Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 13

The journey went without a hitch, the weather having settled into a hot, dry spell only broken by occasional thunderstorms, typical for the Mark in summer. When they reached the camp of the horse herders, their headman Cathwulf made them welcome, glad for the additional protection. Éomer had brought his personal éored with him, more than enough to wipe out any orcs foolish enough to raid them. Though in his present mood Éomer would gladly have faced an orc horde single-handedly anyway.

They wasted no time in setting up their tents. Lothíriel and Leofrun shared one with the children in the centre of the camp, while Éomer's big tent went up opposite. It had been a hot day, so the men headed down to the river that flowed past the camp on its way to join the Entwash. While it wasn't very deep, the water was cool and refreshing. He thought they had the better deal than the women making do with buckets of water in their tents.

Gradually he relaxed. It was impossible to feel dejected with the sky stretching blue and enormous above him, the smell of roasting boar drifting over from the fire pits on the river bank and no immediate care on his mind except how to allocate sentry duty, so every man got to take part in the feast planned for later that evening.

In a better mood than he had been since Erkenbrand's disastrous visit, he returned to the camp. He hadn't bothered with putting his boots back on and enjoyed the sensation of the grass soft and springy under his feet.

As he reached the open space in front of his tent, he heard Tarcil's voice.

"Mummy, I'm clean," the boy protested. "I want to go and play with Hildwyn now."

Éomer grinned to himself. Some things never changed. Tarcil and his mother had very different ideas of the definition of cleanliness. He didn't catch Lothíriel's answer, but suddenly the tent flat opened and Tarcil came careening out, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers.

"Tarcil, wait, your shirt!" Holding the garment in question, Lothíriel rushed after her son.

However, the boy had already dodged around Éomer and away. Spotting Éomer, she came to an abrupt halt, then took a step back and stumbled over one of the ropes holding the tent down.

Dropping his boots, Éomer jumped forward. "Lothíriel, watch out!"

He grabbed her round the waist and caught her. Unbalanced, Lothíriel leant against him, hands squashed against his chest. She was damp from her own bath and smelled alluringly of orange blossoms. Involuntarily Éomer slipped his arms around her. It felt so right.

For a moment she relaxed against him, all soft and warm. Lips parted, she lifted her face to him; a deep sigh escaped her, as if she had set down a heavy load. But then a shudder ran through her.

"Éomer...I..." Blushing scarlet, she pushed herself off. Éomer reluctantly let go of her. "I...what was I..." She retreated a step, nearly falling over the rope again. "I didn't mean to..." Abandoning all attempts at coherence, she spun round and beat a hasty retreat, slipping inside the tent.

He had never seen her so rattled before. It cheered him enormously to find that he apparently had the power to fluster her too, and not only the other way round. He could not help a grin spreading over his face at this pleasant surprise. That had been no indifferent woman in his arms. Whistling softly under his breath, he picked up his boots and made his way to his own tent.

Perhaps all hope wasn't lost.

***

That evening there was a celebration to welcome Éomer and his riders. They sat round the fires, sharing food and drink, and later tales and music. Amongst Cathwulf's people were a fiddler and some drummers, and some of his own men had reed pipes along. In any case all the Rohirrim liked singing. Éomer saw with approval that Lothíriel took part too, having learnt some of the most popular songs on their ride from Gondor.