Yours to Command

Of Eels

The fire burns it all.
Red wine and succulent meats, for a king does not want for anything.
A fine stallion to ride, for a king does not walk.
Slaves to attend him, for a king does not serve himself.
Concubines to please him, for a king does not sleep alone.
The fire burns it all.

(Turgon: A brief history of Harad and her customs)

***

The man had shifty eyes. With one glance Éomer took in the well-worn clothes of a nondescript brown colour, the way one hand hung at his side as if used to gripping a sword, his carefully balanced stance on the balls of his feet.

The man bowed obsequiously. "Please my Lord King, I need to speak to you on your own."

By Éomer's side, Elfhelm bristled. "You can't just march up here and demand to see the King of Rohan. It might be a trap."

The man held out both hands in front of him, palms upward. "I bear no weapons. I am merely a messenger."

An odd messenger this. Also he had a peculiar accent that Éomer could not quite place. "Princess Lothíriel sent you?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord. She gave me the token I handed to your man as proof."

"What is your name?"

"Baran, my lord."

Éomer came to a decision. "Very well, Baran. Let's go a little apart and you can give me your message."

"Éomer King!" Elfhelm protested. Éothain standing by the horses looked unhappy, too.

Éomer shook his head at his Marshal. "I think this is important. Besides, I can take care of myself."

Elfhelm hesitated, obviously not caring to argue this point with his king, and before he could muster any other arguments Éomer nodded at the messenger. "Lead the way."

Under the Rohirrim's uneasy looks, Baran led Éomer further down the road, towards the gate leading to the fifth level. With noon approaching, the taverns on either side were busy and the road packed with people coming and going. The man stopped at a blocked-up side entrance to one of the houses and pulled something from a pocket of his coat. Motioning Éomer closer, he handed over a piece of parchment.

"The princess wrote it herself," he whispered.

Warily, Éomer unfolded the letter. Instinctively he made sure the wall covered his back and kept a little away, just in case Baran tried to jump him. Something about the man made the hackles on the back of his neck rise.

Dear Éomer. Unmistakably Lothíriel's handwriting, the letters formed even more shakily than the last time. I have run away from home to be with you. He stared down at the letter. What! She had done what? And why? Her father would be furious! He shook his head in disbelief and continued reading. A friend has given me shelter. Éomer looked over at Baran. Did she mean him or someone else? Follow the bearer of this note. Tell no one where you are going and come alone, silent and unnoticed like an eel slithering through the grass. Lothig.

Éomer took a deep breath, trying to order his confused thoughts. Whatever had possessed Lothíriel to take such an imprudent course of action? Had her father threatened to take her back to Dol Amroth? Looking up, he noticed Baran watching him attentively.

"You know the contents of this message?" Éomer asked.

"Yes, my lord," Baran nodded. He gave an ingratiating smile. "The Princess took me into her confidence. She's waiting for you most impatiently."