Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 11

Every now and again for the next few days, Éomer pondered the puzzle that Lothíriel had handed him, but without finding a resolution. It was as if the ground he was standing on, which had seemed to firm, had subtly shifted.

Lothíriel herself was completely unaware of his thoughts. She was far too busy, first mixing her paints, being very particular about the exact shades she wanted, then starting on the painting proper. At least she was enjoying herself, often humming under her breath. It made him grin how she would stop guiltily, even though he had assured her it did not disturb him, only to fall back into the habit when she got caught up in her work again.

Gradually they settled into a routine, spending the mornings in the library and sharing a light midday meal before he headed down to the training grounds in the afternoon. Occasionally they would go for rides, often with the children, but sometimes just with a small escort along. Lothíriel loved it when she could let Shirram have his head.

Even after she had finished her painting and Éomer had it framed, packed very carefully and dispatched to Éowyn at Emyn Arnen, she continued to keep him company in the library. The books still needed sorting and she would write letters, teach Tarcil or work on her drawings. Often he would look up from his own papers, catch her eye and exchange a smile.

Yes, she was happy to be in the Mark and spend her days with him. Now if only she would spend her nights with him too. But always there was that reserve she retreated into when pushed too far. And he remembered all too clearly what she had said about marrying again, comparing it to a bird flying back into its cage.

Whatever had happened in Harad had marked her deeply. From what her family had told him, he had assumed she had suffered from her husband's brutality – straightforward in its own way. Now he began to wonder if she had been more subtly abused. The hurts of the spirit could be more difficult to heal than the hurts of the body.

But all he could do was to give her time. So he talked of simple things, making plans for seeing other parts of the Mark and visiting the Eastemnet once the horse herds headed out there. He was content to see her relax, be at ease around him and make new friends, counting her smiles as his reward. Yet in the evenings, when he lay in his big, empty bed, he would often stare at the connecting door, so tantalisingly unlocked, and bury his head in the cushions with a groan.

As such it almost came as a relief to be away for a couple of days when he was invited to attend a wedding in Harrowdale, one of Déormund's nieces marrying a local farmer. He had long talks with his old friend, managed to mostly avoid Déorwenna's company and enjoyed the music and food. Even so, at odd moments, he found himself missing Lothíriel, and Tarcil too. It was worrying how those two had stolen their way into his heart and yet he had no idea how they felt about him. Or at least how Lothíriel felt. Tarcil had long ago adopted the attitude of Éothain's twins and regarded him as a source of entertainment and an ally against maternal oppression.

It was a warm, early summer's day when Éomer rode back to Edoras. High overhead swifts dived and soared, their shrill cries filling the air. In the small hamlets lining the road farmers tended their kitchen gardens and on the hillside sheep grazed, the lambs like little white dots against the fresh green grass.

As always his heart rose upon seeing the Golden Hall glinting in the afternoon sun, though it would have been even nicer to have a certain black-haired lady of Gondor awaiting his return. For a moment he indulged himself with the picture of Lothíriel rushing down the steps and flinging herself into his arms. However, the horns announcing the arrival of the Lord of the Mark only brought the stable lads running.

Éomer preferred to look after Firefoot himself, so he waved them away. In the stables he noticed some horses he had not seen before, but before he could ask about them, his attention was claimed by Shirram, the stallion kicking the walls of his box, looking restless.