Imrahil's Daughters

Chapter 2

The mead was excellent, the best he had ever tasted outside the Mark. Éomer let the liquid roll round his mouth for a moment longer. In fact it might even surpass the Hornburg's famous brew. When he said as much to Imrahil, his friend beamed with pleasure.

"My daughter's work. She supervises the whole process personally."

Ealdred, one of Éomer's advisors, caught his eye at those words and shot him a significant glance. Éomer sighed inwardly. The ceremonial offering of mead played an important role in the Riddermark and it was considered auspicious to have a wife who made a good brew. As the old saying went: strong mead makes strong sons. He wondered what other perfections this princess sported – besides her impeccable bloodlines of course. Although to give him his due, Imrahil had not made the least push to fix a match. On the contrary, the princess had attended neither the Fields of Cormallen nor Aragorn's coronation, quite unlike the rest of the female population of Gondor.

As a result his advisors had been delighted at this invitation to visit Dol Amroth, for it provided the perfect opportunity to inspect what surely had to be one of Gondor's most eligible females. He sighed again. In the past months, Éomer had increasingly begun to feel like a stallion that had a string of likely mares paraded before him. With the only difference that the stallion could enjoy himself and move on to the next one, whereas he'd be shackled to the one he chose for life. And all for the good of the Riddermark!

He let his glance roam over the assembled nobility of Dol Amroth that mingled with the Rohirrim to fill Imrahil's hall. Hundreds of beeswax candles lit up the huge space, an extravagance that showed the wealth of his host. Their scent warred with the extravagant perfumes worn by the ladies of the court, who seemed to be out in force tonight.

Suddenly black hair tumbling down a slender back caught his eye, but as the woman turned round the movement held none of that awkward grace he'd hoped for. No grey eyes regarded him gravely, instead he recognized the daughter of a minor lord he'd already met in Minas Tirith. Éomer frowned. A year had passed and still she intruded on his thoughts at the most inopportune moments! But only because he owed her an apology, he reminded himself. If only he had asked her for her name, then he could have settled the whole affair ages ago and regained his peace of mind.

His discreet enquiries at the Houses of Healing had yielded no results; the girl seemed to have vanished without a trace, as if the earth had swallowed her up. In fact he sometimes wondered if he had dreamt the whole encounter. If so, the dream might at least have continued a little longer!

A flutter at the other end of the hall drew his attention as people moved apart to make way for some late-comers. First to enter was Amrothos with an elderly lady of regal bearing and then...

He caught his breath. Could it be? She smiled politely at the courtiers greeting them and paused to exchange a word every now and again, never once looking toward him.

"Ah, here come my sister and my daughter at last," Imrahil said as the two women ascended the steps to the dais.

Of the elderly lady's introduction, Éomer only took in a confused impression of a profusion of pink lace. Then Imrahil led the princess forward and still she would not meet his eyes.

"Éomer, may I introduce my dear daughter, Lothíriel."

She sank into a flawless curtsy. "It is a great honour, King Éomer." A low voice with a tremor of nerves, speaking Westron as only the highest nobility did. And that moment he knew. It was her!

He took her hand and bowed over it. "The honour is mine." The wave of pure pleasure rushing through him took him by surprise. "But I think we've met before?"