Yours to Command

Opening Moves

He looked back at the mound and his hand closed on the pommel of his sword. They had honoured a horse with a burial, whilst the King of Harad lay in an unmarked grave somewhere, his body trampled into the ground by the charge of the Rohirrim instead of being sent to the gods with the proper rites. And while Théoden, the slayer of Muzgâsh's father, had died himself on the battlefield, his nephew yet lived and thrived.

"Not much longer," Muzgâsh murmured. "Enjoy your last sunrise, King Éomer."

He would not live to see the sunset. Tonight, the King of Rohan would be lying on the ground, cold and dead, while Muzgâsh sailed down the Anduin.

Tasting the spoils of victory.

***

"The King of Rohan is back."

Lothíriel had to hide a smile. She plucked another note on her harp. The tune had a cheery rhythm, easy to master, like a pair of dancing feet. My love has claimed a ribbon from me...

"You knew already?" Hareth asked.

"Amrothos told me last night," Lothíriel explained. And anyway, Éomer had promised to return to Minas Tirith as soon as possible. So tied to each other forever we'll be...

"I see," her maid said slowly. "So that is why you insisted on having your Rohirric clothes washed."

Her fingers flying across the strings, Lothíriel nodded. To a far off land he had to go...

"I think your father is already getting tired of seeing you wearing them."

As an answer, Lothíriel just grinned, for she had ordered more of the same tight-fitting, sleeveless tunics. Though she wore trousers today, the prettily embroidered tunics went equally well with a skirt, so Prince Imrahil would soon see his daughter wear nothing else. To face a dark and mighty foe...

Her maid took up brushing Lothíriel's hair. "Will you be going to the Houses of Healing again today, to visit that rider?"

"Perhaps this afternoon." I wait for the day of his return...

"Why, what's happening this morning?"

With a flourish, Lothíriel finished the song. "You never know who might come calling." When his reward at last he'll earn.

She leaned back in the chair, to allow Hareth better access to her hair. Only her family would ever see it hanging loose down her back like this, thick and long. And her husband. While Hareth's clever fingers started to braid it at the temples and pin it up into a bun at the back of her head, Lothíriel speculated what it would feel like to have Éomer undo it. Nice, she decided, it would feel nice. Lothíriel sighed. It might be a long time until she would find out, for her father showed no sign of relenting yet. At least he hadn't carried through his plan of sending her back to Dol Amroth. But surely Éomer had thought of something by now. When Hareth had finished with her hair, Lothíriel got up from her chair and gave a quick twirl.

"Do I look pretty?"

Her maid laughed. "Ravishing."

Pleased, Lothíriel picked up her cloak – Éomer's cloak really –and fastened it with his brooch. Another item of clothing she had taken to wearing almost constantly in her battle of attrition with her father.

"I'll go and sit in the garden for a bit."

That moment there came a knock on the door. "My lady, there is someone to see you."

Lothíriel's heart gave a funny little leap. "I'm coming!" She opened the door eagerly. "Who is it?"

"One of the healers from the Houses of Healing."