The Salt in the Soup

Edoras, December of Third Age 3020.

The snowball hit the window with a thump. Éomer looked up to see the soggy remains slide down the glass and out of sight. Laughing shrieks sounded from outside and a shadowy figure flitted past the window, pursued by another. 

More laughter followed and a boy shouted, "Get him, Odda!"

With a sigh Éomer turned back to the pile of papers on his desk. The first proper snow of the winter, just two days before Yule, and what was he doing? Stuck inside reviewing reports on the wool production of their eastern dales. That moment the door of his study opened and one of his councillors entered with measured tread. Éomer saw with dismay that Eadred carried another armful of scrolls.

"I found these in the archives," the old man beamed at him. "A list of all the villages in the West Mark with the number of sheep fleeces they produce. Ten years old, but it should give you an idea of the amount."

Éomer forced a smile to his lips. "Wonderful."

Eadred deposited the scrolls on his desk. "One of the servants is bringing the rest."

The rest! Éomer stared down at the pile of yellowing parchment, his heart sinking. Just looking through this lot would keep him busy for the remainder of the afternoon. Once again he asked himself why he had decided to make such a detailed survey of his realm. But the reason was clear, of course. While he knew exactly how many fighting men each village or hamlet could supply in case of war, he had only a hazy idea of what those same places produced in tradeable goods. And they needed trade with Gondor to get back on their feet.

As Eadred bustled out to see about the rest of the documents, Éomer got up and crossed to the window. Another thump. And surely he could hear the deeper voices of his guards mixed in with the children's squeals of laughter? Stretching legs stiff from sitting still too long, he frowned. Over breakfast he had promised Lothíriel that he would take her out for a ride in the snow, but at this rate he would not get to see his wife until the evening. Again. Only last night he had gone to bed so late that she had been fast asleep despite saying she would wait up for him. An all too common occurrence lately.

Not that she would complain. The daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth understood about duty and was modest in her demands on her newly wedded husband's time. Too modest, Éomer thought. He leaned on the windowsill and stared out towards the mountains behind Edoras. Fir trees dotted the foothills, their sloping branches bending under the weight of the snow. Every now and again, one of them would shed its white burden, the boughs whipping upwards when released from the heavy load. He had wanted to show Lothíriel that hushed silence after each rumble, had wanted her to experience the feeling of a cloud of fine snow crystals enveloping her.

And why shouldn't he? Married less than four months, surely they deserved some time by their own. Suddenly a memory came to him from before the war, when he had hunted these same woods with Théodred and he recalled the small foresters' hut they had often stayed in. Situated above the road to Dunharrow, only a couple of hours' ride away, it would be standing empty this time of the year. Not much longer, he decided.

In an instant he had slipped on his warm boots and thrown a cloak around himself. When he headed out of the door he met Eadred coming back, two servants laden with papers trailing in his wake.

"My lord, where are you going?" the councillor exclaimed.

"To keep a promise."

He sent one of the pages waiting in the corridor to have Firefoot saddled and another one to collect a bag of food from the kitchen. Then he went to get his wife. The door to the queen's solar opened silently under his touch and for a moment he just stood observing. As always a warm fire blazed in the hearth. His wife and her ladies were sitting on the window seats and in comfortable chairs, forming a rough circle around a pile of fabric lying on a rug. At once his eyes sought the one black head amongst all the blond ones bent over their work.