Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 2

Lady Lothíriel proved true to her word. On the day set for their departure, she awaited them in the courtyard at dawn, all ready and with a yawning Tarcil sitting before her on her horse. Éomer was surprised to see that her tent and all her belongings fitted on only two pack horses. She brought no servants along either, except for the Haradric woman warrior, who stood by her own horse, watching their preparations closely.

They had another addition to their party however, a grumpy Amrothos. He had been ordered by Imrahil to escort his sister to Rohan, though neither of the siblings thought this necessary.

Éomer had seen nothing more of the princess during his time in Dol Amroth and was glad to find, when exchanging a few polite words with her, that he could do so perfectly easily. The unsettling influence she'd had on him seemed to have worn off. But even so he decided to keep his distance.

Though he had enjoyed his stay with Imrahil, he was looking forward to going home again, for he had been away for nearly two months, first visiting Aragorn in Minas Tirith, then Éowyn and Faramir in Emyn Arnen. On the way back home they would pass under the mountains, the quickest route now that the dead had been laid to rest by Aragorn. His couriers already used it regularly, and he had plans to improve the road and promote it as a trade route.

Lady Lothíriel was saying her good-byes to her family, who had come to see them off. Imrahil wore a pinched look of worry, though he valiantly tried to suppress it, while Elphir was grave and Erchirion impassive as always.

Éomer clasped his friend's arm. "She'll be fine. I'll look after her."

Imrahil forced a smile. "My thanks."

Amongst many good wishes they rode out the castle gate, the jingle of their tack and clop of the horses' hooves echoing back from the stone. Winter had made a return, and fog enveloped them like a grey, damp blanket as they made their way across the salt marshes bordering the coast.

Dol Amroth was situated on a peninsula, so at first they followed the shore of the Bay of Cobas Haven in a semicircle towards the north. Lady Lothíriel had wrapped a big, shapeless cloak around herself and Tarcil, drawing up the hood. They passed a few fishing villages where Amrothos was greeted by name, but Éomer doubted that anybody recognised her.

Towards noon, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing away the mist in large swathes like torn banners, and a weak sun broke through. They were going at an easy trot, but he noticed her slowing her horse and turning in the saddle to look across the bay. Following her eyes, he saw far behind them the castle of Dol Amroth emerging on its rocky outcrop as if floating above the waves. It was a brave sight. Éomer had the feeling he had seen it before somewhere – of course, the picture in Imrahil's library. Lady Lothíriel looked at it for a long moment, but then resolutely turned away and urged her horse forward to catch up with her brother.

After that the road turned inland along the foot of the hills of Tarnost. The trees clothing them, mostly beech and chestnut, were still bare, but at their feet snowdrops and wood anemones were putting forth fresh green leaves. When they stopped for their midday meal in a sheltered spot, it was warm enough to dispense with their cloaks and sit on the ground.

Imrahil's kitchen had provided them generously with fresh bread, cheese and meats, enough to last them to the next major town, so they ate well. Éomer also welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs. Catching sight of Lady Lothíriel dismounting, he frowned. She was an excellent rider, obviously schooled from childhood and sensibly dressed in leggings and a riding skirt split down the middle, but she moved stiffly, as if she ached. Holding on to the boy the whole time had to be a bit of a strain too.

Tarcil scampered off to explore the banks of a small stream, closely supervised by the watchful woman warrior, Khuri. His mother strolled after them more slowly and leant against a tree to watch them and have her meal. When Éomer joined her, she looked up in surprise, but gave a polite smile. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak, and the torc at her throat gleamed golden in the sunshine.