It is the unfortunate truth,

that when some very great and unexpected good news is brought to us,

we find it very difficult to credit it.

(Alexander von Humboldt, 1769 – 1859)

“Lothíriel, wait!”

She ignored the request. It was rather a command anyway – and that she didn’t like. At least not from her brothers, and especially not from that brother. Amrothos had occupied a lot of important roles in her life – playmate, scourge, confidant – but he had never held a status of authority. He usually had had to trick her into complying with his biddings . . . and, usually, he had succeeded.

Lothíriel marched briskly along the narrow path below the wall, eastwards, away from the stables and the main part of the city. Only vaguely aware that the houses here seemed to be older and were rather more neglected looking than those she had found so far around Edoras. 

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel. Do not behave so childishly.”

That finally did it. She stopped and turned around so quickly that he almost ran into her.

“Childishly?” she spat. “How grownup is it to hurt a fellow man just because you do not agree with his conduct?”

“His conduct towards my sister,” Amrothos clarified, slanting her a testy glare.

She made a rude noise. “Hypocrite! What a preposterous case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Excuse me!” Amrothos looked seriously bemused. “My memory appears to fail me, because I certainly cannot recall having philandered with a wedded woman . . . lately,” he added as an afterthought.

Lothíriel chose to ignore such rhetorical subtleties. “Then I suppose we shall count ourselves grateful that the lady I heard in your chamber this morning was not in possession of a husband.”

“Aha!” Amrothos drawled, a glint in his eyes. “That is why we are so huffish today. You have a fit of pique because I found some distraction last night?”

“You were not supposed to be able to conduct . . . whatever you were conducting,” she said, not even trying to keep the tinge of contempt out of her voice.

“I think you know exactly what I was conducting last night.” He put a taunt in his words. “However, before you had the chance to conduct yourself for the first time, what I was conducting, you had appeared to be more broadminded about the subject. You didn’t take offence over my conduct towards the female gender in the past; in fact, at one point you were pretty curious and attempted to interrogate me about the details of such conduct.”

“You are appalling.” Lothíriel hissed. If he used the term ‘conduct’ one more time she would throw her satchel at him.

Amrothos just grinned in response. “What did you think? That I was leading some kind of double life - pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time? Now, that would be hypocrisy, would it not?”

The trouble with Amrothos’s twisted logic was that - when he put it forward - it always sounded so  . . . logical. But today Lothíriel was not willing to yield to his logic.

“It is not just your abominable behaviour of last night . . .” she began but was interrupted by her brother.

“I did not behave abominably. I only accepted the kind offer from a lady - quite pleasing to the eye, by the way - whom you,” he jabbed his finger at her, “had sent to me.” 

Lothíriel’s chin nearly hit her breastbone. It took several up-and-down movements of the jaw before she managed an intelligible sentence. “I would have never . . . I can assure you, I sent nobody to service you.”

“Oh yes, you did,” Amrothos dissented; brown eyes alight with naughty humour, apparently beginning to enjoy this scene. “After I had retired to my chamber, the lady in question arrived, loaded with a tray of food and with best wishes from my sister who had sent her to keep me company.”

“Nobody was sent to keep you company. I asked Mistress Ælfgyth to find somebody to watch over you in case the dizzy spell you had experienced after the ‘behourd’ returned during the night.” Bewildered, and feeling the slow burn of irritation heating up, she frowned. “But I should not have worried, should I? That fit of dizziness only occurred after I had announced that I wished to look after your adversary: after Captain Éofor.”

His lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression she’d seen countless times on his face. It appeared when she finally saw through one of his silly mind games.

“Congratulations, Amrothos. Once again you have succeeded in poking fun at me.” Lothíriel let her exasperation colour the words.

“Very well, the fainting was nothing but a distraction,” he admitted, not sounding particularly apologetic about it. “However, it was not meant to ridicule you but to keep you from doing something perfectly stupid.”

“My intention was to look after an injured man,” she retorted impatiently. “That is what I was trained to do.”

His chin jutted out contentiously. “There were other healers around. That man was not accountable to you.”

“My brother made him my responsibility when he damaged his sword hand.” Lothíriel didn’t even realize how furiously her eyes flashed. “Do you know how much force is needed to break the third metacarpal bone?”

“Of course, I know,” he bit back. “At least I know now. I had to put quite some pressure on his hand before I heard the bones crack.”

Lothíriel gasped. “You brute.” Her voice was glacial.

“What a flattering appraisal,” Amrothos replied, his smile mocking to the extreme. “My favourite sister pronouncing such a devastating judgement on my character. Now I am truly crushed and I think I will sob into my pillow tonight.”

Lothíriel shot him a supremely irritated look. This was not the familiar jesting Amrothos deployed in his dealings with her. This was more the biting sarcasm he saved for those he detested. Not that he used it often. He had declared that dealing with disagreeable people was much too tedious to bother with. But she was determined not to let him rattle her. If she had to, she could pay him back in his own coin.

“Just make certain you do not wash away anybody you have persuaded to rest her head on that pillow.” She was quite satisfied with her tone, which had transformed into pure, scornful sweetness and light.

She was about to turn her back on him and continue her aimless march through this rather undistinguished part of the city - she had to explore the whole of Edoras sooner or later anyway - but Amrothos wrapped his hand around her upper arm and stopped her. Taken aback by this unexpected manoeuvre Lothíriel stared dumbfounded: first at the hand and then at its owner.

It had been many years since her brothers had manhandled her - or rather since Amrothos had stopped scuffling with her. She had never been the type for brotherly/sisterly tussles. Elphir and Erchirion had always treated her as if she was something exceedingly breakable. Her bruises and scratches had come from Amrothos investigating how much a little girl could bear. However, she couldn’t even remember the last time he had touched her with something resembling force. Probably not since he had to face their father’s anger about a lump the size of a hen’s egg on her forehead.

She gave another rather pointed look at the hand that was still holding her but her brother chose not to acknowledge the hint. Gazing up, she found the taunting gleam gone from his eyes. She looked at an Amrothos in one of his rare serious moments. And that was even more surprising than his firm grip on her arm.

“Lothíriel, this is not about me. Nobody cares with whom I cultivate acquaintances. But I can promise you it will attract plenty of attention when you pay a wifeless man a visit in his living quarters. Especially after people have witnessed his conduct during the ‘brydealoþ’.”

Lothíriel felt her jaw clamping together. His words rankled. And the fact that they did rankled some more. “I did nothing but treat an injury to one of Éomer’s riders. That would have not been necessary if you had not hurt him,” she told him, sounding a lot more brisk than she felt because her position undoubtedly began to weaken.

“Why do I have this feeling that we are going around in circles?”

Lothíriel assumed that this was a purely rhetorical question and therefore didn’t require a reply. Her assumption was confirmed when Amrothos continued without the least delay.

“That captain got hurt because he made my sister the subject of some bloody dare. After I rescued you from his brash attentions on the dance floor . . . not now, Lothíriel,” he hushed her when she opened her mouth to protest against the claim that she had needed rescuing. He went on then, “I had a bit of a chat with a couple of slightly inebriated riders of Éomer’s guard. - I hope this is not going to inflate your vanity, but you are considered to be quite fetching.  - Éofor made a bet that he would attract your interest and dance with you. He even wagered that he would kiss your hand, and that the size of the wineskin to be won would be dependent on whether he kissed the back of your hand, your fingers, your palm or the inside your wrist.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh’ indeed.”

“You could have simply told me,” she defied him, not at all pacified. “I am certain there would have been a way of retribution which did not include bloodshed. A tiny bit of common sense would have saved you from a broken nose and the Royal Guard from the fact that – after the indisposition of its Marshal – now its second in command is unfit for service.”

Lothíriel heard a sound she couldn’t quite identify. Then she realized that it was made by Amrothos’s teeth, which he was grinding together.

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel, you are usually not that dull-witted.” Instead of releasing her from his tight grip he brought his free hand to her other arm. “You are no longer a mere healer – you have never been a mere healer, by the way – you are the wife of a king in a foreign land. Or rather you are the foreign wife of a king, surrounded by people who will watch you, appraise you and form an opinion about you. The last thing you want them to begin with is that you are the subject of some lewd bet induced by a commonly known rake.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps . . . certainly,” Amrothos said almost to himself but then looked at her with a trace of sympathy. “But is certainly something ridiculous you should take seriously.”

Lothíriel snorted in response, “Of all the moronic pieces of advice you have ever bestowed upon me that is undoubtedly the most imbecile.”

“On the contrary, it is the most sensible,” he told her, keeping his tone matter-of-fact and even. “You are a Gondorian princess, having just become the Queen of Rohan and you still have to win the goodwill of the people of Rohan. Those peculiar charms of yours, which have obviously enchanted Éomer, bear no guarantee that they will win over his kinsmen.”

Lothíriel swallowed because she suddenly had a sour taste in her mouth. “You make it sound as if I had done something nefarious.”

He gave her smile, which today was even more lopsided than usual because of the swelling of his nose and right eye. “Midget, you would not know how to do something nefarious if you tried. I know that and Éomer knows it as well.”

“And that is all that counts,” she said emphatically.

“No, it is not,” Amrothos retorted even more forcefully. “Unless you were living on a remote - very remote island.” He frowned. “But then, Rohan has no coastline and therefore that is out of question anyway. You would have to opt for an almost inaccessible mountain peak.”

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. One should not expect Amrothos to indulge himself in sobriety for an extended period of time. At last he loosened his firm grip but only to begin waving his finger in front of her nose instead.

“You are Éomer’s wife and the Queen of Rohan. Let the Rohirrim get to know you before you begin to turn everything upside down. I know you are very fond of them and their ways, and they certainly are less presumptuous and doctrinaire than our own dear fellow countrymen. But they have prejudices of their own and those are not so very different from ours. There are things you, Lothíriel,” he emphasized, “simply cannot do, without giving the wrong impression and bringing damage to your reputation.” He rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I had never expected that one day I would feel inclined to give a homily to . . . anybody.”

“True,” Lothíriel said, sounding almost amused although she definitely didn’t feel that way. People misreading one’s actual intention, and drawing their own distorted conclusions, was certainly not restricted to her country of origin. She forced an ironic smile. “My brother Amrothos as the upholder of moral standards is definitely a contradiction in itself. Or shall we rather call them double standards?”

“Call them double standards; call me a hypocrite. Both are accurate – the latter at least concerning this matter. But you also have to accept that you cannot walk around and do things as you please and expect that everybody will judge your doings as they have been intended. When behaviour, such as the captain’s, puts your reputation at stake, it is a brother’s duty to ensure it stays above reproach.”

“I have a husband,” she reminded him, hoping nobody had told him – or Elphir or Erchirion – yet, about the significant roles of brothers in Rohirric tradition.

“Indeed,” Amrothos said slowly, giving his sister the impression that he was considering to prevaricate. “A husband who was not overly pleased that he had to watch his wife dance with a man who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

“And Éomer agreed that you of all people,” she ignored his inaudibly mumbled protest, “should take the matter into your own hands?” That rang as rather hard to believe.

“Not exactly,” Amrothos admitted, sounding a bit surly. “Erchirion was able to convince him.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound that came out was not precisely Westron. All she managed was something along the lines of, ‘Oooooh’, in a rather irate voice. She had to take a deep breath before she managed the next sentence. “Erchirion was involved as well? Who else? Elphir? Father? King Elessar?”

“Do not exaggerate,” Amrothos said for a second time that day and Lothíriel began to wish she had Master Ulger’s dagger with her. She would use it. She would hurt him. Not too badly, of course. And she had dressing material in her satchel. Therefore she could tend to him immediately after she had hurt him.

“This was entirely between Éomer, Erchirion and,” here he executed a hinted bow, “little me. However,” he continued quickly, obviously not willing to let her cut him off right now, “I decided not to notify your husband about the wager his captain and a few more riders of his guard had made. I feared it would mean somehow a loss of expectation of life for the aforementioned members of the Royal Guard.”  He tried to appear modest but rather looked pleased with himself. “Therefore you can see that I did my utmost to keep any bloodshed at the lowest possible level.”

Lothíriel was tempted to concede when he made the mistake to add, “And I had a bloody good time.”

“You had a good time having your nose broken?” Angrily she reached out, jabbing her forefinger in his face. Amrothos howled and staggered back. She had pained him. Very good. “You had a good time making me worry about you?” She was about to poke him in the chest. Hard. But she got interrupted by a cheerful,

“Amrothos.”

The siblings turned towards the voice to find Merewyn and the two Hobbits approaching in single file from the direction of the stables.

Amrothos held his hand protectively over his nose and muttered nasally, “Not another one.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.

When she had reached them, Lord Elfhelm’s daughter beamed at him. “There you are,” she stated, ignoring her queen.

“Yes, I had noticed, Merewyn, but thank you for pointing it out.”

The sarcasm bypassed the young girl. “I have been looking for you all over Edoras.” She tilted her head. “My, I must say. You look even more wretched than yesterday.”

Amrothos’s expression turned several shades darker.

Lothíriel bit her lips to keep from chuckling. “He had a somewhat agitated night,” she said sweetly.

“Could you not have given him some sleeping potion?” Merewyn asked her accusingly, all concern.

“Perhaps I shall do so today, so he will have a good night’s sleep.”

Her assurance appeared to satisfy Lord Elfhelm’s daughter. “What are you doing in this part of Edoras? It is not considered to be an agreeable area.”

“What do you mean by not agreeable?” Pippin inquired with obvious interest. “Do you mean it is of ill repute?”

“Yes, I think so,” Merewyn replied cheerfully. “I am not supposed to come here.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Amrothos wanted to know.

The girl wasn’t in the least impressed by his trenchant tone. “What are you doing here?” she asked back.

Only listening with half an ear to the subsequent dispute – Amrothos and Merewyn really seemed to suit each other quite well – Lothíriel had a look-around. She couldn’t detect anything ill-reputed, except that the whole area appeared to be rather shabby. There were no people around, only the guards on the wall-walk above them.

“You will have to ask my sister,” she heard Amrothos say. “She led the way.”

When Lothíriel turned towards them, she saw Merewyn looking at her expectantly. What was she supposed to answer? That she hadn’t really known where she was going, because she had been so cross with her brother? Her eye fell on the city’s fortifications in the background.

“I came here to have a closer look at the at wall construction,” she improvised and was rewarded by the perplexed expressions of her companions.

“The wall construction?” Merry asked dubiously, and like the others he turned around to examine the structure.

“Indeed,” Lothíriel confirmed. “It is built without any mortar to bind the stones together.” She had indeed planned to explore this distinctive feature of the fortifications of Edoras – just not today.

“How interesting,” Amrothos remarked in a voice that indicated exactly the opposite.

“I have always known that it was built without using any mortar,” Merewyn contemplated, “but it had never come to me that that is something remarkable.”

“Such ideas only come to my sister,” the object of the girl’s admiration said pointedly.

“If you wish to have a closer look you’d better climb up to the wall-walk,” Merry stated pragmatically, searching the area for the nearest staircase or ladder.

“Perhaps you three could have a look around for some way of ascending,” Amrothos suggested. “We will join you shortly. I just need a word with our Lady Queen here.”

The other three gazed at them with open curiosity. Lothíriel expected that at least one of them would demand more details about what this word was supposed to be about. But Merry only gave an obliging smile and nudged the two others forward with a non-committal, “’Til then.”

Lothíriel’s and Amrothos’s eyes followed them: not doubting that the threesome would indulge in some speculation and gossip as soon as they were around the next corner. The prince just waited to be sure that they were out of earshot before he tried to appeal again to his sister.

“Lothíriel,” he began with quiet intensity, “I just want you to understand . . .”

“I do understand, Amrothos,” she interrupted him. “I do understand quite well that a woman doesn’t have to do anything, but she can still be judged and condemned, while a man can do whatever he pleases and it will be neither noticed nor reprehended. I understand that, but I do not accept it. It is wrong, and I am not willing to yield to something that is not only wrong, but also stupid.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Just look at us. I, propriety incarnate, have to listen to my brother - who dallies with women indiscriminately - reprimand me about my conduct. That is ludicrous.”

“Not indiscriminately,” Amrothos emphasised. “Look, sister dearest, if you want to rebel against women’s lot in life and common hypocrisy in general, rebel. You have got my blessing. But before you call upon all females in Rohan to join you, inform your husband. Spouses, especially when they are kings, like to know about such endeavours beforehand.”

“What do you know about husbands?” she averted.

“They all begin with being men.”

“They are wedded men,” Lothíriel explained smugly. She had been dealing with a wedded man for a few days - and nights – now and that gave her certainly more experience in that matter than Amrothos. And just to peeve him – after all, he had been peeving her all day today – she added, “You should try it.”

“Try what?”

“Being wed.”

“What for?” he asked, his voice pure consternation.

Lothíriel allowed herself an inner smile. “For instance, you would not have to hope for a kind offer in the evenings.” She began to enjoy this conversation, despite herself.

“Lothíriel, I like wine. I do not own a vineyard.”

She went on, delighted that she was able to gall him. “We only need to find a suitable candidate.”

“Lothíriel . . .” There was a wealth of warning in his voice.

“How about Merewyn?”

“Mere. . . What has happened to your brain? She is half a child.”

“She is going to turn eighteen this summer. That is a suitable age. And she is in love with you.” It was somewhat uplifting to see – just for once - Amrothos speechless. “Do not tell me you did not know,” she added complacently.

“If that is true then it is some kind of puppy love. If she is in love with me, then it is because she does not know anything about love. That is why she is in love with me.”

One could always count on Amrothos to come up with an enlightening and perfectly confusing explanation.

“She might be of suitable age,” he continued, obviously more rattled than Lothíriel could have hoped for. “But I am not of a suitable age. I am not ready to wed. Wedlock: I do not even like the word. The emphasis is – for my taste - too much on lock. As in lock of a chain. As in chain around your neck. The chain of wedlock. A chain that is said to be so heavy that it takes two to carry it - and sometimes three.”

Lothíriel just blinked, surprised by the agitation with which he put his argument forward.

“I would not mind getting bonded myself one day. - After all, it must be so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. - However, I doubt that wedded bliss will be waiting for me in the foreseeable future. So do not dare to mention that ever again in public. It might put the wrong idea in certain people’s heads.”

“I have mentioned it only in private,” his sister reminded him, to ask belatedly but with interest, “In whose heads?” Surely after this tirade she was entitled to a more extensive explanation.

“Forget it,” he snubbed her and set out to catch up with their companions. Lothíriel looked thoughtfully after him. It seemed she had stepped on somebody’s toes. Somebody with corns on said toes. Suddenly she felt much better. How often did one emerge victorious from a cross-talk with Amrothos? Going after him she felt like skipping. It had been many years since she had skipped.

Amrothos was a few long strides ahead of her. When he reached the next corner, where the footpath curved around a house that shielded its further run, he came to an abrupt halt.

“What the heck . . .?” he called out and in the next instance tore off. “Have you gone mad?” Lothíriel could hear him shout. She started to run after him. Scampering around the quoin of the slightly crooked dwelling, she couldn’t quite make up her mind if she would find the sight that greeted her alarming or amusing.

There was not a staircase or ladder leading up to the wall-walk in sight, so the Hobbits had apparently decided to climb directly up the dry-stone wall. They were both lightweight and agile, and their bare, strong looking feet had undoubtedly found an easy hold in the gaps between the flattish stones. Unfortunately it seemed they had encouraged Merewyn to demonstrate her climbing abilities as well. However, riding boots – obviously the regular Rohirric footgear for both genders – had proved to be rather unsuitable for such an endeavour.

The girl was hanging like a fly on the wall, whilst Merry and Pippin were lying flat on their bellies on the walkway above her, holding her by her wrists. Wriggling desperately with her legs, their collaborator tried to find her footing.

Merry was shouting reassurances, Pippin was shouting constantly, “You are slipping; you are slipping,” Merewyn was more shrieking than shouting, “I am falling; I am falling,” and Amrothos was shouting useless instructions.

Of course, all that noise didn’t improve the situation at all.

Amrothos was attempting to support her from below but the girl’s feet were dangling just outside the reach of his outstretched arms. The Hobbits didn’t seem to be able to pull her up to them and Merewyn’s wriggling didn’t make it any easier for them to keep hold of her.

Lothíriel looked around for help; searching for the guards she had seen earlier on the wall-walk. She saw them about forty yards away, leaning against the palisade on top of the wall and probably watching out over the plains. They had yet to notice the drama – or perhaps farce – that was happening behind their backs.

She sighed. This would be a good moment to draw their attention with a loud whistle. Unfortunately she had never – despite Amrothos’s childhood attempts to teach her – mastered the art of blowing a whistle on her fingers.

“Amrothos.”

“What?” he snapped distracted.

“Whistle.”

“What?” He slanted her an irritable glare.

“The guards. Whistle for them.”

He had neither the chance to inquire what she was talking about nor to just do as he was told. It was that very moment that Merewyn slipped out of the grasp of the Hobbits and fell . . . and landed on Amrothos, dragging him to the ground.

The yelps of the hobbits mingled with the girl’s shriek – one more of amazement than of fright - and a cry of pain from Amrothos when he was thrown onto his back, with Merewyn’s full weight on top of him. Lothíriel could see clearly how the back of her head collided with his face. That couldn’t have done any good to his broken nose.

“Amrothos.” She rushed forward and hauled the girl off him. Her fall had been well cushioned by his body and Lothíriel doubted that she had suffered any serious injuries. Her entire concern at the moment was for her brother. He made agonizing sounds, his face was pain-racked and this time she was absolutely certain that he wasn’t putting on an act. She dropped to her knees next to him, ignoring Merewyn’s moaning that she hadn’t done it on purpose.

Well, of course not. Who would purposely squash a man one thought one was in love with?

“Amrothos, where does it hurt?” Lothíriel asked, remembering to use her soothing, matter-of-fact healer’s voice

She didn’t get an immediate answer. He just wheezed and grunted and pressed his hands against his ribs. She pushed them aside so that she could palpate his ribcage, proceeding as gently as possible.

“You have to breathe evenly.”

“Evenly?” he hissed. His healthy eye was open now and flashed at her in outrage. “Try evenly yourself after the calf of a mûmak has been dropped on you.”

At this Merewyn aborted the torrent of words that pledged how very sorry she was and gave an affronted snuffle. Lothíriel nearly grinned despite her concern.

“If you can get out such a sentence you can breathe deeply and evenly,” she told her brother. “Try to match my rhythm.” Catching his gaze with her own she breathed slowly in and out, in and out until his own respiration had calmed down again. Meanwhile she continued with her examination, palpating his entire upper body and his arms.

Behind her she heard, in quick succession, two plops. The Hobbits had joined them again.

“Is it something serious?” Pippin inquired in all innocence.

Amrothos growled dangerously. Lothíriel paid no attention to either of them.

“Your ribs do not seem to be broken but they are certainly bruised,” she resumed before taking her examination to his legs. Her fingers widespread, she slid her hands down his thigh. She had barely reached his knee when he yelped.

“Bloody . . .,” he howled but swallowed the curse he had had on his tongue. It was almost ridiculous that, even in this situation, his upbringing apparently prevented him from resorting to swearing in the presence of females.

Carefully, Lothíriel examined his lower leg, feeling her way over his shin with just her fingertips. When she touched his calf she could make out the offset of the bone.

Amrothos gave another hiss. “My bloody leg is broken.”

“Excuse me, but I think it is my prerogative to announce the outcome of my examination,” his sister reminded him, reassured by her findings. “It is not your leg that is broken, just the fibula.”

“Just the fibula?” Amrothos echoed, full of outrage. He tried to sit up, but sank back with another groan.

“Well, a break of the shinbone would be more serious,” Lothíriel declared.

“It feels as if my leg is broken,” he emphasized through gritted teeth.

“The fibula heals more quickly and you will not need a heavy splint, also, you will not be confined to bed for the entire time the bone takes to mend.” She was hit by his glare and added in an attempt to cheer him up, “Is that not some good news?”

Well, apparently not. The look at his face told her that her brother was considering sororicide.

“You have to be taken up to Meduseld where I can tend properly to you,” Lothíriel decided.

“Pippin and I can carry him,” Merry offered.

Amrothos started to protest and Lothíriel made haste to interrupt him before he said something insulting. She certainly didn’t think that it was commendable to have the Hobbits drag him all way up to the Golden Hall – more injuries could happen that way - but it was certainly possible to phrase it somewhat less offensively.

“I think we will need a bier to carry him all the way through the city. Perhaps one of you can run ahead and inform Mistress Ælfgyth,” she sighed, “and you had better also tell Éomer and my father that there has been an accident. They will have to arrange for a suitable means of transport.”

“But we cannot let Amrothos lie here on the ground,” Merewyn insisted, obviously no longer huffy about his earlier contempt.

“I am quite comfortable, thank you,” Amrothos snapped.

Lothíriel knew he was in pain not only from his leg – his nasal bone had at least been dislocated again when colliding with the back of Merewyn’s head – but he had no reason to be so rude. The poor girl looked like a kicked puppy.

“Amrothos, there was a short rain shower last night and the ground is still soggy.” Peering around, she wondered if it would not be better to let the Hobbits carry him to the rider’s quarters. “You cannot lie on the bare earth for too long or I might have to treat you for a common cold on top of everything else, possibly accompanied by a fever.”

“You are so reassuring,” Amrothos muttered with more than just a touch of sarcasm. “Your patients must really take comfort from your bedside manner.”

In the meantime Merry had wandered a short way further along the path and was now leaning with his forehead against a window, shielding his eyes with his hands against the reflection from the glass.

“My Lady,” he shouted, looking back at Lothíriel over his shoulder. “This is a drinking house. We can take your brother here where he should be more comfortable while Pippin and I run to the Hall and inform everybody about his mishap.”

“Your mishap,” the brother grunted.

Before Lothíriel could agree, Merry began to thump against the door of the house in question.

“You there! Open up!” he shouted loudly enough to draw the attention of anybody inside, but nothing happened and Merry resumed his hammering.

“Perhaps nobody is in,” Lothíriel asked him to consider.

The Hobbit returned to the window to peer once more through the dull glass. “I can see a hearth and an open fire. Who would leave their house with a fire burning unattended?”

Before Lothíriel could decide what to do next, Merry gave an exultant, “Ha!” He pointed at the window, or rather something inside the house. “Somebody is coming.” He made his way back to the door, which Lothíriel could hear opening with a creak. The mountings were in need of some grease.

“Good day, Mistress,” she heard her short friend greet whoever had answered the door. “There had been an accident and we have to seek help from Meduseld. For the time being we must ask you to grant the victim your hospitality.”

“Victim is the right choice of word,” Amrothos growled.

“‘Wel, gīese . . . gewiss,” a woman said with a breathy voice, sounding like somebody who had just been awoken from deep sleep. “Who . . .” the lady of the house cleared her throat. “Who had the accident?”

“Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth,” Merry informed her and hastened back to Lothíriel’s side.

“Hwæt?”  Utmost disbelieve in her voice, the speaker stepped out of her house.

Only fleetingly, Lothíriel slanted her a gaze over her shoulder and nodded her greetings, wondering why somebody should be wearing only a chemise in the middle of the day.

But for now she had to attend to relocating Amrothos, making sure the Hobbits handled him without adding to his present injuries.

“Peregrin, you take him at his shoulders. Slide your hands under his armpits,” she commanded, not wanting to leave her brother’s welfare to chance – or the discretion of the Hobbits. “Meriadoc, you will take his thighs just above his knees.” She put more confidence in Merry to exercise his task with reasonable care and caution and therefore let him carry the injured limb. “I will try to brace his lower leg.”

“What can I do?” Merewyn asked obligingly, keeping herself in the background

“Nothing, thank you,” Amrothos rebuffed her. “You have done enough already.”

“Amrothos,” Lothíriel admonished him. “That is unjust. Nobody asked you to stand below her when she fell.”

She ignored his disgruntled retort. “All set?” she addressed the Hobbits. “Well, then . . . together.”

They lifted up the Prince, who hissed and bit his lips. Lothíriel was relieved to see that the Hobbits had no problem carrying Amrothos. They were much stronger than they appeared at first sight. One tended to forget that they were grown men.

Keeping her brother’s leg as immobile as possible, the three of them swiftly took him towards the house, where the landlady still stood just outside the door, watching them with a perfectly stunned expression.

“Where can we put him down?” Lothíriel asked her whilst she and Merry made an effort to manoeuvre through the narrow door without inflicting additional pain to their burden.

“Ēaðe mæg . . . a table?” the woman answered unsurely.

Probably the best idea, Lothíriel considered. Amrothos wouldn’t be here for very long. There was no reason to prepare a bed for him.

“The one next to the hearth,” she decided and her helpers placed their patient with astonishing carefulness on the roughly made, decrepit furniture.

“Are you well, Amrothos?”

“I am still among the living.”

For a healer the snappishness of those under one’s care didn’t bear any surprises. One had learnt to disregard it.

“We are off now to get help,” Merry announced. “We will make haste. You will not have to wait long.” And both Hobbits pranced out of the house with their customary agility.

Lothíriel thought it was time to thank their hostess for her hospitality. She turned towards the woman, a movement which alone seemed to prompt a rather ungainly curtsey. The woman was indeed only wearing a washed-out chemise under a shawl of coarse wool, worn around narrow shoulders. An untidy braid of yellowish blond hung down to her waist. Her features were harsh and worn-out, showing a tiredness not due to lack of sleep. Her pale blue eyes were looking at Lothíriel with a mixture of awkwardness and suspicion, as if she was expecting something unpleasant to happen.

Lothíriel smiled at her. “It is very kind of you to harbour my brother until he can be taken to the Great Hall.”

The woman only acknowledged her words with a timid nod and Lothíriel began to wonder if her knowledge of Westron might be insufficient. So she tried her rudimentary Rohirric.

“Iċ Þoncie Þē,” she said, and added after some thought, “for ēower fultume.” The woman just gave a surprised blink. Lothíriel nearly frowned. The woman didn’t give the impression that she was daft and she had talked earlier to Merry. Perhaps it would be easier to communicate if she knew their hostess’s name

“Hwaet is þīn nama?”

The woman cleared her throat once again. “I am Brictwen. I speak the common tongue. A little.”

“I am quite relieved. I speak the language of the Mark even less.”

Her attention was drawn by Amrothos who appeared quite agitated, moving around on the table. She put her hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“I know you are in pain, Amrothos, but it will only make it worse if you fidget.” She put her satchel next to the table-leg. The furniture gave a rather ramshackle impression.

“Lothíriel, you and Merewyn should really go back to the Hall,” her brother suggested, very much to her surprise. “I am certain Merry will soon bring somebody to take me there.”

“You cannot seriously think that I will just leave you here,” she retorted annoyed. “Let us see if we can it make more comfortable for you.”

“Lothíriel  . . .”

As a sister of three overbearing older brothers she had gained plenty of experience in just ignoring them.

“Mistress Brictwen, do you have a cushion or perhaps a blanket we can roll up to prop his head?”

“Of course.”

Their hostess’s gaze focused on something behind her back and when Lothíriel turned around she found two other females hovering in the shadows of a doorway. Behind them was obviously a bedchamber because both women were also only wearing chemises as if they had been disturbed in their sleep by the unexpected arrival of their equally unexpected guests.

Well, this was an alehouse and the women were therefore quite likely tavern wenches who probably had to work until the wee hours of the morning and slept during the day.

“Iċ brenge ðīn hwæthwugu,” one of the women said and disappeared inside the bedchamber.

Lothíriel turned back to their hostess. “Mistress Brictwen, I regret that you are obviously losing your sleep because of our calamity.”

“Calamity is a very good choice of word,” Amrothos muttered loudly in a tone somewhere between impatience and desperation. The pain he was experiencing must be more severe than Lothíriel had thought; otherwise she couldn’t understand his agitation.

With an uncertain glance at the injured man, the landlady finally decided to respond with more than the bare necessary words.

“It is nothing to speak of, my Lady Queen. Is there anything else we can get you?”

“No, many thanks. I am certain we will be gone shortly.”

“Only if the Valar eventually decide to grant me at least a grain of mercy today,” Amrothos announce pungently.

The tavern wench returned with a knitted plaid. Lothíriel accepted it with thanks and rolled it up as a makeshift pillow.

“Amrothos, could you please try and be less ill-mannered.” She placed the cushion beneath his head. “Pain does not excuse everything.”

He glared at her, which looked actually - because of his swollen face - quite comical. “Sister dearest, sometimes I really do wonder what sphere you live in.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked irritably.

“I am talking about . . .” he began but was interrupted by a man suddenly bursting through the door. Dim as it was in the low room and having the daylight behind him, Lothíriel was only able to identify Ceorl when he spoke.

“My Lady, I hoped that what the ‘hol-bytlas’ told us was not true.”

“That my brother broke his fibula?” Lothíriel asked, taken slightly aback by his somehow freaked behaviour. Why should he be so worried about Amrothos? “I can assure you I am perfectly able to recognize a broken bone. But it is really only half as bad as it sounds.”

She had expected an offended protest from her brother, that she was playing down his injury, but instead Amrothos twisted his neck so he was able to look at Éomer’s standard-bearer.

“Ceorl, please tell me that this is not what I think it is,” he pleaded.

“I am afraid it is.”

“Is there a particular reason why the two of you are talking in riddles?” Lothíriel demanded impatiently.

“My Lady, Merry and Pippin told us that they were on their way to get help. I think that soon somebody will come with a bier and take your brother back to Meduseld. You really do not have to wait here and neither does Merewyn. Why do you not let me accompany you and her to . . . anywhere else?”

Ceorl sounded rather urgent and just before he had arrived Amrothos had tried to get rid of her – or rather to get her out of here. Lothíriel looked around. Was there something uncommon about this drinking house? Something other than it just being shabby with decrepit furniture and an unpleasant smell of stale spirits? It was certainly not inviting but she had never been to a drinking house before. Females – at least the unwedded variety - were not supposed to go there and her father or brothers would have never given thought to taking her to one. There had been no reason to go there anyway. Drinking houses were meant for men who had the wish to consume strong spirits.

However, at the moment there weren’t any drinking men around. Therefore why were they so insistent upon removing her from these premises?

The shape of another man appeared in the doorway.

“What a fair assembly in this of all places.”

It was Captain Éofor.

“What brings you here?” Lothíriel asked. She hoped that Merry and Pippin wouldn’t tell everybody they encountered on their way through the city about Amrothos’s mishap. In that case it could take until dark before they returned with a bier and a couple of bearers. “Has your bandage already dried completely?”

“Mostly,” Éofor came inside. “I felt I had to see with my own eyes that you, my Lady Queen, are indeed under the roof of Brictwen’s ‘drynchus’.” His tone of voice could only be described as gleeful through and through. “And that because of your brother. Éomer King will not be pleased.”

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo

Éomer had the unpleasant feeling that he was going to get a headache. Over the past year he had experienced this sensation quite regularly. It always came when he had to spend a considerable amount of time in confined spaces. Spaces he was confined to because somebody needed to hold counsel with him. And those counsels tended to last most of the day, because everybody attending them wanted to take an active part.

Meaning: they wished to speak.

That somebody said something didn’t mean necessarily that that particular somebody had actually something to say. Or something new to say. People - especially members of a royal council – apparently, not only repeated themselves constantly but also repeated what others had already said. Perhaps they would phrase it differently but the contents were simply the same.

Not that those who had come together today in the council chamber of Meduseld were blethers. At least not Aragorn. He kept his contributions clear and brief and he had the undisputable talent to take others, who digressed, back to the actual subject.

Legolas didn’t say a lot anyway. Most of the time he restricted his activities to sitting nearly motionless and listening. Éomer hadn’t made up his mind yet if he should envy him for this ability. He himself began feeling restless almost as soon as he had settled down behind his desk or at a meeting table.

In regards to Imrahil: Éomer gradually began see from whom Lothíriel had inherited her disposition for unorthodox trains of thought. Granted, those of the Lord of Dol Amroth were more methodical, but he came up with approaches and demurs nobody else would have considered. At least he, Éomer, wouldn’t have and from the reactions of the others one could detect that they felt similarly. No wonder Aragorn preferred to keep the Prince at his side in Minas Tirith.

Elfhelm and Erkenbrand were warriors. They were accustomed to the short-spoken, firm, sometimes even gruff communication between riders. Erkenbrand didn’t feel compelled to adapt his tone to different situations, but it appeared that everybody could live with it. And Éomer knew his Marshal of the Eastmark well enough to guess that Elfhelm only said what was absolutely necessary because any needless word spoken would only keep him for longer inside this council chamber.

It was Gandalf who took up most of the time. He tended to deviate from the subject, reminiscing about occurrences that had taken place hundreds of years in the past. He appeared to be in a rather nostalgic and wistful mood these days. Éomer wondered if that was caused, as it was for men, by old age.

And Gimli simply loved telling tales - tales about dwarfish greatness and of course about his own exploits. Nearly anything one said made him remember something remarkable he needed to share. Usually Éomer enjoyed his short friend’s lively storytelling, but his own thoughts were drawn in increasingly shorter intervals to another subject; he was thinking about Lothíriel. He wouldn’t go as far as calling it daydreaming.

He felt a bit guilty. He had failed to inquire this morning what she had planned to do all day. Thoughtlessly, he had left her to her own resources. He should have made certain that somebody, preferably Cynewyn, would keep her company. But she had not given the impression that she felt lonely or abandoned and he had already had his thoughts focused on the day ahead. He still needed to get used to the idea of having a wife.

He wondered what she had done to occupy herself. Lothíriel wasn’t somebody to sit around idly all day.

“Éomer?”

Aragorn’s amused voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw seven pairs of eyes watching him quizzically. Was he supposed to answer a question he had missed?

“Wool-gathering?” the High King asked mildly, but with a hint of mockery in his voice.

Éomer cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should call a break, stretch our legs, take a bite to eat?” he improvised and found grins appearing on his companions’ faces.

“Yes, that settles my earlier inquiry,” Aragorn stated with a chuckle.

A forceful knock at the door forestalled any further remarks. Without waiting for an answer, the door was pushed open and the two Hobbits stumbled into the room.

“My Lords, I am sorry to interrupt,” Merry began, but Pippin chipped in immediately.

“There was an accident,” he blurted out.

“What accident?” Éomer demanded.

“Your wife sent us,” Pippin informed him instead of a direct answer.

It felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. Éomer shot up from his chair, knocking it over backwards. “Lothíriel has had an accident?”

“No, no,” Merry hastened to reassure him. “Not your Lady; her brother.”

Éomer allowed himself an audible sigh of relief. From across the table he heard Imrahil giving a groan of his own.

“Do I need to ask which of my sons had this accident?"

“Prince Amrothos.”

“Yes,” was all the Lord of Dol Amroth found necessary to remark.

“Your lady wife examined him,” Pippin supplied, nodding at Éomer, who thought that it really wasn’t necessary to single him out. There weren’t any others around who had wives who were likely to examine accident-prone princes. “He broke his leg . . . or his lower leg . . . or a part of his lower leg, which is not so important,” the Hobbit added as further information.

“How did this happen?” Éomer asked, turning towards Merry from whom he expected a slightly less confusing account, “And where? Were the Queen and you with him?”

“We accompanied our Lady Queen all morning all through Edoras, and later, down at the stables, Prince Amrothos joined us . . .” Merry began his explanations but he was proceeding too slowly for Pippin’s taste.

“. . . and then the Marshal’s daughter fell on him.”

That statement first needed to be digested by everybody present. Éomer caught himself slanting Erkenbrand an uneasy glance. Being hit by one of his daughters was – no doubt - likely to cause serious injuries.

“Marshal Elfhelm’s daughter,” Merry clarified, having followed his gaze.

“What?” This time it was the Marshal of the Eastmark whose chair got knocked over.

Opposite him sat the Elf, motionless. Only his facial muscles were twitching ever so slightly. His dwarfish companion also kept quiet – for a change. Under his bushy brows his eyes were darting from one speaker to the next.

From where Gondor’s King was sitting, his Rohirric counterpart heard a treacherous noise. He avoided looking at his friend.

“Merry,” he said sharply to get his shorts friend’s undivided attention and raised his hand to shut Pippin up. “Why did Merewyn fall on Amrothos?”

“She was trying to climb after us up to the wall-walk but she slipped. When she fell, the Prince tried to catch her, but she dragged him with her to the ground and he broke his leg.” That was certainly a rather rudimentary narration but had to suffice for now. He was not going to inquire why they had felt it necessary to climb up to the wall-walk. It would only distract from the true matter.

“Is she also injured?” Elfhelm asked with a mixture of concern and chagrin.

“No, the prince’s body cushioned her fall.”

“Lothíriel was right,” Imrahil stated calmly. “He has his uses.” The others stared at him with different degrees of consternation, but the Dúnadan just shrugged his shoulders. “If he were seriously injured, Lothíriel would have wreaked havoc over this city in order to have him taken care of.”

“There is probably some truth to that,” Gandalf remarked with the same inappropriate calmness.

“Your lady wife sent us to inform you and to have a bier brought down to the stables,” Merry remembered his assignment.

That Lothíriel should have wandered voluntarily to the stables puzzled her husband. That was certainly not the first place he would have expected her to go.

“Where exactly are they?”

“We left them in a drinking house.”

“A drinking house?” Suddenly he felt collywobbles. “Near the stables?” He exchanged a troubled glance with Elfhelm.

“Yes,” Pippin confirmed, no longer able to confine himself to being a mere onlooker in this conversation. “The landlady’s name is Brictwen.”

Erkenbrand began to cough whilst Elfhelm uttered, “Bema, gemiltsest.” It sounded more like a curse.

Éomer found that he had to make an effort to think straight. Somehow his mind refused to accept what he just learnt. How Lothíriel had managed to end up, on the first day he couldn’t be constantly at her side, in the most notorious dive in the whole of Rohan was beyond him.

Having caught the strange reactions of the three Rohirrim, Imrahil’s gaze moved from one to the other, finally coming to rest on his son-in-law’s face. “Is there something out of the ordinary with that particular drinking house?” he asked.

How did you tell your wife’s father – any father – that his daughter had taken up temporary residence in a place that could with less goodwill be described as a bawdy house?

“It is certainly not a place where I wish my daughter to be,” Elfhelm took it upon himself to answer. He turned to set up his chair. He nodded at Éomer. “I will see to the appropriate means of transport. I suppose I will meet you at Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’?”

He left the council chamber. Imrahil looked thoughtfully after him. “And I suppose I also should not like knowing that my daughter is in that place?”

“Indeed,” Éomer responded grimly, getting on the move and leaving his chair where it lay. “And I better get her out of there without further delay.”

He hadn’t reached the door when his friend called him back.

“Éomer.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Aragorn setting up his abandoned chair.

“Do you think it advisable for the King to be seen in that place?”

Éomer growled and refrained from answering what was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he snapped at Pippin just because he was closest to him.

“What was she doing in that part of the city anyway?”

The usually unflappable Hobbit took a step backwards and blinked under the ferocious glare of Rohan’s King.

“The Queen? She went to the riders’ quarters to apply a new bandage to Captain Éofor’s hand.”

This time Éomer felt like he’d been punched on his nose. Without another word he stormed out of the room before he could do or say something he would undoubtedly regret later. And he hoped that on his way through the city he would calm down enough so that he wouldn’t do or say anything to his wife he might regret later.

TBC

‘Wel, gīese . . . gewiss’ – well, yes . . . of course

‘Ēaðe mæg’ - perhaps

‘Iċ Þoncie Þē ēower fultume.’ – Thank you for your help.

‘Hwaet is þīn nama?’ – What is your name?

‘Iċ brenge ðīn hwæthwugu.’ – I bring you something.

‘hol-bytlas’ – hole-dwellers/Hobbits

‘Bema, gemiltsest’ – Bema, be merciful

‘drenchūs’ – drinking house/tavern

Courtly love (Minne) was in Medieval Europe a formalized system of admiration and courtship of a gentle knight towards an unavailable lady, usually a person married to someone other than the admirer, and generally of higher status. One way for the lady to acknowledge the – supposed to be chaste - courtship was to let her admirer kiss her hand. Depending on the degree of her affection, he would be allowed to kiss the back of her hand, her fingers, her palm or the inside of her wrist – where he could feel with his lips the beating of her heart.