Black Eyes

Epilogue: Peace settlement

He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

Minas Tirith, Third Age 3020.

It was a mild night and the windows of Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, had been thrown wide open. Éomer stood near one of the doors leading into the gardens and enjoyed the slight breeze that brought with it the smell of spring flowers and damp earth. He surveyed the crowd of elegantly attired lords and ladies and sighed inwardly when he noticed the many green gowns worn by the female guests. It seemed rather fitting that the colour should be associated with hunting. They did not know that he much preferred being the hunter to being the prey.

Well, the spot he had chosen had two strategic advantages, one of them being a quick means of escape into the gardens. The other was that it afforded an unimpeded view of the great double doors leading into the hall through which new arrivals were still streaming all the time. In the middle of the floor the King and Queen of Gondor were holding court and greeting their many guests. Éomer had exchanged a few words with his friend Aragorn when he had first arrived, but had not lingered long. Polite and absolutely meaningless conversation with the many courtiers seeking his attention was not really to his taste. In fact there was only one person he was looking forward to meeting tonight, but she wasn't here. Yet, he hoped.

The musicians struck up a lively tune and over at the other end of the hall couples lined up for the first dance. Éomer saw his sister being led onto the floor by Faramir, the two having eyes for nobody else but each other. Marriage seemed to suit Éowyn, she was positively glowing with happiness.

Resolutely ignoring the hopeful damsels lingering about in his vicinity and throwing him covert glances he turned back to his surveillance of the arriving guests. On the wall facing the main entrance were displayed the banners of all the nobles expected tonight and next to his own white horse on a green field was the swan and ship of Dol Amroth. What he hadn't been able to discover, however, was who exactly of the family would attend the celebrations.

Éomer's mind went back to last autumn and his leave-taking of the princess and once again he wondered if he had been too bold to kiss her like he had. Even though Lothiriel had responded in kind, he had started to worry since that he might have frightened her with his passionate demands. The innocent way in which she returned his kisses should have been enough to tell him how little experience she had with men, but at the time he had simply let his impulses rule his actions.

Like so often, Éomer ruefully thought to himself. He would really have to learn to master his temper instead of being mastered by it. There was just something about the Princess of Dol Amroth and the enticing challenge she represented that made him want to take her in his arms and not let go again. Maybe it was the way she did not care in the least about his crown, unlike almost every other woman he had met, or maybe it was simply the melting look he had surprised a couple of times in those fathomless black eyes. He was convinced that a minute in her presence would suffice to tell him what her feelings were for him, but what if she didn't come tonight?

The first dance had come to an end and there was a lull in the steady stream of arrivals when the herald loudly announced some new guests.

"His Highness, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth," his voice rang out, "and her Highness Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth."

Involuntarily Éomer took a step forward and for some reason, perhaps his sudden movement or uncommon height and blond hair, she looked over and their eyes met for the briefest moment. It was enough.