Work Text:
The Ghost Witch in the Houses of Healing
It was two days before the coronation of High King Elessar Telcontar and all over Minas Tirith spirits were high. Yet not all souls were elated even at this newfound hard-fought time of peace.
Éomer King was on his way to visit the Houses of Healing, where a number of his men were still recuperating. Though his sister Éowyn had recovered well, he was still concerned for the horse-lords that were not considered healthy enough for a journey home.
He did not wish to leave them behind, as indeed their families were awaiting their return most anxiously. And Rohan needed every one of its men to start the healing from the damage done by Saruman and Grima Wormtongue.
Éomer scowled and cursed them before spitting on the ground.
While he was eager to start the journey, he was troubled by the thought that he would effectively be King henceforth, even before his noble and beloved Uncle Théoden was brought home and laid to rest in a barrow near Edoras.
Éomer King, that would be his title from now on. He only hoped that he could be worthy of it.
He passed through the doors of the Houses of Healing and followed the path he had been taking for the past few days.
As he was about to ascend the stairs to the ward where his men were put up, a pale grey robed figure came down and sped past him, and he managed to step aside just in time.
One of the Healers in a hurry, he thought absently and thought no more of it.
When he entered the room where his men were resting, he immediately was greeted heartily by them.
“Westu hál, Eomer King!”
He nodded and told them to be at ease and called in the Warden to give his updates on their health.
The Warden, Bair Nestad, was a wise old man that enjoyed sharing his insights and opinions. He had the tendency to go off on tangents of superfluous elaborations that would often test the listener’s patience. Fortunately for the Rohirrim, Éomer King’s glare had already clarified to the garrulous yet profoundly skilled Chief Healer that he would not tolerate any such verbosity.
“Your Majesty, I have good news pertaining these young masters – “ He gestured to the three men sitting on their cots “- as they are strong enough to safely make their journey back to Rohan. All they need to do to is keep applying Edledhim to their wounds and redressing them every two days, until the wounds have healed completely.”
Éomer studied the faces of the aforementioned three men and then asked. “Will you be able to do that? Do you know how to change your own bandages? And to apply the uh…”
He glanced at the Warden, who immediately supplied. “Edledhim, or Sorrowfew in Westron.”
“Yes, do you know how to apply it?” He looked at his men sternly, as he certainly did not want them to fall ill again during their travel.
The three men readily agreed, swearing that they would look after themselves and not cause trouble for their King.
“Nay, not trouble. Your well-being is my utmost concern. I rather you stay and recuperate.”
“We truly wish to go. I need to see what has become of my village and my people,” said one of the men, anxiously, “I cannot tarry here any longer.”
Hearing their plight, Éomer felt compelled to agree. “Warden Bair, are you sure that this Sorrowfew shall stave off any malady and promote their healing?”
“I swear to you, Your Majesty, this salve has been one of the greatest assets of the Houses of Healing,” the Warden sensed his concern and made an effort to reassure the young King of the North, “I promise you, the finest Herbalist of Gondor shall brew and bottle a new batch for your men with the utmost care. In fact, I shall assure you that these men will receive plenty more than they need, so that they have no need to ration. Perhaps – “
“Thank you, Warden Bair, I am truly grateful for all that you and your staff have done for them, for all of us.” Éomer briefly placed a gloved hand over his heart. “Pray tell me about Foltor here. Can he not join us?”
The Warden winced and approached Foltor, whose pelvic region was harmed to the extent that he needed to lie down as much as possible. “Like I told you before, he shall need to be looked after by us for a few more weeks before he is ready to travel.”
“Your Sorrowfew cannot help him?”
“Indeed, it will help, but bones take more time unfortunately.”
Foltor looked quite distressed, and it did not go unnoticed by his King. Cold sweat had appeared on his brow, and his eyes were flitting to and fro. No doubt he did not wish to be left behind. Éomer sat down on a stool near his cot and he placed a hand on Foltor’s shoulder.
“My good soldier, I command you to follow the Warden’s every instruction, so that you may join me when I take Théoden King back.”
Foltor grimaced, his face pale. “Aye, milord. But – “
“I shall have to take my leave,” the Warden suddenly said, as he made for the door, “Master Foltor shall be in my capable hands, Your Majesty. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Warden Bair.”
And the Warden left. Éomer turned to look at Foltor and saw that the man was near tears. He glanced at the other men in alarm before reaching out to hold the man’s shaking hand.
“Please do not leave me here alone, Your Majesty.”
“Why? What is causing you this distress?”
“It is the Witch!” Foltor’s blond bearded chin quivered. “She will come for me.”
“Get your wits together, Foltor,” said Heredor, a stout redhead from the Eastfold, “there is no Witch here in Gondor.”
“If it is not a Witch, then it is a ghost. Your Majesty,” he pled, eyes full of desperation, “if you leave me here I shall surely fall victim to the spectre. No one will look for me here, these Gondorians do not give a rat’s arse about me.”
“That is not fair, they have been looking after all of us so well.” Heredor replied, now walking up to where Foltor lay.
But Foltor did not back down. “When I told them about the ghost, witch – spectre, they just laughed at me and told me that they would adjust my medicine so that I would not hallucinate. I did not hallucinate, because Gárwine saw her too.”
Hearing this, the King of the Riddermark turned to where Gárwine sat and gestured him to speak up.
“It is true,” said he in a low voice, “I have seen her skulking about the Halls of the Healing. Always flitting here or there. She has wild and dark hair, and empty eyes that pierce your very soul if she happens to look at you...” He stood up and limped to stand next to Heredor. “Last time I saw her she fled towards the gardens, her pale, ghostly grey robes billowing, and she was muttering something continuously under her breath in a strange language. Yet the Gondorians do not see her. I think she is a ghost, invisible to the people of Minas Tirith.”
“Do the Healers not wear grey robes?” asked Éomer. “She could just be a very busy Healer.”
“No, no!” Gárwine smiled humourlessly. “That is what I thought too, but Healers wear a dark grey colour and the ghost is a light shade, a white like silver!”
The discussion continued for another ten minutes until Éomer stood up, resolutely. For the sake of Foltor, he had to either find the Ghost Witch or find the person who was mistaken for a spectre.
After he left the Houses of Healing, he sent a small number of Gondorian guards to discretely find more information about the spectre, but they all came up short. He then hesitated to have them enquire further, as he was risking his credibility in front of the Gondorians. So he decided, as he had no meetings to attend, then he would try find the Ghost Witch himself. Hours he spent wandering around the Houses, keeping himself occupied by talking to Healers and patients, spending time with his sister, but always – always were his eyes looking out for the mysterious resident of the Houses.
He had just finished freshening up when he saw a grey and black figure flash past in the corner of his eye.
The Witch!
As fast as he could, he ran towards the hallway he knew she disappeared into. He could hear the rustling of her clothes, but ever she remained just out of his sight. Even as he ran, he questioned his own behaviour. Why was he, Éomer King of Rohan, running after a ghost?
The answer that followed in his mind was too honest for him. He was seeking distraction from his own worries, as he would have to return to Rohan and rebuild it while keenly feeling the absence of Théoden and Théodred. And even Éowyn was bound to leave him soon. And then he would be alone in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, with only his demons of self-doubt and anxiety to keep him company.
He stopped running and sighed deeply, looking around the herb garden that the Healers and Cooks of Minas Tirith kept behind the Houses of Healing. The trail had run cold.
Or the ghost had vanished.
Or the Witch had.
Same difference.
Before he could linger any longer on his personal misgivings, he was called for dinner and he decided he would try again tomorrow.
The next day was spent in council. After a ride on Firefoot, an early dinner and an impromptu meeting in the Rohirrim encampment, Éomer King was once more in the Houses of Healing. He had spent time with his men before he met with Éowyn to discuss a few matters. They were making a turn about the High Hall of the Houses of Healing, when once again Éomer spotted a figure that matched the description of the Ghost Witch on the far end of the room. He quickly muttered an apology to his confused sister and ran to the other side of the High Hall, turning into the same hallways he ran through yesterday, only to end up once more in the garden. It would be sunset soon.
Cursing under his breath, he made to turn back, when his eyes fell on the smoke billowing from the apothecary wing, a small tower on the other side of the herb garden.
She was there, he realized. He had taken off his armour before visiting the Houses, as he had intended to chase after the spectre, hoping to attract less attention than he had the day before. Instead he was wearing a brown tunic over black breeches, with a maroon and golden jacket that allowed him to move with more ease.
As quietly as he could, he approached the apothecary and went up the stairs. The first floor was empty, but as he was halfway to the second, he could feel the heat emanating from the stillroom. He could also hear someone speaking and moving about.
It was the Witch, he thought wildly, Foltor and Gárwine were right.
As nimble as he could, he went up the last few steps and soundlessly took out his sword. There was only one door, which stood ajar, spilling out a strange flickering light and an off-putting smell.
With the tip of Gúthwinë he slowly pushed the door open and he peered through, his heart pounding in his ears.
If this truly was a Witch or a ghost, then he would have to banish them somehow. How he was supposed to do that, he did not know. After visual confirmation he would seek out reinforcements, he decided.
He slowly stuck his head into the doorway, squinting his eyes as he adjusted to the brightness of the room.
There was a fire burning in the fireplace, where a cauldron was bubbling softly. A figure then appeared and stood in front of the giant pot, her silhouette defined by the flames beneath it. It was unmistakably a female figure, tall and slim, with the mass of her curly, dark hair hiding her face.
Éomer watched with bated breath as she stirred the contents of the cauldron. Over the sound of the fire and the bubbling he could hear her muttering. No, she was chanting, the rhythm of her voice eerie and slow.
His heart squeezed in fear. The Rohirrim stayed far away from anything related to spirits and magic and they even mistrusted Elves. Though Éomer had learned that not all magic was bad and indeed most Elves were worth trusting, still he felt nervous watching the woman move about, adding ingredients, stirring and chanting.
Her actions seemed innocuous, yet she was a risk for Foltor’s recovery and he needed to confront her for the sake of his soldier.
He tore his eyes off her and instead studied the contents of the room. Shelves were full with bottles and vials, some empty while most of them were filled. There were a few candles burning next to a large cutting board, a number of bowls and some other tools on the workbench near the fireplace, next to a large stack of books. Another table, which was near the opened window, had scrolls of parchment on one side and a heap of silvery grey cloth.
He looked more closely and realized that it was the light grey gown that Gárwine had spoken of. Unbidden, his eyes snapped back to her figure to confirm that, indeed, she was only wearing an underdress.
Almost as if to highlight her state of dress to Éomer, she moved to the workbench and gathered her voluminous hair in both her hands. Within seconds she had tied it up in a bun and secured it with a cloth. Éomer was unable to tear his eyes away from her, the intimacy of her actions capturing his attention.
He swallowed with difficulty. Now that her hair was no longer hiding her, he could see in the light of the fire that her skin was dusky, contrasting beautifully against the white of her chemise. His eyes roved from the uncovered expanse of her arms and shoulders to her neck and then –
He could scarce breathe when he saw that she had untied the lacings of the back, revealing a large expanse of skin that his eyes seemed to be glued to.
Were witches supposed to be so alluring? The heat that Éomer now was feeling was no longer just from the fireplace and he adjusted his breeches to lessen the discomfort.
The woman then took another cloth and rubbed the sweat from her brow and her neck, a sight that did not leave him unaffected.
She was tantalizing.
He wanted to see her face, Witch or no Witch.
He slowly took a step inside the room, his eyes eager to see her visage. When she turned back to the cauldron, it seemed that the nose and the mouth were covered by a fabric. In an effort to see clearer, he moved sideways...
And in doing so, he knocked over a vial which rolled over the shelf noisily until it came to a stop next to a wooden box by making a soft clink.
Fuck.
He looked back at her to see her approach, brandishing a still glowing fireplace poker at him, her eyes wide with fear.
He raised his sword, warning her to stay back.
“What is your business here, horse-lord?” Her voice was clear except for a tremble, belying her discomfort.
Éomer took a moment to collect his thoughts before he snapped back. “I have come here to find whatever is haunting the Houses of Healing and disturbing the peace of my men. Are you thus a ghost or a witch? Why are you practicing your witchcraft here?”
For a moment that seemed to last ages, the woman held his gaze with a frown above her grey eyes. Then she took her time observing his appearance, the poker in her hand held unwavering.
Éomer did the same. She was indeed just wearing a shift and her dusky pink skin held a sheen of sweat that was simply enchanting. Her grey eyes were wide and had something familiar in them. Curls were already escaping from the knot in her hair, framing her face. Her nose and mouth were still covered with linen cloth and he absently wondered if she would remove it if he demanded it of her.
Then he remembered, he was supposed to be confronting her, not desiring her.
Right.
And it seemed that she too was done observing, because she finally spoke again with a more confident voice.
“Tell me, horse-lord. How do you intend to defeat a witch or a ghost with just a sword?”
Éomer opened his mouth and then shut it again. She was right.
The young woman shook her head in disbelief. “What is your name, horse-lord?”
“I shall not say.”
“Why ever not?”
Éomer felt it was ridiculous, but he said it anyway. “You might use it for a spell.”
And then she laughed, a pleasant tinkling laugh that reminded him of ringing bells, and he could not help a small smile. He wished that she would take her face covering off, so he could see her laugh unencumbered.
Then as if she heard his thoughts, she switched the poker to her left hand and used her right to remove the mask. She wiped her nose and mouth with it before casting it aside.
Before Éomer was able to have a look at her, she covered her face with the inside of her elbow and sneezed. Then she glanced at him and lowered her elbow.
He stared openly at her, so struck by her beauty.
“What is your name?” He asked, genuinely eager to know.
The smirk her lips stretched into made his heart skip a beat, and he wordlessly sent a prayer to Béma to keep him from making a further fool out of himself.
“I am not in the habit of giving my name to those who accuse me of being a witch.”
He took a moment to find the words that did not make him look like a half-wit. “Has it happened before?”
She then pouted and the grip on his sword loosened at the sight, before he regained his wits and held it firmly.
Béma, help me.
Béma seemed busy that day.
“It has happened twice before. Now I wish I were a witch, just so that I could exact my revenge freely.”
Éomer laughed warily. “My lady, for someone who claims not to be a witch, you do behave like one.”
“I do!” And she laughed again, pressing a graceful hand against her brow.
Her tinkling laugh stole the air clean from his lungs. Éomer did not have the heart to keep his blade pointed at her and he sheathed it, his eyes not budging from her bewitching being.
Her weapon still remained near his face, though it had cooled considerably.
“I am making Sorrowfew salve. The Warden has requested it of me. If I recall correctly, it is meant for the Rohirrim.”
“Yes,” replied Éomer, “and thank you for that. But you were murmuring something and it was quite... Disconcerting.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Oh, you mean... Aito lehti, poskipunaterä, neulaleikkuri?”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Those are the Quenya names for the ingredients... trueleaf, blushblade and snagbane,” she smiled and bit her lip, causing another pang of desire in his belly, “my Quenya pronunciation needs some work and I was practicing while I brewed.”
“That is very industrious. Do you speak many languages?”
Quenya was no common tongue and she was no common herbalist. She was, without a doubt, a lady of the greater Houses of Gondor. A flower of hope bloomed in his chest. Perhaps...
“Yes, but not yours, horse-lord.”
“And what about your face covering?”
“Bushblade does not suit me, especially when it cooks.”
“That is unfortunate.” He nodded, and then shifted in place, eager for the conversation to continue. “Do you not tire of holding your weapon?”
“Will you hold it for me then?” She asked, an eyebrow raised.
“If you ask me, I just might.” Éomer said in a low voice, hoping to endear himself to her enough that she would give him her name. He liked her temperament. She was witty. And he could not bear the thought of not seeing her again.
His attempt was successful, because she looked aside with a suppressed smile. Slowly she lowered the poker and put it away.
Éomer was about to say whatever came to mind, desperate to have her attention on him, when she looked at him and asked him: “Have you decided on what creature I am?”
His first thought was to say something incredibly embarrassing like, ‘you’re an angel!’ or ‘you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes upon’, but it seemed that Béma had managed to give him a sliver of help after all.
“You are not a witch. And you do not seem to be a ghost either.”
The young woman tucked a curl behind her ear and gave a tiny grin. “How do you know that for certain, horse-lord?”
“Ghosts do not usually do witchy things,” he replied, pretending to be quite sure of himself.
Her grin widened and he revelled in the fact that she was enjoying their conversation as much as he was.
“Then how many ghosts have you met, that you are so aware of their habits?” She took hold of a stray curl and wrapped it around her fingers as she spoke.
He observed her movements for a moment before he took a step closer to her and softly replied. “Perhaps one, but I am not sure.”
His approach did not daunt her, in fact she leaned a bit forward and rolled her shoulders, her eyes not leaving his. “How could you be sure, horse-lord?”
He took another step closer and his voice was deep and gruff. “I suppose one can be sure upon touching the so-called ghost.”
Her eyes fluttered downwards. She released the curl and pushed it behind her hair with a shaky hand.
Despite her bold behaviour, realized Éomer, she was still in her innocence. He did not move any closer.
“And where would one touch the supposed ghost to find out the truth?”
“Nowhere,” the young King gently said, “nowhere unless the ghost permits otherwise.”
“That seems prudent,” she whispered and looked him in the eye. “I am also not in the habit of allowing people who accuse me of being a ghost to find out if they are right.”
An amused grin tugged at his lips. “Aye, that is wise, indeed.”
To his surprise she took a big step towards him, causing her to be mere inches away from him.
“Could ghosts touch people instead?” She all but whispered.
Éomer King forgot how to breathe and he did not care one bit. She was tall, clever and beautiful, and she was standing impossibly close to him, asking permission to touch him.
Anywhere, always. He thought desperately.
“I have heard that they can.”
Slowly she reached up and lightly caressed his beard, her eyes full of wonder and admiration. He stared her in no less awe, unable to believe that she wanted and dared to touch him.
A finger traced the beard from his chin up to his moustache.
“So soft,” she whispered, “what a lovely beard you have, horse-lord.”
What sweet torture was this!
He longed to wrap his arms around her and crush his lips against hers, yet that would have been too much, too soon for a noble young lady like her. But he could not let it go. He wanted her to give him her name so that he could find her.
Instead he lifted his own hand and watched her reaction very closely as he slowly wrapped his broad, calloused hand around her soft one. Her eyes were fixed on their hands.
Then he gently brought one of her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss into it. Then another. By the third kissed finger, his eyes had fallen shut and he focused on enjoying his act.
Immediately he heard her gasp loudly and his eyes shot open to see her wrench away her hand from him. She had turned her back to him and she was breathing heavily.
“Forgive me – “ he began, worried that she might never tell her name now that he had overstepped her boundaries. But she interrupted him.
“Do not be sorry, for I am not.” She spoke breathlessly, looking over her shoulder at him.
He exhaled in relief and rubbed his beard.
“Tell me your name, milady, please.”
The young woman shook her head, before walking to the cauldron and stirring it. Éomer clenched his fists in frustration.
“You shall soon find out my name yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because I know who you are.”
“Who am I then?”
“Indeed, who are you?” She wiped her hands clean and turned to him once more. “You are someone who insists on knowing the name of a woman. While you are with her in a secluded place... without chaperone.”
Éomer looked down, embarrassed. She was right to protect her own identity, but he would never cause her any harm.
When he looked back up, he saw to his amazement that she was standing directly in front of him, so close that he could kiss her.
And how he longed to kiss her.
Her eyes too, flitted to his mouth and he knew that she felt the same. The first move was hers to make.
She opened her mouth slightly and his breath caught in his throat. Was she –
Then she turned her face away and sneezed, causing him to chuckle.
“Will you not tell me your name?” He tried again, hoping to entreat her. “Do you not wish to meet me again?”
She gazed at him, a light frown at her brow. “We shall meet tomorrow.”
“Where? Will you be here tomorrow?”
She shook her head.
Éomer’s chest felt restricted. She knew who he was, but she did not wish to share her own name. She gave no details and yet...
Her silver eyes were roaming across his whole being, seemingly taking in every detail of him. Did that not mean that she was also eager to see him again?
“It is time for you to go... Éomer King.”
His hazel-green met her grey and they both smiled. Éomer could breathe a bit better, feeling that he would be able to find her the following day.
She gently pressed a hand against his chest and pushed him, so he willingly took a step back, enjoying the thrill of being touched by her.
He could handle being a King, if she could be the Queen at his side. Was he being hasty and presumptuous? Probably, but it was the first time he felt some personal contentment about his title.
And it had started with a literal witch hunt.
She pressed again and he took another step back, now standing in doorway.
The Witch hunt. He had forgotten about the reason he had sought her out in the first place.
“Could you do me one favour, milady?”
She nodded.
“Tomorrow morning, if you could visit Foltor in the Houses and assure him that you are not a witch, I would be most grateful.”
“I will.”
He did not want to leave.
Another push.
“How did you come to know who I was?”
He was stalling, but he also wished to know.
She reached out for his hand, making his heart beat faster still, and angled it so he could see the King’s signet ring on his little finger.
“I saw it when you... “ Her voice trailed off and she looked at his lips.
He could not help himself. He lifted the hand that was still holding onto hers, and this time he did not close his eyes.
Gently he pressed his lips against the top of her hand, keeping a steady look at her face. It was gratifying to see how she blushed, with her eyelashes fluttering and her lips slightly parted.
It took all of his willpower not to pull her into an embrace, so enchanting was her presence. The Gondorian court had beauties aplenty, and she was among them, yet the few glimpses at her wit and her knowledge distinguished her from all the other noblewomen. He longed for her to be his and he vowed to himself that he would not rest until he found her tomorrow. He would not leave Minas Tirith without the promise of her hand.
With a resolute mind, he released her hand from his grip and she rested it against her chest.
She smiled again, a touch shy. “Then I bid you goodnight, Éomer King.”
“Until tomorrow, milady.” His voice was gruff and deep.
He stepped backwards over the threshold and watched her close the door, holding her gaze until it finally disappeared. Then he took the stairs down and strode into the garden. When he turned back to look at the apothecary wing, he saw her looking down at him from the window, and his heart threatened to leap out of his throat.
He was sure of her affections now. Why else would she be still looking at him?
The young woman waved at him and he waved back without any hesitation. Taking a deep breath, he bowed and left the garden.
As he made his way to the Rohirrim quarters of the Southern Guesthouse, he wondered at his own behaviour. Had he ever even waved at a woman before? No doubt this was the first of many new things he would experience because of her.
He had definitely not expected to experience his first heartbreak because of the young noblewoman in the apothecary tower, yet there he sat on his throne on the dais, nursing his drink as well as his heart.
His mood was grim, which was no surprise.
He had woken early and visited Foltor in the Houses of Healing, where he had enquired after her.
“Aye, she did come here!” Foltor had been moved to another ward, sharing the room with a few Gondorian soldiers with similar health issues.
“She told me you had found her and she apologized for upsetting me. Such a pretty girl, she was, so kind.” He had shaken his head in disbelief. “I feel so bad getting all worked up over nothing and wasting your time.”
Éomer had had little patience that morning. “Do not worry. Tell me, did she give her name? Do you know who she is?”
The bedridden warrior had stared at his King before grinning knowingly. “Milord, you’ve taken a liking to her, have you not? I don’t blame you, if I had been a decade younger – “
“A name, Foltor, a name. Anything!”
Foltor had winced. “I’m so sorry, milord. She was gone immediately.”
Éomer had rubbed his brow in frustration. “Any idea where she went?”
“No, sir. Terribly sorry.”
Taking his leave, Éomer had left the ward and asked every single person working there about a woman of her description, but no one had been able to tell him about her. He had even sought out the Warden and asked him about the young woman he had referred to as ‘the finest Herbalist of Gondor’.
To his frustration, the Warden had not cooperated.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I know whom you speak of. But it is not appropriate to give her name if she has not been introduced to you.”
“Why. Not?” He had asked through clenched teeth, his anger apparent.
Yet the Warden had been unfazed by the intimidating warrior King. “It is the way of the Gondorian court, Your Majesty. Perhaps you will happen across her at the coronation and then you might be able to get an introduction.”
Blasted Gondorians with their inane ways!
Éomer had stormed out of the Houses of Healing, causing everyone who saw him to give him a wide berth.
He had thought to ask for help, but then had decided against it. If someone were to ask him how or why they had met, he would have had to say something that would compromise her reputation. As much as he had wanted to see her again, he had not wished to bring her any harm because of his own desire.
Soon after he had left the Houses, he had attended the coronation at the Pelennor Fields – he had not seen her there either - which had been followed by a coronation procession through the Circles of the White City to the Citadel. That procession had not given him the chance to scan the clusters of Gondorian ladies for the woman he was looking for.
The banquet that followed had given him plenty of opportunity, all of which had been wasted on fine noblewomen that were decidedly not his Herbalist Witch Lady. Fathers, brothers and uncles had come up to him with their female family members, introducing them to him. With every fruitless introduction, Éomer’s despair had mounted, up until the point that he had just wanted to be left alone with his drink.
So there he sat, having lost count of how many ales and meads he had had, glaring at the ground. He did not have the heart to look at the crowd, as disappointment and defeat had already claimed it as their victim. The only thing that had brought him joy, had been his sister Éowyn, smiling brightly as she danced alongside her betrothed, the formidable Prince Steward Faramir, however they had disappeared somewhere. He did not fault them for it. After finding her stricken after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, he was willing to give everything up for a happy life for her. Not that it was necessary, he reflected, she would find all she needed with Faramir. And if that meant that he, Éomer, was destined to be alone in Edoras, then he was content with it. Lady Herbalist or not.
With that final thought, he emptied his goblet and stood up. Drinking anymore would have dire consequences in the morning and he would rather not be known as the Hungover King of Rohan.
He had just stepped off the dais when he heard a loud yet melodious masculine voice call his name.
“Éomer King, there you are!”
He frowned as he turned to look at Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth, the youngest son of Prince Imrahil. There was something about his voice...
“I have been looking all over you, Your Majesty.”
Éomer glanced back at the dais, which had been the most obvious and visible place for Amrothos, or someone else, to find him. Before he could remark on this, Amrothos grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along into the crowd, dodging a leg from the left and an arm from the right. They stopped at the edge of the dance floor.
“I have found him for you, Ada.”
Éomer looked to his left to find his good friend standing next to him. Prince Imrahil.
“Thank you, Amrothos. Well met, Éomer King.”
“Well met, my friend.” He smiled and clasped his hand. As he looked at the elder Dol Amrothian Prince, he once again felt that there was vital information that his tipsy mind was not able to process.
“I was hoping to introduce you to my daughter, Lothíriel, but she just pulled her brother into a dance.” Imrahil spoke and looked apologetically at him. “I am afraid we shall have to wait for a spell.”
“I do not mind,” replied Éomer automatically, cursing his own penchant for imbibing when he was upset. What were his senses trying to tell him? If there had been an Orc attack right now, he would have gotten into serious trouble.
If Imrahil had noticed his troubled expression, he did not speak of it. Instead he continued to talk. “My daughter has been ruling Dol Amroth in my stead, as I might have mentioned before. She just came to Minas Tirith two days ago, and even then she had been helping out in the Houses of Healing while her brothers and I were in constant meetings.”
“I see.”
“We hardly had the chance to spend time with her and now she insists on dancing with all of us. Oh, look. There they are!”
Absentmindedly, Éomer followed his gaze to short distance away. The second heir of Dol Amroth, Prince Erchirion, spun around a young woman in a blue dress, her skirts twirling about beautifully. Her face was not visible at this distance, but her hair was black and put into a tight bun.
Éomer was unable to tear his eyes away from her dancing figure. She reminded him of the young woman last night, but he was not sure.
“Are you well, Éomer King?” He heard Amrothos speak in amused tone from behind. “You look like you have seen a ghost!”
And then Éomer finally heard what his mind had been screaming at him. Amrothos and the young lady had the same accent and thus the same manner of saying his name. Their laugh was similar, both melodious and clear. Éomer glanced at Prince Imrahil and he saw the same grey eyes looking back at him, though with more wrinkles and bushier eyebrows.
The young woman that he had accused of being a Ghost Witch was actually Princess Lothíriel, daughter to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.
The Prince was looking at Éomer with mild interest. “Here they come.”
Quicker than what he thought was dignified, the young King of the Riddermark snapped returned his gaze to the dancing pair and they were indeed approaching them.
The dance had ended, and Erchirion was leading his sister back to their father, both of them breathing rapidly.
Unlike yesterday, Princess Lothíriel was dressed in a modest but exquisite blue gown and her hair was bound tightly into a braided bun, emphasizing her noble features. Éomer sought eye contact, but she had her gaze caused downwards with an expression that was both demure and void of emotion. It worried him.
She moved to her father’s side, her breathing almost regular now.
“Éomer King, may I introduce my daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the youngest of my children.”
Why was she not looking at him?
“Lothíriel, this is my good friend Éomer, King of Rohan.”
Without meeting his gaze still, she curtsied most formally, and the worry gathering in the pit of his stomach became a gaping void of distress. It seemed that she had no interest in him.
“Pleased to meet you, Princess Lothíriel.” He struggled to keep the pain of rejection from his voice.
As was customary for women of her status, she offered him a hand to kiss. He pressed his lips against her gloved hand and when he looked up to her face, she was looking straight at him.
His heart skipped a beat.
Enthralled, he watched as her lips parted and then she whispered: “Aito lehti, poskipunaterä, neulaleikkuri.”
The smile that followed was so warm and bright that his mind became completely blank.
He must have looked like a fool, because he was staring her slack-jawed, holding her hand until she freed herself of him and moved away, her smile unwavering.
“Well met, Éomer King.” She spoke formally but he could hear the tremor in her voice and he was glad for it, because it meant that she was as affected by their reunion as he was.
He watched her tuck a curl behind her ear, and he heard Imrahil speak but he could not register it. He could only think of one thing.
Lothíriel.
Then the music for the next dance started, breaking both of them out of their reverie.
“Amrothos, it is your turn now!” Lothíriel quickly said and she took her brother by surprise, dragging him to the dance floor.
The two of them laughed in unison and Éomer grinned.
“Our Princess is rather energetic, I am afraid.” Imrahil spoke again, both wariness and fondness. “Though I cannot fault for being so happy after reuniting with the ones she cares about.”
“Indeed, I cannot lay blame, either. I feel quite the same.”
Éomer King continued to watch her dance, smiling back ever so often when she would turned to look at him and smile, just for him.
The following day, the Rohirrim were packing up their encampment and readying their horses. Éomer stood aside, reading a letter from Lord Erkenbrand that he had just received.
Rohan needed its King.
“Hail, Éomer King!”
He looked up to see Heredor, Gárwine and Theobald, the three men that had been given permission to leave the Houses of Healing.
“You guys are back from your visit.” Their King asked them. “Is the Warden still at ease?”
“All is well, sire,” replied Theobald, and he showed him the packages that the three of them were carrying, “all our supplies are with us. Just have to load them.”
“Good. We leave at noon.”
“Aye, sire.”
Heredor and Theobald took their leave, but Gárwine lingered behind.
“Your Majesty,” said he in a low voice, casting a look around, “may I ask you something?”
Éomer grunted his assent, still reading.
“Did you find the spectre?”
“Who?”
“The Ghost Witch!” He whispered. “The one who has been haunting the Houses!” He whispered urgently.
Éomer smirked slightly, but he did not look up from the letter.
Much was to be done in the Westfold.
“Aye, I did find her.”
Gárwine gasped and stepped closer, excitedly. “You did? Were you able to banish her from there?”
“Aye, I did.”
The young horse-lord sighed in relief. “As expected of our Éomer King. How did you do that?”
The King folded it up the letter and tucked it in his belt. Then he walked to Firefoot and patted his neck. Before mounting his steed and riding off, he gave Garwine his answer.
“I asked her to marry me, and she agreed.”
End.