standing upright unsupported and was unable to stifle another groan. And his voice sounded somehow as if his tongue had become bloated.

Éomer’s lips slowly twisted into a gleeful grin. “You have got a hangover.”

“Yes,” Amrothos hissed painfully, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. He groaned again, “This is one of those days that common sense teaches us are best spent lying in bed.”

“That is probably the reason why you are here and not in your bed,” the Rohír remarked unsympathetically.

A pair of eyes, which until this moment had been squeezed tightly shut, snapped open and although they were bloodshot their gaze reminded Éomer very much of that of a fox, sharp and with a savvy shrewdness. Imrahil’s youngest son was a lot of things, mainly of the bothersome kind, but above all he was annoyingly astute, no matter how much spirit he might have poured into himself.

“So, how is Lothíriel this morning?” Amrothos asked, having found his vexing tone of deliberate innocence again.

“As I said: just fine.”

“Is that an educated guess, or did she declare it explicitly?” Amrothos demanded, the most guileless expression on his face, which he managed despite the fact that he must be suffering from a severe headache.

Éomer threw him a disgusted look. “I have not the slightest intention of discussing the subject with you.”

“Very well,” the other man gave in amiably. “I will ask my sister later.”

The utmost probability that he would get a truthful answer from Lothíriel caused Éomer to wonder what he could do to keep this particular brother away from her. Some kind of red herring was needed to lure the fox away from the goose. He tried the simplest approach, hoping he would make a sufficient decoy to begin with and stepped around Amrothos onto the dais of the Great Hall. He was granted success. The prince followed him out through the door. Éomer made haste to close it behind him and let the wall hanging fall back over it.

Amrothos had once more squeezed his eyes shut, except for a slit, and held his hand against his forehead to shield them from the sunlight that poured through the high set windows into the hall. Éomer recognized that the sun was quite high in the sky. It must be later than he had estimated. Having Lothíriel in one’s arms could distract a man considerably.

He crossed the dais, which still housed the top table and found to his satisfaction that Amrothos followed him. He was slightly unsteady on his feet but the temptation to annoy Rohan’s King further probably proved to be simply too great.

“What did you want from my wife anyway?” Éomer asked, forcing himself to employ a conversational tone.

“As you so perceptively – and unsympathetically, I feel I should annotate - assessed just moments ago, I underestimated the potency of the different kinds of spirits I was encouraged to consume at your and my sister’s wedding feast last night by the poor example given by a dwarf and two hobbits. Or perhaps I might even have overestimated my ability to tolerate the amount of those spirits I carelessly supplied my person with. The result is an overall indisposition with an emphasis on head and stomach, and at this point of my exposition I would like to bring up my sister again, who is – as you certainly know, after all you have availed of it yourself – in possession of a wealth of knowledge as a healer, including such about the different kinds of herbs and potions which should be able to provide some relief from my current condition.”

Éomer had stopped and watched with fascination this newly imposed upon him brother, who no matter what his condition might be, was able to produce this verboseness without any obvious breathing problems.

“In other words,” he said wryly, “Gimli drank you under the table and now you want my wife to give you some remedy to counteract your hangover.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, you will have to wait until Lothíriel has dressed.” Éomer turned to continue towards his study with Amrothos following in his wake.

“I have never known my sister to be a late riser.”

Éomer decided to ignore that remark. But there was some truth to it, at least to the fact that it had become rather late. The leftovers of the early meal, served every morning shortly after sunrise, had already been cleared away and whoever might have attended it had left the Great Hall. Only a few servants were still there, performing whatever their duties were.

Their king had crossed the dais and took the three stairs down to the main floor in a single step. Behind him he could hear the Prince overcome this hurdle considerably less light-footedly. Éomer had just reached the door to his study when Amrothos once more addressed him in his most courteous voice.

“I suppose this is a rather new situation for you.”

Putting his hand on the latch, the Rohír pushed it up, looking over his shoulder at the other man. “What situation are you talking about?” The moment the words were out of his mouth he was overcome by the feeling that he should have bitten back that particular question.

“How often before have you been about to meet up with the father and the brothers of the lady in whose bed you just spent the night?”

The inquiry, put forward with cordial presumptuousness, rooted him to the spot for a moment during which time the door swung open into the room behind it. Amrothos swept past him.

“Ah, so kind of you,” the Prince declared. “I am very much obliged.”

Taken by surprise and slightly dazed Éomer followed him to find his study appallingly crowded. Not only had somebody stored two large chests there, as he had already discovered the night he had returned from Aldburg - he had been informed, that they contained books belonging to the future Queen, well, now of the Queen -  but there was also a disturbingly large number of people in the room. It was slightly annoying as he had begun to consider the room to be his personal retreat over the past months.

Gandalf sat in his chair behind the desk, with Aragorn and Imrahil casually leaning against it, having obviously been in conversation with the Istar. Around the large oval table which Éomer used for informal councils with his marshals and captains, not only the other two sons of the Prince of Dol Amroth had gathered, but also the two hobbits and, of course, Gimli and his elven companion. And, thanks to the announcement by Imrahil’s scion, everybody had stopped talking and they were now looking at him with – he probably only imagined this because of Amrothos’s intentionally impertinent remark – varying grades of expectancy in their gazes as if they waited for him to give a statement of affairs. He felt highly tempted to turn on his heels and disappear to a more pleasant location, preferably his bed chamber.

“Ha! There you are at last,” Gimli bellowed, his hand wrapped around a beaker of ale. “You certainly took your time.”

Éomer yielded to the inevitable and pushed the door shut behind him. He was fond of his friends, he truly was, but right now he calculated taciturnly how many more days he would have to accommodate the whole lot before he could begin to savour the unhindered togetherness with his new wife. Two more days of festivities and then within a week everybody should be gone.

Before he had the chance to offer his guests his greetings, his dwarfish brother-in-arms rumbled on. “So, how was it?”

This question of – undoubtedly – genuine interest provoked a variety of choked noises and even stifled laughs from the Hobbits . . . and a scandalized glare from Prince Elphir which did not impress the Master of Aglarond in the least. If he took any note of it at all. His entire attention was concentrated on the King of Rohan who decided that this was an absolutely ridiculous situation and deserved to be treated as such.

“Educational,” he stated laconically and made his way across the room to have a closer look at the chests. He could downright feel the bewilderment caused by his answer.

“I would have expected nothing less from your wife,” Gandalf remarked with a satisfied undertone as if one of his pronouncements had just found its corroboration. But nobody had the chance to respond to the wizard.

“Educational?” Gimli repeated. “How can a wedding night be educational for the man? He is not supposed to need any more education in that field.”

Éomer wondered if there were words for tactfulness or subtlety in Khuzdul. He took a seat on one of the chests.

“Well, I learnt quite a bit about the flora and fauna around the palace of Dol Amroth.”

That comment drew the attention of the male members of his newly acquired kin, although Elphir did give the impression that he wouldn’t mind very much if something drastic were to happen that would rid him of his brother-in-law. Imrahil, on the other hand, took everything with his customary equanimity and humour.

“I would have never guessed that Lothíriel was overly interested in the flora and fauna of the coast.”

“I am not quite sure if the animals and plants she acquainted me with are natives of Belfalas.” Éomer looked across the room where Amrothos had found himself a seat next to Erchirion. “In fact, she gave an interesting account of a certain behaviour pattern pertaining to giant tortoises.”

He couldn’t help but feel some kind of respect for the quick-wittedness of Lothíriel’s two younger brothers. They caught on at once; the influence of the spirits he had overindulged himself with was apparently without a serious impact on Amrothos’s memory. Both princes froze for an instant, their gazes locked, and then Erchirion got up abruptly, suddenly having found something interesting to watch outside the windows. His shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. Amrothos forgot all good manners and let his head sink down on his arms which he had crossed on the table in front of him. That earned him a condemnatory frown from his eldest brother whilst Imrahil looked at his offspring contemplatively before he turned his gaze towards Éomer.

“Lothíriel told you about my sister’s tortoises?” he asked politely.

“Giant tortoises,” Éomer corrected, “and also about a boa with the name of Denethor and some carnivorous plants.”

“Carnivorous plants?” That particular part of his sister’s extraordinary collection seemed to take even Imrahil by surprise. “Where did she get those from?” He directed his question towards his heir.

“How am I supposed to know?” Elphir replied, apparently irritated and resigned in equal measures. “It was probably from the same source that provided her with the tarantulas.”

“Tarantulas?” Pippin squeaked. “You mean giant spiders? You keep them in the palace of Dol Amroth?”

That sounded as if the Hobbits might reconsider accepting the invitation that had been extended the other day for them to spend the summer as guests of the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“Not giant spiders; big spiders,” Amrothos reassured him, having recovered himself, “and only about a dozen. Actually, I always found the big, hairy variety of them quite cuddlesome.”

Aragorn came over to join his Rohirric friend, settling down next to him on the chest. Both listened in silence to the flaring dispute on whether arachnids could be described as cuddly or even should be kept as pets.

“A boa named Denethor?” the High King finally murmured. “Éomer, you have married into a rather interesting family.”

“Well, you should know that better than I,” the Rohír replied in a low voice. “After all, they kept you and your wife company at your evening meals quite often, as you told me, with the consequence that those gatherings turned out to be very lively. I think that I now get the idea what you meant when you said that.”

“Indeed.” Aragorn chuckled and slanted his friend a look, bordering a smirk. “You should really meet the Princess Ivriniel one day. She is a . . . remarkable lady.”

“You met her when you and Arwen travelled around the southern feoffs in the autumn?”

The Dúnadan nodded with a grin. “Arwen was favourably impressed by the daughter of Adrahil . . . after she had overcome being thoroughly bewildered.”

“The Princess cannot be worse than Amrothos,” Éomer alleged – prematurely, he began to fear when he did not receive a confirmation. “She can?” he asked disbelievingly. He decided it was time to change the subject.

“From your letters I have gathered that your visit to the feoffs south of the Ered Nimrais was a success?”

“Indeed,” Aragorn affirmed contently. “It went very well, just as Imrahil had predicted. The lords may not be pleased with the fact that the times have changed. They would have preferred that the King had only returned to rid them of the threat of Mordor. Having done my deed they would rather see me gone again. But it is different with the common people. They feel freed from generations of long acquaintance with uncertainty and instability. There is not much the lords can do to oppose their acknowledgement of the kingship, their hopefulness for a better, safer future. And they feel that from now on they will be taken care of by their king and no longer neglected.”

“Speaking of the expectations and trustfulness people tend to put into one person.”

“We are not on our own anymore, Éomer. We both have good men on our side who will support us and provide advice and guidance. And we have our wives.”

Éomer couldn’t suppress a smile that demonstrated very clearly that it was more than unlikely that he would forget about his wife. “There is only a difference between our wives in the form of nearly three thousand years of experience,” he reminded his friend.

“You should not underestimate Lothíriel, Éomer.”

“That is what she told me also, and I do not. Quite the contrary. I fear that sooner rather than later she will have gained a lot of the experience she might still be lacking at the moment and then I am the one who is going to have problems keeping up with her.”

“Indeed!” the High King remarked dryly, his smile deepening to an amused grin whilst he watched the Prince of Dol Amroth and his three sons. “Our friend Imrahil has produced a remarkable quartet of progeny. Each one by him or herself is quite unique.”

“Perhaps you had better not pass on my words,” Éomer suggested, his exasperated tone interlaced with a good portion of irony, “but I feel Middle-earth could have done without the eldest and youngest princes of Dol Amroth.”

“I have to admit that Prince Elphir is not the most charming of his contemporaries,” Aragorn agreed with a faint smile, “but I cannot deny his great abilities as an administrator. And he is as loyal to the crown as his father; as all of the family. It is good to know Belfalas is in his capable hands whilst Imrahil spends most of his time in Minas Tirith as the one of my advisers I rely most upon.”

“As long as Elphir stays in Dol Amroth,” the Rohír muttered more to himself, “I can live with the knowledge of his existence. I would just prefer not to be reminded too often of it.”

“I think Elphir’s only problem is that he has yet to be convinced that you are the right husband for his sister,” the Dúnadan noted, his tone somehow not overly convincing. “You are the last who should be unable to comprehend his attitude.”

“So what?” Deciding to ignore the last remark, Éomer glanced across the room, wondering if the heir of Dol Amroth had been born with that glum expression plastered all over his features. “Do you expect me to go to the trouble of proving that to him? Lothíriel is my wife now. Why should the hapless disposition of that crabber bother me?”

“It is not I who expect you to make peace with him,” Aragorn pointed out, “but presumably your wife.”

The face Rohan’s King pulled reminded one very much of that of a man with a severe toothache. “That is indeed to be feared. I have already been informed - in no uncertain terms - that the new Queen of the Riddermark is very fond of her brothers. Although that seems to refer, first and foremost, to that inebriated pain in the neck.” He pointed with his chin towards Amrothos who appeared to have become more and more sensitive to the noises surrounding him. He looked rather pale and had the palm of a hand pressed against his forehead, wincing whenever Gimli chimed in the general conversation. “For some unfortunate reason Lothíriel considers him her confidant,” Éomer explained, looking pained.

Aragorn chuckled in amusement. “Let me guess. You do not like that.”

“I am afraid she takes most things he says literally. And he knows it. In my opinion Erchirion is all the brother she needs.”

“I admit he is the one of Imrahil’s sons whose indisputable talents are most conspicuous.”

“You must feel confident regarding his abilities. Otherwise you would not have appointed him as your envoy to the southern feoffs.”

“We have agreed – that is the Royal Council and myself – that it is advisable to keep a constant eye on those vassals and make certain that they are aware of it. Erchirion proved that he knows quite well how to deal with disobedient liegemen when he organized the provisions for Rohan. He has no problems putting the thumbscrews on somebody – with an engaging smile on his face.”

“Would that not be a task for the holder of the stewardship?”

“Putting the thumbscrews on somebody?”

Éomer grinned. “I doubt that Faramir would resort to such a measure, no matter the circumstances.”

“His cousin is characterised by less reluctance. Erchirion believes in adapting the means to the ends. And he knows the southern lords much better than your brother-in-law. Furthermore, Faramir has enough on his hands with the re-colonisation of Ithilien. He is already talking about rebuilding Osgiliath. That is a task more to his liking and more in the realms of his vocation.”

“Then all you have to do is to find a deed for the one of Imrahil’s sons whose dubious talents are best camouflaged.” Éomer laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, looking at him with deliberate urgency. “You would do the rest of the world a great favour if you kept him occupied.”

“You feel Prince Amrothos is up to taking on a task of some importance?” Aragorn asked guilelessly.

Éomer’s brows came together in a sharp line. His instincts told him that he was just being led into a trap, but he couldn’t think what kind of ambush had been laid out for him.

“He might be a menace, but he is a highly intelligent menace,” he said cautiously, watching his friend through suspiciously narrowed eyes. But the Dúnadan gave the impression of a man whose attention had just been grabbed. “I suppose all that has to be done is to see to it that the capacity of his brain is steered towards a meaningful task, instead entirely on finding ways of getting on other people’s nerves.”

“I am in complete agreement with that assessment,” Aragorn said in a tone of deep satisfaction. “Actually, Imrahil and I hoped that you would be the one to find such a meaningful task for him.”

Éomer stared at him for a moment, utterly speechless. “You . . . ,” he finally managed to mutter under his breath. “You mean . . . ME?”

The last syllable came out with so much force that its sound virtually echoed inside the restrictions of the four walls surrounding them. All conversations came to an instant halt and nine pairs of eyes attached themselves to the figures of the two kings, who – until now – had talked to each other in low and quiet voices. Éomer decided to ignore the sudden attention his famously resonant voice had caused.

“Could it be that you and Imrahil also did too much justice to the wine last night?” he growled accusingly.

His friend gave no sign of visible repentance, only an innocent smile. “We already discussed it at some length on our way to Edoras. You know how it is; long nights round the campfire.”

“You truly must have spent too much time in confined spaces if less than a dozen nights under the open sky gives you an idea like that.” He got up abruptly, not caring that everybody in the room was watching them now, listening with utmost interest. “The answer is ‘no’, Aragorn.”

“You have not heard the proper question yet.”

“The question does not matter. The answer stays the same. I’d rather offer sanctuary to a herd of Mûmakil.”

Bema, what could it have been he had done to his friends to deserve an assault of this kind? He certainly sympathised with everybody who tried to get rid of Amrothos but there was no way they would just dump him on Rohan. Why not somewhere east? Far east!

“Do you not think it would be much easier for your wife to settle in if she had a familiar face in her vicinity?”

Damnation! Aragorn had been spending too much time with Imrahil and his family; otherwise this guileless expression and the lulling tone of persuasion could not be explained.

“The very last person east of Belegaer I want in Lothíriel’s vicinity is that brother of hers.” He tried really hard to keep his voice down. After all, he had no desire to offend his father-in-law . . . although nobody in his right mind should be affronted by the mere truth, especially when said truth applied to that double-trouble incarnate.

By way of an exception some deity must have decided to be on the side of Rohan’s ruler in this matter. Before Éomer had the chance to say anything he might later regret – or at least feel disconcerted about – the door opened and Lothíriel took a couple of steps into the room. Setting eyes on the obviously unexpected number of people crowding the study she came abruptly to a halt. She blinked in surprise when, quite unprepared, she found herself the centre of the attention, everybody in the room rising to bow their respects to the Queen of Rohan.

“Greetings, my Lords.”

Éomer had long ago discovered that his wife wasn’t inherently more of a stickler for protocol than he himself, but she had, of course, learnt it from the cradle and took refuge in it whenever she felt it suited her. For instance, to cover a momentary self-consciousness. Remarkably, she managed somehow to make eye contact – just for the split of a moment – with every single one in the room she had included in her general words of greetings; even according to the correct hierarchy. She then had a precisely befitting smile for Legolas, who gallantly stepped forward to close the door behind her, but that was how far any effort regarding the correct protocol went, as Amrothos could no longer keep a pressing question for his sister to himself.

“Lothíriel, would you consider tarantulas to be cuddly pets?”

“No, I would not.”

Éomer wondered why he wasn’t surprised that Lothíriel didn’t show a hint of bewilderment as to the unexpectedness of this inquiry.

“And why not?” Her brother looked genuinely baffled at this disclosure.

“Because usually I am wearing skirts without breeches underneath.” She gathered the split skirt of her riding dress, drawing attention to this particular detail of her outfit. “And it is such a nuisance always having to keep them from crawling up your bare legs.” She glanced at her husband with a slight frown between her delicately arched eyebrows, “We are not having any overgrown spiders here at Meduseld, are we?”

Éomer decided to ignore the choked laugh coming from the – supposed to be dignified – High King of Gondor.

“Not to my knowledge,” he murmured distractedly. Suddenly he was overcome by the need to pull her into his arms. It had been much too long since he had felt her against him. But there were definitely too many people in this room, forcing him to exercise restraint.

Something about Lothíriel looked different this morning. Never having given female attire much thought it took him a moment to comprehend that so far he had seen her only wearing varying shades of blues or greys. He couldn’t really remember any details of her wedding dress other than the colour and that she had looked simply stunning in it. This morning’s riding dress made her appear very much unlike the cool and untouchable bride. Scarlet suited her dark hair and fair skin. Inwardly he had to congratulate Winfrith, who had in all probability chosen the garb. As far as he was able to judge Lothíriel showed only a passing interest in such matters. But then: the most beautiful people were the ones who didn't know it.

The handmaiden must have guessed what he had planned for his wife later today. There was not much one could keep undisclosed in Edoras. And the young woman had chosen well. The crimson colour would portray an image of the new Queen the Rohirrim were unlikely to forget too quickly.

Thanks to Amrothos’s unconventional greeting, the moment of awkwardness the bride might have experienced by finding herself under a certain scrutiny - however unintentional - after her wedding night had been weathered and Lothíriel’s attention was drawn to the chests somebody had felt it to be reasonable to store in the King’s study.

“Are those my books?” she asked, clearly delighted to have located another item of her possessions. Smiling slightly absent-mindedly at her father she stepped around the desk, acknowledging Gandalf with a distracted nod and began to fiddle about with the massive lock of the first coffer.

Aragorn slanted Éomer a look, unable to keep the sparkle of amusement from his face. Lothíriel’s tendency to single-mindedness was hard to miss. “Let me help you, my Lady,” he offered.

“Thank you, my Lord.” She made room for him and Gondor’s King pushed the bolt back without any difficulty and lifted the vaulted lid. The interior was filled up to the rim with leather bound books.

“It looks like you have taken precautions, sister dearest.”

Éomer’s head swung around. Being focused on his wife he had missed Amrothos coming up next to him. The Prince managed to grant him a sweet smile before he grimaced once more in pain. But apparently only the loss of his entire head would be able to bring a halt to his wagging tongue.

“You know, Lothíriel, with all those books to read you are certainly not going to run the risk of getting bored during long evenings.”

The Rohír pondered if he should do something about the two rows of perfectly set teeth in his brother-in-law’s mouth.

“These are all healers’ books,” Lothíriel explained without looking up. She was rummaging around in the chest. “I had them copied from those in the Houses of Healing over the last months. Ah, there it is,” she proclaimed pleased and pulled out a volume bound in well used, dark blue leather from amongst all the other tomes.

“Her journal,” Amrothos informed Éomer helpfully. “She takes notes about virtually everything new she learns and finds noteworthy. And she is truly talented when it comes to illustrating them with quite detailed little drawings.”

Éomer came to the decision that there was no point in being considerate any longer about the possible consequences of an imperatively needed action to shut up this human scabies. And his resolve to resort to something rather drastic must have shown because from the corner of his eye he saw a mildly alarmed expression on Aragorn’s face.

But whatever action and counteraction the two kings might have taken, they were forestalled by Rohan’s Queen, who finally found the time to inspect her brother more closely.

“You look awful, Amrothos.”

“Thank you. I am feeling worse.”

“You drank too much last night,” she stated with more than just a hint of disapproval.

“I am pleading guilty. I had hoped you had some potion for me to swallow, so that my head will cease to feel as if it were going to burst at any moment.”

“I can assure you it will not do so,” Lothíriel declared with unexpected pitilessness. “Go and get some fresh air. By tomorrow morning, at the latest, you should feel quite well again. Hangovers do not persist if you do not add fuel to them.” Éomer looked at her, favourably surprised. It appeared she had truly meant the ‘damn Amrothos’ during the wedding ceremony.

Obviously the Prince hadn’t expected his sister to refuse him her sympathy and certainly not to deny him her attendance as a healer. “Why do you not just give me – in addition to your good advice – whatever you took yourself to cure your last hangover?” he demanded in an exaggeratedly offended tone.

His words caused several pairs of eyes to settle on Lothíriel, not least her father’s. Éomer forgot his irritation with Amrothos for the moment.

“Your last hangover?” he asked his wife in an intensely curious tone. “You gave the impression that, due to the fact that wine does not agree with you, you prefer to abstain from drinking any spirits.”

“Regrettably I became aware of the fact after my only hangover,” Lothíriel said primly, slanting her brother a furious glance which should have made him suspicious about any herbal brew she might recommend him to take.

“May I ask when you felt it, for whatever reason, necessary to make your acquaintance with that experience?” Imrahil inquired mildly, the question in itself rather out of the ordinary as the ruler of Dol Amroth - to Éomer’s knowledge - hardly ever interfered with his offspring’s antics; at least not in public.

Lothíriel turned towards her father but Amrothos was quicker.

“That was last Úrimë,” he announced, looking straight at his brother-in-law, imitating his sister’s unconscious double-blink.

It was not the first time Éomer wondered if this prince had a death wish. But he understood quite well what Amrothos was trying to tell him. Last Úrimë he had sent his unfortunate proposal, and it had unsettled Lothíriel so much that she resorted to getting drunk. He gazed doubtfully over his wife’s slender form. It shouldn’t have taken too much wine. And he wondered if Aragorn hadn’t been mistaken when he singled out Elphir as the brother who was the least convinced about the right choice of husband for his sister. Amrothos was much less obvious and not easy to see through. Was he really just trying to provoke? Or rather: what was he trying to provoke?

But neither he nor Lothíriel, whose scowl left no doubt that she was indeed pretty annoyed by her presumably favourite brother, had to deal with those allusions right now. Imrahil didn’t take his eyes from his youngest son whilst he addressed his daughter.

“Lothíriel, my dear, why do you not recommend a suitable remedy for Amrothos and tell him where he can get it,” the Prince intervened with a perfectly neutral voice, “so we will be relieved of his presence for the time being?”

“Thank you, Father.” Amrothos’s engaging smile showed not a hint of remorse. “I am very much obliged.” He looked expectantly at his sister.

“Milk thistle, mugwort and lavender,” Lothíriel listed the appropriate herbs with a not to be missed unwillingness. “I am certain Mistress Ælfgyth will be able to provide you with those.”

“Thank you, sister dearest. I am very much obliged.” He turned to leave, but then hesitated, slanting her a glance from narrowed eyes. “You are not trying to poison me, are you?”

“That is a risk you have to take,” Rohan’s Queen informed him, in a voice as sweet as honey.

Amrothos just responded with a grin, although it was a bit lopsided. “I am off to the kitchen,” he announced to no-one in particular, causing Pippin to jump up from his chair like a beaten jerboa.

“I am with you,” the Hobbit declared. “It is high time to grab a bite to eat. My stomach grumbles so loud that I cannot follow any of the conversations anyway. Come on, Merry, make haste.” His cousin followed him willingly but with more composure.

“I will go with you, as well,” Gimli rumbled, taking the empty beaker and jug with him. “The air is too dry in here. My throat needs to be moistened. Are you coming, lad?” he boomed next to Prince Elphir’s ear, addressing his elven companion.

Legolas declined with one of his distant smiles. “I will meet you later, my friend.”

The dwarf stomped out of the King’s study in the wake of the others, slamming the door behind him shut with a deafening bang.

“It is fortunate that the Rohirrim’s method of construction is a rather stable one,” Gandalf remarked, his whimsical smile clearly revealing that he felt thoroughly entertained.

“It is also fortunate that the Rohirrim are known to have stable nerves,” Éomer stated wryly, and, taking the journal from his wife’s hands, he began to flick through it. “I am certainly in need of them this morning.”

“Having strong nerves is the basic requirement for being a parent,” Imrahil reflected, raising his brows at his grinning liege. “As you will experience very soon, my Lord.”

“My respite is going to last for another couple of months,” Aragorn replied good-humouredly. “And should I need any advice, Imrahil, I know I can always turn to you for help.”

“That would imply that you consider my efforts, regarding a decent upbringing of my offspring, as successful.”

“And you do not consider them so yourself?” Gandalf asked, undoubtedly relishing the conversation.

The Prince of Dol Amroth just stayed meaningfully silent.

“Thank you, Father,” his three remaining children chorused.

Éomer looked up from studying an indeed very detailed drawing of a slivered bone, glancing across the room at the eldest of Lothíriel’s brothers. This was the first time he had witnessed Elphir taking part in one of his siblings’ light hearted quips. Besides resembling Erchirion and Amrothos physically, there seemed after all to be some basic traits of character that even his normal grouchiness couldn’t conceal completely.

But he had no intention wasting time with musing about the quirks and mannerisms of the Princes of Dol Amroth. He had yet to get to know his wife and he had forebodings, not only since last night, that that would become in all likelihood an experience of the exceptional kind, even without the interference of this vexing triumvirate. In all honesty, he just wanted them gone as quickly as possible. Though Erchirion appeared to be quite at ease with his sister’s wedlock, you could never tell with that one. Right now he leant with crossed arms against the opposite wall, having contented himself to watching the entire spectacle with his customary shrewd, ever-amused gaze, which gave you the impression that he knew much more than anybody else.

Éomer definitely wanted Amrothos gone. He just hoped Aragorn had only tried to pull his leg when he earlier raised, out of nowhere, the issue of finding an occupation for that scallywag who, as far as he knew, had up until now led a life of idleness. Rohan still had more problems than the average hedgehog had fleas. There was no room for some bored prince bumming around, causing mischief whilst the Rohirrim had to overcome newly arising difficulties day after day. It was hard to understand how the same parents could have produced a daughter who was so determined to carry out her duty and be useful and a son who seemed to care only about . . . nothing.

He counted on Lothíriel’s irritation with Amrothos lasting long enough that Aragorn’s argument that the Queen of the Riddermark would find it easier to settle in her new home with a familiar person around would lose its validity.

And it was time that Lothíriel was made closer acquainted to her new people. It had been decided that they would take a walkabout through Edoras today, so that its citizens could meet their Queen face-to-face.

It was not a secret to Éomer that many of his kinsmen felt ambivalent about his choice of wife. On the one hand the unhesitating and dependable aid from Gondor during the winter months had won the favour of the Rohirrim who over the past decades had evinced dubiousness if not distrust for their southern neighbours. But on the other hand a queen from Gondor still meant for many in the Riddermark Morwen of Lossarnach. He was not certain if Lothíriel was aware of the unfortunate legacy his grandmother had left behind so many years ago. It was another issue that had to be raised between them soon, although he had no doubts that his wife would win over her new people as she had won over – unconsciously - all those men who had been in her care in the Houses of Healing.

The herdsmen had already spread their favourable tales all over the Eastmark, but then the dwellers of the eastern plains were unreservedly willing to trust their former Marshal’s faculty of judgement. The people of the Westmark would be the harder nuts to crack. When eventually the weather was improved, the journey safe and Lothíriel’s skills on horseback satisfactory, they would visit the settlements in the Westfold and those between the Rivers Adorn and Isen. Seeing and meeting her would turn Lothíriel from a vague figure to a woman made of flesh and blood.

Considering her curiosity for anything new, she would - with the utmost probability - embrace the idea of travelling the Mark. And, as a side-effect, it should provide incentive enough to push ‘riding’ well up her list of priorities. 

He contemplated his wife appraisingly whilst she indulged in some lively chatter with Gandalf.

She had made it perfectly clear this morning that riding did not belong among her most favoured activities, rather she considered it a bothersome necessity. But she was not as hopeless as she had tried to convince him. He had seen her on that little chestnut. She had moved with the horse in a perfect natural unison. – Well, Lothíriel’s body always moved perfectly naturally, especially in unison with his. – All she needed was a replacement for her mare, more practice and above all she had to learn to concentrate on her horse and not let her thoughts wander at will.

Pertaining to the first, he had a surprise for her but also the suspicion that Lothíriel would not be overly taken with it. But only at the beginning; soon she would learn to appreciate it. He couldn’t imagine it to be otherwise.

He threw a last glance at the journal in his hands and frowned. That particular drawing looked like a smashed joint, decorated by a torn muscle. His wife had undoubtedly some peculiar talents. He snapped the leather bound journal shut.

“Lothíriel.”

She turned her attention from Gandalf to look up at him. She smiled, her large, grey eyes shining warmly. And Éomer felt very much tempted to make a proposal to retire to their chambers instead of the proposal to set out for their walk through Edoras. He held out his hand and she promptly put hers in it.

“Are you prepared to become closer acquainted with our people?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I am certainly looking forward to it.”

“And will you do us the honour of accompanying us? Aragorn? Imrahil? And you Gandalf?”

“Oh, if you do not mind I will stay behind,” the Istar announced. “If my Lady, the Queen, does not object, I would like to have a look at her library.”

“Not at all. But those are without exception healers’ books,” Lothíriel warned him.

“Elphir and I will stay here as well,” Erchirion declared, leaving his observation post. “We have other plans.”

“We have other plans?” The heir of Dol Amroth regarded his younger brother with a dumbfounded glance.

“Yes, we have” Erchirion confirmed, short-spoken and without elaborating about his intentions.

“Indeed, you have,” Imrahil intervened. “And it is not necessary to change your plans.”

“I will search for Gimli. We might join you later down in the city.” Legolas bowed his greetings and left the King’s study.

“Shall we set off?” Éomer handed his wife’s journal to Gandalf, who again took his seat behind the desk, obviously looking forward to browsing through the books on offer.

“Where are we going to meet the citizens of Edoras?” Lothíriel inquired keenly whilst Éomer guided her out of the room, his hand in the small of her back. Simply touching her proved to be too great a temptation.

“We just start walking through the city. No particular course has been planned. We will talk to the people where we meet them.”

“I would like to see some of the craftsmen’s places of work.”

“You are interested in the different crafts?”

“Oh, yes, very much. Especially the joiners and the carpenters.” They had reached the Great Hall and Lothíriel made a sweeping gesture with both hands, covering all her surroundings. “I love those elaborate carvings.” She tipped her head backwards to look up at the pillars supporting the roof. “They are undoubtedly outstanding.”

“I am pleased to hear that.” Éomer smiled down at her, relishing her enthusiastic inquisitiveness. “Carving is some kind of common passion of the Rohirrim. Give any Rohír a knife and a piece of wood and he will start carving.”

“You, too?”

“Yes, absolutely. I have mutilated entire trunks over the years.”

“I hope with some artistic value,” Lothíriel teased. “Otherwise it would have been a total waste of resources in a land as short of woods as Rohan is.”

“There is no cure for your pragmatism, is there?” He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, ignoring the company of his father-in-law and the King of Gondor.

“I am afraid not.” She reached up to cover his hand with her smaller one.

Éomer was overcome by a sudden feeling of frustration. There were constantly too many people in their vicinity.

“My Lord King.”

Well, that one was definitely dispensable. On his personal list of the most annoying people he came closely behind Amrothos.

Éomer lowered his hand and turned towards the head of his Royal council.

“Lord Aldhelm.”

The bald man, his body but certainly not his spirit stooped by gout, shuffled in a hurry across the hall. He bowed his greetings to the Dúnedain.

“My Lord,” he addressed his king. “I gather you are setting out to introduce your queen to the people.” He didn’t give Éomer the opportunity to confirm this assumption. “Should that not be preceded by the presentation and inspection of the wedding sheet so that the bond can be validated?”

Éomer knew for certain that - although his kinsmen were known to be outspoken - there were words for tactfulness and subtlety in Rohirric. But it appeared that they did not belong to Lord Aldhelm’s closer vocabulary.  

“There will be neither any kind of presentation or inspection nor is a validation of my bond to my wife necessary,” he declared tersely, turning away from the old man, trying to get this farce over and done with.

“But my Lord,” Aldhelm protested. “The tradition has to be respected. It has to be confirmed that the Princess was . . . ?”

“What?”

If there was something to say about Lord Aldhelm with absolute certainty, then it was that he was imperturbable. But the tone of voice and the glare of his king would have caused even a fully-grown warg to put its tail between its legs and run. Involuntarily the old man took a step back, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on dry land.

“My Lord Aldhelm, how long have you been suffering from gout?”

Four pairs of eyes settled on the Queen of the Riddermark, showing different degrees of bewilderment. Lothíriel appeared to be totally unaffected by them.

“How are you treating your ailment?” she asked. And when Aldhelm failed to respond, she went on, “Have you ever tried a combination of a healing potion made from the fruits of the cedar tree and regular steam baths, enriched with the embers of the walnut root?”

“No,” was all the head of Rohan’s Royal Council was able to get out.

“Well, we really have to discuss such a treatment quite soon. I am certain it will bring you great relief. Perhaps I will be able to find the time after Éomer King and I have returned from our visit to the city.” Lothíriel turned towards her husband. “Shall we go, my Lord?”

“By all means,” Éomer exchanged a look with Aragorn and Imrahil. Both had faint smiles on their faces. The High King moved his lips silently, but his friend was quite sure he knew what the soundless words were supposed to tell him. ‘Never underestimate her.’ Indeed, it would seem that Lothíriel had certain diplomatic skills at her command when she needed them. For example, like those needed to persuade a rude warrior to have his wounds treated.

Éomer raised his arm, inviting his wife to put her hand on his.

“My sweet,” he murmured. “The Rohirrim are waiting for their Queen. And they will not be disappointed.”

“Let us hope so.”

“I am absolutely certain.”

The Doorwards, flanking the heavy gates of the Golden Hall stepped forward and pulled the carved wings open, bowing to the royal couple and their escort. Outside on the paved terrace Éomer was about to take a deep breath of fresh air and relief, but aborted his intention abruptly when he saw a figure lounging on the top step of the wide stairs. Amrothos was sitting there, nursing a large, earthen mug with some steaming liquid.

He threw sister and brother-in-law a short glance over his shoulder, then raised the mug high over his head and began without warning to declaim some obscure poetry . . . or something like that.

“The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,

Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat

Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,

Wether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine.”

“Now he has completely taken leave of his senses,” Éomer informed his wife.

Lothíriel appeared to be only mildly bewildered by this unexpected outburst. “If I am not mistaken, he just quoted a piece of Berendirith, a famous Gondorian poet and playwright.”

Her brother nodded affirmatively, looking out over the city.

“Did he indeed?” Éomer found once again his opinion confirmed that poetry did strange things to the human brain. “And is there any particular reason for doing so?” he inquired with all the forbearance he could muster.

“I just recited it because it addressed the four classical elements: fire, water, earth and air,” the Prince explained. “And if I correctly understood the tale that was spread about in the kitchen this morning, then after the fire and the flooding we had better be prepared to expect a landslide in your bedchambers.”

Éomer nearly sighed in resignation. How could he have assumed that the word would not make its round rather quickly, and he really shouldn’t be surprised that it made it to Amrothos’s ears first of all.

“Be grateful that insanity is not contagious,” he said acidly. “Otherwise I would have to place you under quarantine in the dungeons.”

“You have threatened me with the dungeons before.” Amrothos got to his feet in an amazingly sleek movement, considering his condition. “Do you remember the occasion? That was during a certain feast at Merethrond.”

Éomer did his best to keep a grip on his, once more, slipping temper. It appeared some deity was finding it amusing to subject him to a test of patience. “I can assure you the dungeons underneath Meduseld are even less comfortable than those in Minas Tirith.”

“Ah, yes.” The Prince remained unimpressed. “It is rumoured you had the opportunity to give them a try yourself.”

Rohan’s King caught his Gondorian counterpart failing in his attempt to restrain his laughter. Éomer gave his friend a look of mingled irritation and incredulity. This was getting ridiculous

“If you think,” he addressed Aragorn in the tongue of the Rohirrim, which earned him a frown from his wife, “that you can saddle the Mark with him, you are gloriously mistaken. Oslafa,” he called to one of the Doorwards, pointing at Amrothos, and changing back to Westron. “Keep him here, and if he tries to leave the Hall, hit him over the head.”

The man just bowed his understanding, the faceplate of his helmet concealing the expression on his face. Éomer wondered what he should make of Lothíriel and Imrahil refraining from comment.

The younger Prince raised his empty hand in a gesture of mock defeat. “I will bow to brute force. Power is the most persuasive rhetoric.”

Bema, to shut up this lunatic once and for all there was obviously no other choice but brute force.

Not caring about Aragorn and Imrahil, Éomer took Lothíriel by the elbow and half-dragged her down the high stairs to the city, but his wife managed to turn around to the Doorward.

“Do not hit him too hard,” she advised, a strange tone vibrating in her voice. “Head wounds tend to bleed excessively.”

Éomer glared at her. The woman was laughing. He growled.

No, the Rohirrim had no idea what was going to hit them.

TBC

Amrothos recited Horatio from “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark”. Berendirith is Sindarin and means resolute protector. In English that would be William.