Yours to Command

Diplomacy

"I know I should not ask this here and now, but I simply can't help it," he whispered. "You and me?" Desire flooded him. Those lips...

"You are the King of Rohan. What would people say..." she swallowed back more tears. "No, there can be no you and me."

Yet he felt her leaning towards him and for a moment it seemed to him he could hear an echo of his own longing in her low voice.

"Lothíriel..." he chose his words very carefully. "I might be a king, but I'm also a man. And surely there is nothing shameful when there are feelings between a man and a woman? It's the most natural thing in the world."

She thrust his hand away as if it burnt her. "You dare!"

"Lothíriel?"

She cut right across him. "I don't care how customs differ in Rohan, but that kind of dishonourable and contemptible behaviour is not acceptable here. You deserve a flogging for suggesting such a thing after your actions last night."

He blinked. Dishonourable and contemptible behaviour? Surely she was overreacting? Why, he hadn't even kissed her! A spark of anger stirred within him.

"You can't tell me you disliked it completely," he said without thinking, "I felt you respond to me."

She gripped her cane as if she wanted to hit him with it, no longer looking young and vulnerable, but almost menacing. He was suddenly reminded of her facing down the warg.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to say that. You are a despicable scoundrel!"

Amrothos came running towards them, his face grim at his sister's obvious distress. "What do you think you're doing!" he barked at Éomer and pulled Lothíriel into his arms.

She pushed him away, still incandescent with rage. "Oh, let me be, Amrothos. I don't need your help to deal with this scum." She rounded on Éomer. "Don't you dare come near me again! Or King of Rohan or not, I will personally skewer you with a sword. I'm going home now."

With an angry swish of her riding skirts she turned on her heel and strode away. After a last glare at him, Amrothos hurried after her. In the distance, the dogs' barks had reached a new frenzied pitch.

Éomer was left contemplating his unmitigated stupidity. What had possessed him to utter those fatal words? It seemed he could not touch the Princess of Dol Amroth without committing some fresh folly. With a curse he slammed his fist into the trunk of the innocent apple tree, causing it to shudder. Then he rubbed his aching knuckles and cursed some more. Slowly, he walked back to his guards, only to be met by accusatory looks after venting his feelings in that way.

"What is it?" he snapped.

Probably loath to provoke his legendary temper, his riders lowered their eyes, but he could feel their unease in the tense silence as they walked back to the courtyard. Even Éothain looked disturbed at his king's behaviour.

As they rounded the corner of the house, a sudden noise made Éomer look up. It sounded like hundreds of wings beating and before his astonished eyes a huge flock of birds rose into the air from behind the stables. Faintly, he could hear the excited shrieks of falcons from beyond the courtyard.

"My pigeons!" somebody wailed and Éomer's attention snapped back to the house.

Girion had an expression of outraged incredulity on his face as he stood watching the birds slowly dispersing into the wooded hills around them. Then a man wearing the green and brown garb of a huntsman came running into the courtyard, forcing his way through the crowd towards the steps of the house.