Yours to Command

Aftermath

He let the ribbon fall to the table again and balled his hands into fist. Why did the crown have to pass to him? As Third Marshall of the Riddermark he would have been free to marry whomever he pleased, but now invisible fetters bound him: duty and love. Why did you have to die, Théodred? he thought angrily. No answer. There never would be one now.

With a sigh Éomer dropped his robe and stepped in the tub. For a moment, he eyed the ladle resting against one side, but then he shrugged and picked up one of the buckets. Resolutely he upended it over his head. The shock of cold water running down his body drove the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and he could not help cursing.

"Éomer?"

He recognized his sister's voice. That brought him even more fully awake.

"Éowyn! You can't come in."

She laughed. "Hurry up! It's getting on and I've brought breakfast for you."

Not sure how long his sister's patience would hold, he hastily finished his wash, dried himself and put on a pair of trousers and his boots. As an afterthought he picked up a certain blue ribbon and stuffed it into one of his pockets. He definitely did not want his sister to spot that. Then he held the tent flap open for Éowyn to enter. She slipped in and deposited the tray she carried on the table. Delicious smells wafted from it and Éomer's stomach growled.

Éowyn looked him over critically. "Well, my handsome brother, aren't you dressed yet? If go out like that, you'll have half the womenfolk of the camp swooning over you."

He gave her a pained smile and started on the bowl of hot porridge she had brought. He had the sinking feeling there only existed one woman that he wanted to swoon over him and she wouldn't do so at the sight of him. However, he wasn't about to tell that to his sister. First he wanted to sort out his own muddled emotions about the events of the previous night.

Apart from the porridge, the tray also held rolls of freshly baked bread, a small pot of honey and a mug of piping hot tea. Éomer felt his headache receding as he filled his empty stomach. Éowyn wandered over to the clothes his squire had laid ready for him and selected a shirt and tunic from them. "Put these on," she told him.

Once he had done so, she stepped round his back and towelled down his hair. "We don't want people to think you're a barbarian king from the Northlands."

He smiled involuntarily. "But that's what I am. Just like you're a wild, untamed Shieldmaiden."

She gave him a playful punch in the back. "I am nothing of the sort. On the contrary, in another day's time I will be a refined Gondorian lady."

Éomer nearly choked on his tea at that picture. "Yes, I'm sure. You'll be sitting in the garden, doing embroidery. Does Faramir have the slightest idea of what he's let himself in for?"

Éowyn laughed and started to brush out his hair. "Soon you'll have to find someone else to do this for you," she remarked in a conversational voice.

"Hmm." Slightly cheered, Éomer had to hide a grin. He had suspected that it wasn't sisterly care that had brought Éowyn into his tent so early, but rather sisterly curiosity.

Silence stretched between them until Éowyn could stand it no longer. "Oh come on, Éomer! Out with it, what happened between you and Lothíriel last night? Imrahil didn't look too pleased about it."

"Nothing has happened." Yet. Without warning, the memory of caressing Lothíriel's smooth skin flooded through him and he realized he would not be able to forgo claiming his forfeit. Her dark, unseeing eyes had tugged at his very soul.