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“A wonderful day to prepare to die, no?”
Amrothos caught up with Éomer at the head of the stables.
The Gondorian was smiling, his beardless cheeks mottled in the wind.
“I am always prepared to die,” Éomer replied.
“Well, that is very noble of you. Very manly.”
They fell in step, and Éomer thrust his hands into his pockets. Past the small exercise ring for the horses, the vista of Pelennor fields opened up wide as a bowl. Smoking pyres of bodies dotted the landscape, and the plumes dissolved into the mist-gray sky.
“Well, for my part,” Аmrothos said, “I will regret the vintages in this town. It has some good ones, especially the ones at the Thirsty Seer, though the best grapes are always from down south.”
“For my part, I prefer mead,” Éomer said.
“Well, we can find you some mead,” said Amrothos with a serious mein. “I’m sure there is plenty of mead, even now. We’ll find a way to get plenty drunk. Last nights on this earth and all that…”
They paused, gazing out over the vista. The long expanse of the land was not green, but piebald brown.
“Anyone you’ll miss?” Amrothos raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, but I rather think it would be a relief. Going to join my ancestors will be a homecoming.”
“Ah, yes. You have many losses that are still fresh.”
“As have you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, some. But none so close.”
Above the fields, larks darted back and forth, but Éomer could not hear them.
“Boromir was not to me what Théodred was to you,” Amrothos said.
“Still, I am sorry.”
They stood in silence, and Éomer’s heart felt stale and wholly unmoved by the sight. He should have been moved – by the majesty of being high above the earth where the wind blew unchecked, gusting in great waves. He should have been as thrilled as a bird on the wing, and the rolling hills, however scarred, should have been fair.
But none if it was so. His heart was a broken lute, and he scarcely felt glad of the victory, or Éowyn’s survival.
They stood for some time, and then he heard a hard, frenzied clop of a horse’s hooves. It came from one of the streets that converged on the exercise ring, and it grew louder by the moment.
A chestnut horse with foam-flecked sides came cantering up the way, with a rider clad in blue and silver. The horse stopped in front of them, checked abruptly, and the rider dismounted. The burnished armor of the Swan Knights was made to fit her form, and it was clear she was no man.
“Rothy! There you are, hiding!” she exclaimed. She was wearing a helm, but wisps of red escaped around its rim.
She and Amrothos embraced.
“Not hiding, Thiri,” he said, grinning so wide that his cheeks could barely contain it. “Just speaking of matters both somber and profound with my new friend here.” He indicated Éomer. “May I present to you, the new King of Rohan, Éomer son of Éomund?”
Éomer bowed stiffly.
“I am at your service, madam.”
“And this is my sister, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Dame of the Order of the Swan Knights.”
The woman removed her helm, and a jolt ran down Éomer’s spine.
The wide gray eyes, the high cheekbones, the lips and brows as exquisite as a poem – those were the same in brother and sister.
But where Amrothos’ skin was cream, hers was a robin’s egg. And where Amrothos’ hair was jet, hers was a burnished sunset.
“I – er…” Words that Éomer had said again and again since the battle sank in his throat like a cart in the mud, “I am… not the King, though, truly. My uncle lies – he lies gravely wounded – and he has abdicated – well – he has abdicated for now – for he thinks he will die. I have not been crowned, but I carry out his duties – for now.”
He bowed his head, rubbing his chest and clearing his throat.
Princess Lothíriel smiled, looking girlish and cheerful like a maid dancing at midsummer.
“Do not be so modest, Sire,” she said. “A King in deed is a King in name, and I have heard much about your deeds. I am glad to know you.”
She extended a gauntleted hand, and Éomer shook it, swallowing thickly.
“I – er – do the women of Gondor, er, bear arms as well?” he asked. “In Rohan, we have shieldmaidens who protect the realm, but I have not heard of a similar practice in Gondor.”
The Princess smiled.
“Oh, no, not many of us do. But they would never have heard the end of it, had they forbidden me from training with my brothers.” She winked at Amrothos.
Amrothos smiled.
“Yes, you could not keep this one from a bow, or a sword, when she was young. And her fists are famous – always have been, ever since she could stand.”
“And you would know that, would you not?”
Amrothos chuckled glibly, and his sister laughed as he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“So, what news from Dol Amroth?” he inquired. “I see it did not take you long to get here.”
“No,” she said. “We gave the Corsairs chase and I came directly. But what is this I hear of you leaving already?”
Amrothos’ painterly brow darkened.
“Well, that is a gambit and no mistake. We are to act as a decoy and draw the Eye of Sauron away from his land while other deeds are being done – hopefully, deeds that will save us all.”
“Ah, well, then I am glad I came.”
They embraced again, and Lothíriel clasped Amrothos’ upper arms.
“When do you go, then?”
“Tomorrow morn.”
“And what will you do until then?”
Amrothos peeled away and glanced at Éomer.
“Well, we were thinking of finding some mead for my friend, and also of introducing him to some of the finer Gondorian vintages. You know, before we go to certain death at all.”
The Princess smiled, and while her eyes were flat and misty, her cheeks were pink and her lips resolute.
She glanced at Éomer, the flutter of her eyes like a bird’s wing.
“Well, then the King of Rohan is in good hands,” she said. “He is in for a fine time if you are the one leading the charge.”
“But – er – only if you join us,” Éomer put in, and was surprised at his own voice.
It was almost resolute, not halting at all.
He pressed his hand to his waist and bowed a second time.
“I insist,” he said. “If I am to have a final wish, then I desire your fine company.”
His bowing made for a good excuse – she would not see his cheeks, which were warm even in the wind, and he would not see her face, which he imagined was on the brink of laughter.
Fine, Princess Lothíriel, go on and laugh, he thought morosely. Laugh all you like. Plenty of others have. But if I am to die, what difference does it make?
The wind whistled against the ramparts, and the Princess did laugh.
But she did not laugh as some other women did, with a hint of derision, or shy apology, or curt dismissal.
She laughed, cheerful as bells on a halter, and extended a hand.
“Why, of course,” she said. “What could be easier? Your wish is granted. How could I refuse a man who felled two mûmakil with one spear?”
She sought Amrothos’ eyes and winked.
“My goodness,” she said, “new friends and a tour of the Gondorian vintages? Who could say no? Let me just stable Copperfield, and you can lead the way, o fearless brother mine.”