On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 6

I breathed in a sigh of relief when I reached the sanctuary of my room. For a moment there I had thought Lord Éomer would draw his sword in the presence of the king, thus breaking the peace of the Hall. An act that would have meant certain dishonour and possibly banishment. Or his death? I did not even dare to think of that possibility. More and more it had become clear to me what kind of game Gríma was playing here. He knew his adversary far too well, knew how to use the Marshal's love for his uncle and his sense of honour against him. But to what end? From what I'd heard about Prince Théodred's opinion of him, Wormtongue's influence would only last as long as King Théoden lived. Surely the councillor would have been much better off trying to curry favour with the Prince and the Marshal. Yet instead he appeared determined to set the king against them. As if he wanted them eliminated? The notion no longer seemed ridiculous after hearing how narrowly Lord Éomer had escaped an arrow.

I shook my head. That was taking a silly fancy too far. Maybe it was just personal animosity on Gríma's part, to do with his unhealthy interest in Éowyn. The way he constantly watched her through those heavy lidded eyes of his made my skin crawl. I did not know how she could stand it.

Just a little while ago I had been ready to fall into bed and sleep the morning away to recover from the previous night's vigil, but now I found myself too unsettled to do so. After taking a few restless turns about the room I sat down in the window-seat, my favourite place, and looked out over the thatched roofs of Edoras. The ever-present wind chased the shadows of clouds across them, turning them from gold to brown and back again, while in the distance the White Mountains reached out to touch the sky, unconcerned by the troubles of us short-lived humans. They would have looked this way the day my ancestors first set foot upon these shores, ages of men ago, and they would look the same when we would all be gone. I found that a comforting thought.

A knock sounded on the door. Not the usual polite rap by the servants, but loud and firm. My heart sped up. "Come in!"

Marshal Éomer stood in the doorway. He took in the room with a quick glance, checking the layout being second nature to him, just as it was to my brothers. Then his eyes settled on me.

"Lady Lothíriel." He bowed. "I had hoped you might take pity on me and dress my wound."

"Of course!" I scrambled to my feet. "Your audience with the king is finished already?"

Lord Éomer shrugged. "It was pointless. I did not have an audience with the king, I had one with Wormtongue!" He spat out the name.

"I'm sorry." It seemed such an inadequate thing to say, yet it did earn me a tired smile.

"Not your fault. Indeed I owe you my thanks. You saved me from myself earlier on."

Silly how much those words warmed me! "You're welcome, my lord." Suddenly it seemed very important to set one matter clear, though. "I don't usually babble like that."

That earned me a real smile. "I guessed as much."

Pulling out the chair from under the desk, I motioned for him to sit in it. "May I examine your wound?"

Once his cloak was off a single look sufficed to inform me that before anything else, I would have to wash off the dried blood. I went to the door and sent one of the pages to bring a jug of hot water. Turning back to my patient, I saw he had set his helmet on the floor and was examining the items on my desk. When I had put my clothes away upon first arriving in Meduseld, I had found a carved horse at the bottom of the clothes chest. A child's toy and crudely made, it had nevertheless caught my fancy, for it looked much loved with one broken leg mended carefully. On a whim I had placed it on my desk where it could enjoy the sun again and watch me read.