Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 6

The next day Amrothos left for Gondor, but got off to a late start. Which was not surprising, considering the tankards of ale they had emptied the night before, Éomer thought when they assembled in the courtyard below Meduseld to send him off. The furry feeling in his mouth and an insistent throbbing behind his temples brought back memories of Cormallen.

Meduseld's cook Freawaru had served her evil tasting mint and fennel tea at the breakfast table, which was supposed to make you feel better, but at first just made death seem all the more attractive by comparison. The only concession to him being the lord of the hall was a jar of honey to sweeten the foul brew.

The corners of Lothíriel's mouth quirked when she spotted the two of them. Éomer just hoped he did not look quite as seedy as Amrothos. At least the chilly wind had a reviving effect.

A groom from the royal stable led up Mellon and Amrothos's own horse. Éomer had also organised a couple of riders to escort his friend as far as Minas Tirith, where he was heading to take part in the celebration of the victory over Sauron. Most of the nobility of Gondor would be there, and Éomer had been invited too, but he preferred to spend the day with his own people.

While Lothíriel fussed over Mellon one last time, feeding him carrots and stroking him, Tarcil inundated his uncle with messages to his cousin Alphros.

"Make sure to tell him about Lýtling," he said, "that I have my own real Rohirric war pony. And that we took the Paths of the Dead. And that Éothain has taught me how to hit a target from horseback. And–"

"Enough," Amrothos laughed, then winced. "I promise to deliver a full report of all your doings. But if you want to make sure Alphros hears about all your exploits, you just have to get your mother to write to Dol Amroth regularly."

He took Éomer's arm and pulled him a little apart. "My friend, a quick word with you." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Lothíriel and lowered his voice. "You'll look after her." It was a command, not a question.

Éomer inclined his head. "I will defend her with my life if necessary."

Amrothos measured him with his eyes, but did not look surprised. What rumours had he heard? "Do I need to ask you about your intentions?"

"I hold your sister in the highest respect," Éomer said stiffly. "If you think I would offer her the insult of–"

"No, no." Amrothos held up his hand. "I trust your honour, my friend." He watched his sister for a moment longer. "She seems happy enough here, more relaxed than at home at least, if not her former self. Perhaps that is what she needs: a fresh start far away from home. So I wish you luck." He sighed. "Ever since she returned from Harad, she's been like a woman carrying a heavy weight of stone." His voice sank. "But if you add as much as a pebble to that load, know that I will call you to account, king or not."

"You'd have every right." Éomer caught sight of Khuri standing on the stairs above them, her arms crossed on her chest, watching them through narrowed eyes. "You might have to wait in line though."

Amrothos suddenly grinned and clapped him on the back. "True. But I could always mop up the pieces after she's through with you."

Éomer grinned back. "How kind of you."

Amrothos took hold of his horse's reins, ruffled Tarcil's hair one last time and finally turned to say good-by to his sister. They looked at each other for a long moment, then she threw her arms around him.

"Take care, little one," Amrothos whispered into her hair. "Don't do anything foolish."

"You're a right one to talk." She gave him a wobbly smile. "Don't take any risks chasing pirates. Remember, there's always more of them to be had."