On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 12

I hardly slept at all that night, and when towards dawn I finally slipped into a fitful slumber, my dreams were troubled by pale faces leering at me. Far too early, one of the maids woke me. Not that I complained - after all I had asked Lord Erkenbrand to arrange for an early wake-up call. Grimly I set about packing.

Smallclothes, chemises, a nightgown, riding jacket and skirts, my second best boots, three woollen dresses. My healer's satchel of course, and the small purse of gold coins that Dirhael had given to me for my expenses before leaving. The books would have to stay behind, I realized with a pang, as I needed all the room in my saddlebags for my warm clothes. I traced the embossed spines for one last time before putting them aside. From the desk, Éomer's carved horse watched me accusingly.

Impulsively I tossed Felaróf on top of the growing pile on the bed. "You're coming with me!"

In the corner by the door, my red dress lay like a pool of congealed blood where I had thrown it last night. One thing I did not need to pack, I thought with a shudder, for I had no intention of ever wearing it again.

Sooner than I would have thought possible I was ready, and summoned a page to carry my bags out for me. He went on ahead, but I lingered to pick up my cloak and have a last look at my room. Over the last months it had become home to me, and I would miss it. The cushioned window seat so comfortable for reading one's books, the bed where I had laboured over my kites for many an hour, the chair by my desk where he had sat while I dressed his wound. Pushing that last memory firmly away, I turned to leave. I could not afford any weakness now. At the last moment I snatched my bow from its resting place on the weapons stand. Although there was little likelihood of needing it again.

In the hallway I ran into Éowyn. My heart sank, for I felt guilty for abandoning her to face Wormtongue's wiles all on her own. But what else could I do? Surely seeing her brother accused of plotting to seize the throne for himself would be even worse.

"Lothíriel!" she called. "The servants have told me you are leaving. Surely they are mistaken?"

"No, they're not," I replied, aware of many curious glances cast my way. "Ceolwen has been so kind as to invite me for a visit to the Westfold."

"But so sudden!"

I took her arm and drew her down the corridor. "I know. However, I might not get another chance to see that part of the country, so I decided to take her up on her offer." The excuse sounded horribly thin.

Éowyn did not think much of it either. "What do you want to do there?" she asked. "And in the middle of winter of all times."

I shrugged evasively. "I've read a lot about the fortress of Helm's Deep and would like to see it for myself."

We had reached the door leading to the terrace, but Éowyn held me back. "Lothíriel, have you told Éomer you're leaving?"

"No."

"But-"

"Éowyn," I interrupted her, "I do not have to account to your brother for my actions."

"But I thought... you spent the whole evening together yesterday... perhaps you reached some kind of understanding?"

"Really, Éowyn," I laughed, doing my best to sound like the spoilt court ladies I had met in Minas Tirith, "your imagination is running away with you. We just shared a dance!"

She stared at me. "It was more than that. The way he called you his thirst quencher!"

"You're attaching too much importance to a silly game," I told her.