Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 13

After that day, Lothíriel avoided him. There was no more working in the library together in companionable silence; she only sat there when he was busy elsewhere. Their rides together ceased, as did her visits to the training grounds. And if she encountered him in the hallway, she would avert her eyes and pass him quickly, just giving a polite nod.

He only saw her at meal times, when she was barricaded by the other women, and even then she never lingered. It hurt him to see her so subdued, and he blamed himself for making her unhappy. But he had learnt his lesson: the next time he spoke to her, it would be in private.

The problem was, he didn't know what to say. Éomer felt torn and confused at the realisation that she had loved her husband. For a bit he tried to tell himself that she had only done it because of being completely in the man's power. But it didn't work. The way she had drawn him, each stroke of the pen affectionate, gave lie to that idea.

Éomer could almost have wished that his suspicions were true and her husband had abused her. It would have been easier. Yet he immediately felt ashamed of his thoughts.

He was not such a fool as to deny his enemies their humanity. They dreamt, they hoped, they hurt like any of the Rohirrim. Their mothers loved them and grieved at their death. But a Haradrim king? Men who had been bent on Gondor and Rohan's destruction for centuries, a byword for oppression and cruelty.

What had she seen in the man to make him worthy of her love? He hated the thought of Lothíriel in the Harad king's bed, but even more he hated the idea of her going to him willingly. And then he hated himself for wanting her to suffer. It drove him crazy.

Under the circumstances, it was a welcome relief to keep himself busy with preparations for their visit to the Eastemnet. Lothíriel had at first wanted to stay behind, but Tarcil was set on going. In the end she agreed to come, perhaps as much to get away from Edoras and the constant whispers behind her back as anything.

They set out early one morning. He was reminded of another dawn, three months ago, on the shores of the Bay of Belfalas. Little had he known then how much Lothíriel would come to disturb his peace of mind.

It would be a much shorter journey this time though, even travelling slowly. One day would get them to the Entwade, where they would ford the River Entwash, and another to the camp of horse herders with whom he had arranged to stay. He knew the two dozen families from his time as Third Marshal, since they usually overwintered in the Fold near Aldburg after spending the summer out on the Emnet.

Lothíriel kept company with Leofrun, while he rode at the front. His riders had been cautious around him lately, speaking little and being careful not to draw down his ire on them. Indeed, for once even Éothain held back on offering unwanted advice. Éomer noticed, of course, but a man had a right to be grumpy when crossed in love.

Only the children were unaffected by the tension. Tarcil and Hildwyn raced ahead on their ponies, excited to be going somewhere new. Wearing Rohirrim clothes and completely at home on horseback, Tarcil looked like a child of the Eorlingas, only his dark hair distinguishing him from the other children. And once they reached the Emnet and played in the muddy ponds there, probably even that distinction would be gone.

The boy had surprised Éomer by informing him that he considered it a good idea that he wanted to marry his mother. Éomer had been briefly flattered, until it emerged that he owed this endorsement to being favourably compared to Eradan. Tarcil seemed to consider him a convenient stopgap to prevent his mother marrying a man like the Gondorian lord.

Khuri, who had been present when the boy innocently explained his reasoning, knew better than to smirk, but had worn a distinctly stuffed expression. At least she was one of the few who still faced him at the practise grounds without flinching. After a strenuous bout with her, he usually felt marginally better.