Yours to Command

Fog bound

On becoming engaged, the lady will allow her betrothed a single chaste kiss to seal their union. Knowing the eyes of the world upon her, she will pay suitable attention to behaving in a seemly and decorous manner. This is the proper way to gain and keep your lord's esteem.

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

***

The morning sun shafting through his window woke Éomer. With a big yawn he stretched leisurely, before rolling over to squint at the light. Maybe a couple of hours after sunrise, not more. He sank back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. Plenty of time yet, and no need to put the Prince of Dol Amroth in a bad mood by seeking him out before he'd even had his breakfast.

Involuntarily, Éomer wondered what it would be like to wake up next to Lothíriel, as he hoped to do in the not too distant future. Utterly delightful, he suspected. To have her smile at him with that particular mixture of innocence and trust, to smell the delicate perfume of her hair, to be able to touch her... He groaned. Better think about something else. That first kiss – he had got rather more than he had bargained for and had lost control for a moment, yet she had not minded, on the contrary, she had responded to his ardour. And it had been more than just the pent-up frustration of the last two days being released; something unpredictable and wild had raised its head for a moment.

He would have to be careful not to let Imrahil see any of the passion Lothíriel awoke in him, or the prince might well decide not to entrust his inexperienced young daughter to a rough northern warrior king. As if he'd ever hurt her! But yes, some details of his dealings with the Princess of Dol Amroth were better glossed over.

A knock on the door interrupted his musing, and stopped him from contemplating how exactly he would phrase his explanations to Imrahil of how Lothíriel had ended up quarrelling with him so badly.

"Shall I fetch your breakfast, Éomer King?" Oswyn enquired.

Éomer nodded absentmindedly and his squire left on his errand. He returned a short time later with a tray, which he set on a table by the window.

Éomer stretched and got up to have a look what the kitchen of the Prince of Ithilien had to offer. He did not expect Éowyn and Faramir to be up before noon and intended to have his talk with Imrahil over and done with before then. Also it remained to be decided what to do about a certain spiteful Gondorian lady, for he had no intention of letting Lady Wilwarin get away with hurting Lothíriel the way she had. That moment a small, tightly folded piece of parchment lying on the tray caught his eye.

"What is this?" he asked, picking it up.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Oswyn bent down to collect Éomer's trousers, which had ended up on the floor the night before. "It was delivered for you a little while ago, but you had said not to wake you, so I thought I'd wait."

"Who is it from?"

"I don't know. An elderly woman, grey haired, gave it to me. She seemed a bit flustered."

Éomer tore open the note. No signature, and the letters formed clumsily like the writing of a child – or of a blind woman.

Father caught me slipping back to my room last night. We are leaving for Minas Tirith.

Éomer cursed. "How long ago was this delivered?" he snapped at his squire.

Poor Oswyn jumped. "I'm not sure," he stammered.

Éomer had stopped listening to him anyway. He grabbed his trousers from his surprised squire's hands and struggled into them while on his way to the door. As a last thought he also threw on a shirt, just in case he met Imrahil. However, when he reached the fifth door to the right it stood open. A quick glance inside showed one of the maids removing the bed sheets and another one sweeping the floor. They looked up, their mouths hanging open in surprise, when he stood in the doorway cursing.