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Lothíriel unrolled the parchment, and her exhale was a sardonic chuckle.
She was alone, so her reaction was of no consequence.
This was her first Yuletide in Rohan, and Meduseld had a tradition: each year in the wintertime, along with giving gifts to family, loved ones, and in the case of the King and Queen, most everybody else, people exchanged gifts with other members of the court assigned by lots, the gifter and the giftee not to be revealed until the moment of presentation.
This convention, Éomer explained to her, was meant to forge stronger bonds between the royal family and their retinue, from the courtly figures who sat on the Royal Council, to the functionaries whose days were spent in unsung toil.
Often, the ritual brought together people who had little occasion to intersect. But in Lothíriel’s case, she knew her giftee very well, and it was as if the Valar had winked and nudged one another, conspiring to play a cruel joke.
It was Éothain. Éothain, her husband’s one-legged secretary who was once a Rider, but left his leg behind in Pelennor Fields. In Éomer’s laughing estimation, he was much like his uncle’s late advisor, Gríma, except less given to poisoning and treachery.
Indeed, Éothain was much more than a secretary. He was Éomer’s right-hand man, and a sort of éminence grise at court. He sat in the middle of a network made entirely of parchment, servants’ whispers and express mail riders, and Éomer sought his advice before anybody else’s.
Éothain had never particularly warmed to Lothíriel, and while he may have thought he was being subtle, Lothíriel was raised in Dol Amroth, where everyone’s faces were so stiff that a single raised eyebrow was a trumpet of displeasure.
As a Rohir, Éothain probably thought that his lips, pursed whenever she spoke, went unnoticed. He probably thought that the ever-so-slight pauses between his words, and his almost complete lack of inflection could plausibly be perceived as fatigue.
In the mind of many Rohirrim, if one person was not wiping the tables with the other and bellowing in his face, they were fond friends.
But as a woman of Gondor, Lothíriel knew with absolute certainty.
Éothain hated her.
He may as well have rolled out a banner in the great hall that said, “you are a foolish girl, and His Majesty may have been thinking with his saddle-regions when he wed you, but here is my opinion: keep to your purpose and think of embroidery and seeing about an heir, and quit your foolish games at being a Councilwoman.”
Lothíriel descended into her vanity chair, rolling up the parchment and making it as tight as possible.
What could she possibly get a man who sneered at everything? Whose main joy in life was the exchange of information with other men, by missive or by mutter?
The idea hit her like a blot of ink. Her brother Amrothos, who served as Gondor’s envoy to Rohan, had ordered a chestful of writing necessities from their homeland – all fine, though hardly much for a princess or a Queen to write home about.
She would gift Éothain an inkwell and be done. She had two anyway, and it would be an irreproachable gift for a man who insisted that the plume was mightier than the spear. The inkwell had a silver base encircled by a filigree of waves, and its sides were a swirl of iridescent shells in purple, blue and green.
She wrapped it in a silk square in matching marine colors, and carried it to the King’s study the evening before Yuletide.
Éothain would be there. He was fond of intimating that a King’s labors were never done, even when the King himself was off carousing in the name of strengthening his bonds with his vassals.
And indeed, Éothain was there. He sat writing at his desk, with his head at a reverent angle and his ramrod-straight posture.
He saw her, and got up with a stiff effort.
“Your Majesty,” he said, pressing his lips.
“Good evening, Éothain.” Lothíriel tried to sound warm. “Glad tidings of the season to you, and may all your hopes bear fruit once the dawn breaks after the long night.”
She inclined her head, sliding her gift across the table.
“I am your secret gift-giver,” she said, in case the point was not clear. “I hope you use it in health and joy through all your labors.”
She watched the secretary’s eyes, and Éothain pulled his lips further between his teeth. His long, equine features stiffened.
“You have my gratitude, Your Majesty.” He bowed at the waist.
“Go on, open it now.”
Lothíriel folded her hands over her stomach, nodding several times as Éothain took up the bundle.
His fingers moved slowly, as if unwrapping something that might assail him. When the inkwell came into view, his features grew opaque, but not before Lothíriel caught a flicker of his lips.
“Your Majesty, it is…”
Lothíriel curled her mouth, pressing her hands more tightly against her waist.
“Far too kind,” Éothain finished. His tone was touched with irony, though his eyes had opened wide. “This is far too fine a thing for a wretch like myself. After all, I am only a lame, lowly civil servant.”
Lothíriel exhaled a laugh and shook her head.
“Nonsense, Éothain,” she said. “His Majesty cannot do without you, and he loves you, as does all of Meduseld. One of your influence must have items befitting his station.”
Éothain averted his eyes, the stiffness spreading to his shoulders.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
The snowflakes pattered against the glass, and Éothain turned with a creak of his wooden leg. He strode to where his green, velvet-edged cloak hung from the wall.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “we must go to the stables. Shall we stop by your chambers to get your outer clothes, or would you wear one of your husband’s cloaks that’s here?”
“The stables? Why?”
“Because that is where your gift is,” Éothain replied stolidly. “As it happens, I am your secret gift-giver also.”
He fastened his cloak under his chin, hardly looking at her.
It took all of Lothíriel’s courtly prowess not to burst into laughter.
“Oh, Éothain, that is – that is truly funny,” she exclaimed. “I suppose the Valar really do want us to be friends, no?”
Eothain did not answer, and Lothíriel walked to the wall where another cloak was hanging, long and red. She draped it over her shoulders.
“I will wear my husband’s cloak,” she said. “I do not wish to waste time. I am eager to see my gift.”
Éothain curled one side of his mouth, somehow looking less happy.
“Then you must also wear these,” he said, extracting a pair of rabbit gloves from his desk drawer.
Lothíriel eyed the otherwise empty drawer.
“But what – what about you?” she said. “You are the one who works with your hands.”
Éothain shrugged.
“No,” he said, averting his eyes. “You are the Queen, and I rode with the King once upon a time. Béma willing, I can bear a bit of frost. This winter is mild. You have not seen a proper Rohan winter yet.”
When they emerged from Meduseld, the inky-purple evening was edging out the vermillion stripe in the west. Éothain walked quickly, and Lothíriel hurried to keep up, the air stinging her nose and cheeks.
What, she wondered, could he have in store for her at the stables? The gifts were well-understood to be tokens, the better to preserve everyone’s dignity. Maybe it was a new piece of tack for Shadowmane – her graceful, long-limbed mare – or a set of tools to groom her sea-dark coat.
Éothain’s profile gave no answers. But as they entered the stables, warm and fragrant with dry straw, they did not turn into the central hallway, where Shadowmane had her stall.
They walked down another hallway, illuminated by torches, for the daylight hours were short, and the stablehands were just finishing their work. Éothain stopped at a stall that seemed empty and had a torch burning beside it. He slid aside the door and stepped inside, motioning Lothíriel to follow.
She stepped over the threshold, and her heart caught in her throat.
There was a horse in the stall after all, but it was smaller than any horse she had ever seen. It was not a foal, for its flanks were stout and its legs were stocky, but its withers rose barely higher than her waist. It had a fluffy mane like a mop of blonde hair, and the rest of its piebald coat was denser than any Lothíriel had ever seen.
“Éothain!” she exclaimed.
Éothain inclined his head, and she could not see his expression in the patchy light.
Lothíriel approached the horse, and lost no time in embracing it neck. It was every bit as soft as it looked, and it pricked its ears, aiming its eye in her direction.
“It is a pony of the Wold, Your Majesty,” Éothain said quietly. His voice was almost kind. “They are hardy and strong, for that land is tough and wild, and their coats are thick and shaggy. They are easy in their temper, and easy to get onto. If you fall, Béma forbid, then it is not far to fall. You might not be able to ride a regular horse unless the need is dire for some time yet, but if you wish for a pleasure ride, and a safer ride, a pony does very well.”
Lothíriel glanced up, her cheek against the pony’s mane.
She fixed her eyes below Éothain’s chin, her throat growing tight.
“And they are good for children to learn to ride,” Éothain added. “In Rohan, as you may already know, they start children learning young – sometimes as soon as they can walk.”
His voice dropped and cracked, and Lothíriel wondered if she had imagined it.
She straightened up and turned toward him.
“Éothain,” she said, her cheeks painful in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, “this was supposed to be a token. But this is—”
She caught his eyes as his eyebrows tented. She could not see all of his features, but his shoulders relaxed under the cloak.
“You are the Queen,” he said at last, his voice inflectionless. “How can one give a token to the Queen?”
His eyes were fixed below her face, and there was a silence.
Lothíriel eyed the tall, blond man, his frame gaunt but somehow still proud.
Almost without thinking, she took a step toward him.
Later, she would blame it on her expectant state.
She wrapped her arms around him, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his cheek.
“Oh, Éothain, thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”
The flesh around her eyes grew tight, and she was glad of the darkness.
Éothain stiffened under his cloak, but he did not step away. Instead, he pressed his hand around her elbow.
Éothain saw the Queen back to Meduseld, but he did not go in himself. Instead, he took his leave of her at the door, and went walking around the building.
The sun was nearly gone; all that remained was a sliver of red across the horizon.
Éothain did not like walking on snow and ice. His wooden peg was a poor substitute for a leg at the best of times, and he was still unused to the way it slid unless planted firmly.
But the walk was necessary. There was no other way to spend the pounding of his heart, no other way to chill the imprint of her lips on his cheek.
Howl, howl, howl, howl.
He wanted to howl, but this was Edoras. Maybe he ought to have gone riding instead.
He sat sack-like on a heap of packed snow, burying his face in his hands. He made a fist and pounded his forehead.
If only she were not the highest in the land.
If only he were not the lame, lowly quill-pusher.
If only she were not wed, and if Éomer were not his King and fondest friend.
The moment he had met her, Éothain was lost.
He had advocated against the marriage, and Éomer would never know that it was out of self preservation: to keep from being burned alive at the sight of her shy, sensitive sea-gray eyes every day.
The marriage went ahead, and when she arrived, he tried to be cold to her. This was easily done, for his breath froze in his throat every time she was near.
He tried to find things to dislike about her, but failed spectacularly.
Maybe she was beautiful, he thought, but perhaps she was vain and empty. But this was hardly the case.
She was clever in council, fast to learn the language, and also kind. She advocated for the less fortunate, and by autumn, a new wing of the Houses of Healing was built by her efforts.
If only there was no Éomer.
If only she was no royal.
Then maybe they could live together in his modest chambers in Meduseld, and keep each other warm with the moon and stars outside their window.
Enough…
Éothain gritted his teeth as he watched his breath curling towards the sky.
It was time to put an end to this misguided affection.
Maybe…
Maybe he should go and take that holiday after all.
Maybe Éomer was right, and it would be good for him: the bracing air of the plains and the blinding glitter of the foothills. Maybe his heart would rest easy in the quilted bed beneath the angled roof, the room unchanged from the day he left in his sixteenth year.
As soon as the accounts were settled for the year, he would go. Reasonably, correspondence was slow this time of year, beyond the well-wishes of the season.
He would pack light, and bring two squires with him. He would travel the half day’s journey, and he would visit his uncle, the man who had raised him, for the first time in two years.
He was long overdue to check that his ailing uncle was cared for as well as the letters said. And he was long overdue to check the running of the estate, to ensure that the servants were not cheating them.
And he would visit Fréawine.
Fréawine was an old curmudgeon and a retired Rider who had once seen great promise in him. Fréawine lived in a tumble-down house at the edge of town, and had no children to help him, for they were all taken by the war.
He would sit with Fréawine by the fire, and they would play chess and argue about the state of the world as Saerid, his formidable wife, arbitrated their disputes and served trayfuls of currant buns.
Enough… Enough…
They said home healed the heart, but he had no way of knowing unless he went. In any case, it was better than sitting on a snowbank waiting to freeze, because numbness was preferable to everything else he felt.