Yours to Command

Aftermath

The rich man knows his worth.
The steadfast man knows his mind.
The wise man knows his heart.

(Saying from Rohan)

***

"Éomer King?"

With a groan, Éomer rolled over and opened one eye. Just enough morning light pervaded his tent to enable him to see the sparse furnishings.

"What is it?" he croaked.

Oswyn opened the tent flap and stuck in his head. "Your wash, my lord."

Éomer sat up gingerly and motioned for him to come in. Oswyn had long ago learnt to announce his presence before entering, for the first time he had omitted to do so, he'd caused his king to surge stark naked out of bed, a dagger in each hand. A habit left over from the war that, and one Éomer would have to break when he got married. Another groan escaped him.

His squire rolled in a shallow wooden tub, positioned it in one corner and then left to fetch water. Éomer rested his head in his hands. It was throbbing gently, with not quite a hangover, but definitely more than a headache. When he had got back the night before, he had joined a group of his riders celebrating Éowyn's upcoming nuptials. They had sat around the fire, reminiscing about times past and passing beakers of ale. He should have gone easy on it. Or was it the after-effects of a different sort of intoxication?

Oswyn reappeared a moment later with two buckets and set them down by the tub, careful not to spill any of the water on the ground. Then he busied himself laying out a towel and fresh clothes. Éomer wrapped a robe around himself, strolled over and tested the water with one toe. Fresh from the mountains and ice cold, as usual. Still, it would do him good after last night.

His squire straightened up, a pair of boots in one hand. "Would you like me to get some hot water for you, my lord?"

Éomer shook his head and then winced. "No, that's fine." All the water had to be fetched from a nearby stream and he did not want to make more work for the servants than necessary. Let the ladies and children have their hot baths, he could manage.

He also waved away his squire's offer of assistance. "I'm not old and feeble yet, Oswyn. You go and get Firefoot ready." His squire nodded and ducked out the tent.

Now if it had been his wife offering to give a hand, that might have been a different matter. Éomer clamped down hard on that thought. Why did his unruly mind insist on straying in that direction? Of course he knew why, even though he still had no idea what had gotten into him the night before. After all, Lothíriel was not the first pretty woman he had held in his arms - but the first princess. And to think that he had considered his tendency to give in to mad impulses firmly under control! At least he hadn't committed the complete folly of kissing her in plain sight of everybody.

His glance fell on a small table standing in one corner of his tent and the blue ribbon lying on it. Éomer picked it up and let its shiny length run through his fingers. Did Lothíriel know what she had agreed to? He rather doubted it and knew he had no right to go through with claiming his due, unless he also meant to offer for her hand. To do anything else would mean to destroy that unconditional trust in her eyes.

A blind queen? For the first time he let his mind contemplate the idea. His advisors would probably have seizures at the mere thought. Bar a very few, they would never be able to see past Lothíriel's blindness to her courage and rare honesty. And her youth and inexperience spoke against her as well. Being Queen of the Mark was a heavy burden to lay on such small shoulders. Did he have the right to even think of it?