Yours to Command

The Circle of Death

Death Dealer, Life Preserver.
Foe Defeater, Battle Friend.

(Inscription on Guthwinë)

***

The chain mail lay cold and hard under Lothíriel's fingers, so unlike the warm body beneath it. She let her hands trail over the small, interconnected rings, searching for weaknesses and hoping desperately not to find any. It was Oswyn's job to keep the mail oiled and in good repair and surely Éomer would have checked on his squire's work, too. But how little protection against a sharp blade!

So the Harad Prince had got what he wanted after all, single combat with his enemy. She bit her lip. Oh, King Elessar and Elfhelm had tried to dissuade Éomer, but to no avail. Lothíriel could have told them to spare their breath, for she had heard the steel in his voice when he had ordered his men to clear the courtyard. Anyway, he had given his word. The promise of the King of Rohan to fight to the death exchanged against the life of a humble maid. She could not help trembling, pride and fear filling her in equal measure.

A warm hand enfolded her own, stilling her search. "Don't worry, dear heart." Éomer lowered his voice. "I'm sorry you have to witness the fight, but it's something I have to do."

"I know," she breathed, "but I'm so terribly afraid of losing you when I have only just found you!"

"Have confidence." He pulled her tight against him. "I want to finish this here and now so the man will never again be able to threaten you."

Lothíriel slipped her arms around Éomer's neck and pressed herself against him, not caring that they stood in the courtyard in plain sight of everybody. Propriety had ceased to matter long ago. "I wish I could kill him myself!"

He was surprised into a laugh. "My fierce little love," he whispered, tracing the line of her eyebrows, then slipping his hands round to gently cup her cheeks. "Will you grant me a kiss?"

In answer she stood on tiptoe and lifted up her face to him. Warm lips met her own and she let herself drown in the sensation of his strong body holding her safe, the mingled scent of leather, horse and sweat filling her senses. Loved and cherished. Lacing her fingers in his hair, she forgot the present for a moment and gave a deep sigh of contentment. Éomer. How she needed him. He let his fingers slip down her back, lazily tracing the line of her spine and sudden heat rose within her, bringing a blush to her cheeks and shortening her breath.

"She kisses well, doesn't she!" somebody called.

Éomer's head whipped round, muscles turning hard as stone beneath her hands. "You!"

"Shall we have her as the prize for the winner?" Muzgâsh jeered.

Éomer's hold on her tightened, the tension running through him palpable. "I will make you regret those words!"

"Éomer!" she pleaded. "He is only trying to bait you." How well Muzgâsh had taken his opponent's measure! It frightened her.

"Your temper is legendary by now," Elfhelm agreed next to her. "Don't let him manage to provoke you." Lothíriel jumped a little, for she had not realized the Marshal stood so close.

"Well, he's succeeding," Éomer growled.

"Nothing like a willing woman in your arms, is there!"

Her own temper rose at the taunting note in Muzgâsh's voice. How she ached to take a sword to him herself. "If you are as lousy at fighting as you are at kissing," she called loudly, "you won't last a minute against Éomer." Some of the men laughed.