Yours to Command

Nightfall

"Well, in a way," Éomer replied, for he had met Prince Amrothos during the war. "I do know him of course, but I don't see..." He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," she declared in an accusing tone, "trying to trick me that way. King of Rohan indeed! Did my brother put you up to this charade?"

The girl was still frowning at him fiercely and it finally dawned on him that she doubted his identity.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but I really am King Éomer," he replied, not sure if he should be amused or affronted at being taken for an impostor.

The princess made a gesture of denial. "Nonsense," she replied sharply, "you sound nothing like one of the Rohirrim. My father's stable master is from Rohan, so you needn't think I don't know how they speak Westron. You're clearly from somewhere around here."

"My grandmother hailed from Lossarnach," he explained, "and I grew up speaking Westron as well as Rohirric."

The princess hesitated. For the first time since the start of their conversation, she looked uncertain of her ground.

"Can you prove who you are?" she asked and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"How?" Éomer was starting to be amused. It was a novel situation to have to prove he was a king. "I haven't got my crown with me," he added.

"Say something in Rohirric," she ordered him.

"Westu hal, Hlaefdige min," he obeyed and obliged with a translation at the same time. "Which is the polite way to greet strangers in my country."

She bit her lip. "That sounded quite authentic."

"Thank you," he replied gravely.

Silence descended. The princess chewed her lip and absentmindedly twisted one of the sleeves of her dress.

"You truly are King Éomer?" she finally asked in a changed tone.

"Yes."

More silence. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and teased a strand of hair from the braid the princess had wound around her head like a crown. Deepest black, he noticed, as she brushed it out of her face. She was staring at nothing in particular, expressions of denial, consternation and then alarm chasing across her face in quick succession. He could feel one corner of his mouth starting to twitch.

"Oh no!" she suddenly exclaimed in horror. "What have I done! My father will send me back to Dol Amroth on the next ship. And I'll never hear the end of it, once Elphir learns what I've said."

The look of dismay on her face was so comical that he couldn't help laughing.

"It's not funny!" she snapped, only to put her hands to her mouth. "Oh no, I've done it again," she said contritely. "Please forgive my rash words, my Lord King, I'm truly sorry."

"Which ones?" he asked, "Accusing me of being an impostor or implying I should shut up?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again, looking distressed, and he took pity on her.

"Your apologies are accepted, my lady, and we need not mention anything to your father," he assured her.

"Really?"

"Really."

She rewarded him with a smile of childlike delight, warm and open.

"Oh, thank you! I would have been devastated to have to leave Minas Tirith again so soon."

He smiled back warmly. "It's my fault anyway, I just have to remember to dress more impressively in the future."

"Well, obviously that would not have helped anyway," she said matter-of-factly, "but maybe we could just start at the beginning again?"