Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 17

They arrived back in Edoras early in the afternoon. Éomer heaved a sigh of relief when the familiar hill came into view, Meduseld perched on the top, its roof glittering golden in the sun. Home. He still stayed alert though, for the feeling of having hostile eyes observing them had never quite left him. He would not be completely at ease until the remaining Haradrim had all been caught.

Tarcil had dozed for most of the time, complaining every now and again that his head hurt and refusing to ride with anybody but his mother. They had given him sips of water to make up for the loss of blood, but it worried Éomer how little like his usual cheerful self the boy was.

When they reached the town, they caused a stir. The guards at the gate had announced his arrival by blowing their horns; many people came running to see what had caused this unexpected early return.

They must have looked a sight, all of them splattered with gore, and him and his men worse for wear after their long ride, their horses exhausted. Tarcil lay in Lothíriel's arms with his eyes closed, his face pale and head bandaged. Fresh blood had started to seep through Leofrun's scarf, staining Lothíriel's tunic.

Éomer fended off all questions, just giving curt reassurances that the threat had been dealt with. He had sent one of his riders ahead to alert Healer Brictwen, and the woman awaited them on the steps to Meduseld. While the stable lads led the horses off to mangers full of well-earned oats, Éomer carried Tarcil to his room and laid him on the bed there.

At once a flock of women gathered round the boy. Weynild bustled in with a jug of warm water to wash the blood off and Freawaru, the cook, hovered anxiously in the doorway, offering to fetch a bowl of soup.

Finding himself completely forgotten, Éomer retreated to his own room. The bed beckoned temptingly, but after changing out of his mail and having a quick wash, he went back to check on Tarcil. The room was quiet and dim now, with the shutters closed and only a couple of lamps burning. All the women had left, except for Lothíriel and Khuri sitting by the bed and Brictwen busy with a brew at the fireplace.

Éomer tiptoed over to peer at Tarcil. The boy was asleep. His face was clean and his head freshly bandaged, but he seemed so unnaturally tidy and still that Éomer's heart contracted. He looked like a corpse laid out for burial.

"How is he?" he whispered.

"Healer Brictwen has given him poppy syrup and stitched the wound," Lothíriel answered, gently stroking her son's hand. "Now he needs to sleep."

"I'm brewing a tea to give him when he wakes up," Brictwen added from the fireplace. "He's lost a lot of blood."

Éomer looked at Lothíriel, who still wore the blood splattered trousers and tunic from earlier on, with her hair in disarray. Her voice had been firm and collected just now, but he could see the strain in her eyes.

He wanted nothing so much as to seek his bed, but he couldn't leave her to face this alone. "I'll keep you company for a while."

Lothíriel flashed him a grateful smile, but at once turned her attention back to Tarcil. Glancing round for a place to sit, Éomer's eyes fell on the corner of the room that had been turned into a kind of Haradric tent. The thick carpet with cushions scattered across it looked very inviting.

As he lowered himself onto a heap of bright scarlet cushions, a wave of tiredness crashed over him. He yawned. Three days and nights spent racing across the Mark were beginning to take their toll. But hopefully a short rest would set him right.

***

Éomer woke to the smell of food. His belly rumbled as he stirred. Had he fallen asleep? Blinking, he sat up, his muscles protesting from the abuse they had suffered over the last days. He found that he had a blanket thrown over him, Lothíriel's elusive flowery scent clinging to it, and somebody had taken off his boots.