Yours to Command

Nightfall

It is the lord's duty to introduce himself to the lady on their first meeting. She will curtsey to him according to their rank, and should then introduce the first topic of conversation, usually the weather. Other unobjectionable topics include the harvest (unless that is likely to be poor), points of interest in their natural surroundings, or the degree of relationship between them. At all times the lady will be gracious and polite, deferring to those exceeding her in rank, age or experience.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden's guide to proper deportment)

***

The young woman was sitting in one of the embrasures of the wall encircling the small garden. She was leaning her head back against the merlon behind her, looking out over the Pelennor.

"I'll introduce myself," Éomer said to the servant hovering at his side before nodding a dismissal.

"But, my Lord King..."

Maybe it was Éomer's imagination, but it seemed to him that the servant looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"All I need is a quick word with the princess, it won't take long," he said and waited until the elderly man had bowed and hesitantly taken his leave.

Like many dwellings in Minas Tirith, Prince Imrahil's house had a small garden at the back of the main building, well hidden from view from the street. And as befitted the home of the Princes of Dol Amroth, it was kept up beautifully, with gravel paths bordered by low privet hedges winding between a number of small apple and cherry trees. Suspended from the branches of the trees on thin chains were several small oil lamps that were already lit against the coming of the night.

Éomer made his way towards the small flight of steps leading up to the wall-walk and took them slowly, his gaze still trained on the figure of the princess. She hadn't noticed him yet, perhaps being too deep in thought, and was still staring out over the view of the fields below her. Her clothing was a dull brown colour, quite unlike the bright, colourful dresses the ladies of Minas Tirith favoured in this warm weather, and sported no adornment at all.

His boots scuffed against the stone floor and she looked up at last, alerted to his presence. Hastily smoothing out her skirts, she got up and faced him.

"Who is it?" she asked and put her head to one side.

"Princess Lothíriel?" he said.

She held out a slim hand. "Yes?"

The face she lifted up to him did not confirm to the traditional Gondorian ideal of beauty. While her skin was smooth and fair and she sported the high cheekbones of the Numenoreans, the mouth was too full, the nose turned up rebelliously at the tip and the chin hinted at obstinacy. Yet he hardly noticed that, for she had the most arresting pair of eyes he had ever seen. Large and grey and framed by thick dark lashes, they looked out at the world with a slightly dreamy expression.

"May I introduce myself?" He bowed over her hand and spoke the greeting words traditional here in Gondor. "I am King Éomer of Rohan, yours to command."

Her brows drew together and she withdrew her hand. "Right," she snapped, "and I'm the Queen of Rohan."

For a moment he just stared at her in complete astonishment. Then he suddenly remembered the conversation he had had with Faramir the previous summer. Hadn't his prospective brother-in-law hinted that there was something wrong with the Princess of Dol Amroth? Did she suffer from delusions?

"I beg your pardon?" he said, still dumbfounded.

"So you should!" she exclaimed. "I'm not fooled that easily. Are you one of Amrothos's friends?"