Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 10

The next day, Lothíriel brought her painting materials with her to the library. As promised, Weynild had located Queen Morwen's desk for her, a beautiful piece of furniture, light and elegant, its wood polished to perfection until it gleamed with a warm, golden sheen. The housekeeper had it positioned near the window, where the light was best, at an angle to Éomer's own desk.

Lothíriel started reordering the library, but did not progress very quickly. To Éomer's secret amusement and her own mortification, she kept getting distracted and ended up reading the books instead of cataloguing their content and putting them away. Éomer very cannily added to this temptation by having the window seat fitted with comfortable cushions. He liked her company and had no interest in having her finish her self-appointed task anytime soon. Perhaps he should write to Aragorn for copies of more volumes from Minas Tirith's famous archives?

He was sitting in the library, going through a packet of letters delivered that morning by the weekly courier from Gondor, when Lothíriel opened the door, a piece of cloth tucked under her arm and carrying a flat wooden box with a satchel balancing on top of it.

Upon spotting him, she hesitated in the doorway. "I'm sorry, I hope we're not disturbing you?"

He smiled an invitation to her. "Not at all, please come in."

Reassured, she entered the room. Tarcil followed her, carrying a tray with a jug of water and a couple of glasses, a look of concentration on his face.

Éomer jumped up. "Let me give you a hand."

But she shook her head. "Please do not let me keep you from your work. Is it all right if Tarcil stays? He has promised to be quiet."

"Yes, of course."

No matter how often he told her that she was welcome in the library, she still apologised for interrupting him at his duties. Which was ironic, considering that most of the household probably thought it his foremost kingly duty to spend more time with her and finally get to the point.

If only it were that easy.

He smiled at Tarcil. "Are you helping your mother?"

The boy nodded. "I'm good at drawing, too," he announced.

The tray wobbled dangerously, and Éomer relieved him of his burden. "Really? You have to show me."

"I will."

Under Lothíriel's direction the boy helped to spread the cloth, an old linen sheet by the looks of it, on her desk. Éomer set down the tray and watched with interest as she began to unpack her drawing implements from the satchel: a set of paintbrushes rolled up in a leather case, several small knives with fine blades and a pestle and mortar. Finally she got out a long leather tube of the type to keep maps in.

"Paper from Pelargir," she explained. "They make the very best quality, so I always get my supplies from there."

"And what's in there?" Éomer asked, pointing at the wooden box.

Flat and about the size of a large book, it was a work of art in itself, with its lid beautifully inlaid in an abstract pattern of different coloured woods.

Lothíriel stroked the box lovingly. "My pigments."

She slid open the latch and carefully folded back the lid. The inside held four rows of small jewellery boxes nestled close together and further cushioned by red velvet lining the top and sides. The boxes themselves were worked from chased gold and decorated with fine patterns.

She opened one to show him a bright scarlet powder. "The Haradrim call this Kermes, it's actually made from insects, I've seen it prepared." Other boxes held ground malachite, several shades of ochre and a different, much darker red.