Yours to Command

The Prince and Princess of Ithilien

The clear clarion call of a trumpet rang out, the signal to take their places. The bride and groom would ride at the front of the procession, with their witnesses following right behind. Showing Lothíriel her position next to Éomer, Amrothos gave him a silent glower promising retribution if he upset his sister again. Then he left to take his allocated place behind the banner bearers with the rest of the Dol Amroth party.

As they slowly started to move out, Éomer looked back to see Minas Tirith behind him, flags flying from every tower and turret. A brave sight. Knowing that Lothíriel liked to have the sights around her described to her, he turned to the woman beside him to remark on it, but thought better of it when he saw the tense way she sat her horse. Lothíriel did not look as if she would welcome any attempt at conversation from him. While all around them, people chatted merrily, a bubble of strained silence appeared to surround her. He sighed inwardly. How could things have gone so horribly wrong?

It seemed the whole population of Minas Tirith had turned out to see them off. Many people lined the road to Osgiliath, clapping and cheering, and the going was slow at first. Lothíriel had a smile fixed on her face, gracious and polite, yet she seemed ill at ease at the enthusiastic shouting and the flower petals raining down on her. Then it happened: a woman threw a bunch of flowers at them, hitting Winterbreath on the head by mistake and the mare started violently. But before she could rear, Éomer reached over and grabbed her bridle.

"Easy!" he exclaimed in Rohirric.

Lothíriel had flinched, but now she leaned forward to pat her horse reassuringly on the neck. "It's all right," she said, "I can manage."

Éomer let go of Winterbreath's bridle, but the mare seemed skittish still. Horse and rider both, he thought bitterly. They rode on in silence and Winterbreath gradually calmed down again. A sideways glance showed him Lothíriel chewing her lip. She was nervously twisting the string of pearls resting on her breast round one finger. With an effort, he tore his gaze away.

"Thank you," she said at last and it hurt him to see how much effort those simple words cost her. All thoughts of annoyance fled from his mind at her unhappy face.

"Lothíriel, is there anything I can do?" he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could manage.

She shook her head, then hesitated. "Actually my nephew..."

What had Alphros done this time? "Yes?"

"He would like a tooth of the warg you killed to prove to his friend how big it was. I promised I'd ask you."

A warg tooth! He had hoped for a different request, but at least he would be able to fulfil this one.

"I will send him the pelt once it has been cured. Surely that will be proof enough."

"Thank you."

Her serious face pulled at his heartstrings. He wanted to reach out, hug her, make all the pain go away. Yet he knew that would only make the situation worse.

"Lothíriel, I'm yours to command," he said quietly. And this time it was no empty phrase.

She made no reply beyond inclining her head, yet it seemed to him that the atmosphere lightened slightly.

As they left Minas Tirith behind them, the crowd of people lining the way gradually lessened and they were able to pick up their pace, even trotting for short periods of time. Just after midday they reached Osgiliath, where they crossed the Anduin by one of the bridges. Éomer could not help looking downriver, to where the Mûmakil Stones lay glistening in the sun, innocent witnesses to his folly.

The main road continued east to the Cross-roads here, but they took a bridle path leading south along the river. To their left extended the hills of Emyn Arnen, their lower slopes cultivated with vineyards merging into woods further up. After a while the road started to climb, passing through thick forest, and finally they crossed a low ridge, giving a sweeping view to the south. A tributary of the Anduin flowed down here, swift and turbulent at first, but then slowing down and meandering in lazy curves across the wide, fertile land abutting the river. Where the foothills met the plain, the stream flowed in a wide circle around a flat-topped hill, almost turning it into an island. On it a large manor house had been built and gardens and orchards covered its slopes. A watchtower overlooked the narrow neck of land with the road leading up to the main gate. Emyn Arnen.