Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 3

A month later Éomer had realised two things: his new wife was marvellous. And he did not know her at all.

It was a bit bewildering, he reflected one morning as he was sitting at his desk and staring out the window at the mountains. The sun was only just painting their tops a delicate pink, but he'd already taken Firefoot out for a ride, the stallion frisky at the snow covering the ground in a thin blanket. They didn't usually get much down here in the lowlands and it might well be the last of the winter.

Now he was comfortably ensconced in his study with a fire of apple wood burning in the grate, rich new carpets on the floor and his breakfast of porridge and tea brought to him on an elegant tray. Lothíriel had even managed to convince Wulfrith to serve the honey in a separate little pot so he could finally sweeten his meal himself after months of eating overly sweet porridge because the old housekeeper still served it to him the way he had liked it as a little boy. Somehow his wife had even managed to convince Wulfrith that the whole thing was her own idea!

It was just one of the dozens of small changes she had made to improve his life without leaving the slightest ripple of disturbance in her wake. In fact he found it a bit disconcerting how closely she observed him and mapped all his likes and dislikes, even more so because for his part he could not read her at all.

Éowyn's description of a house with its shutters closed had been incorrect, he reflected while smoothing out the feather of one of the newly cut quills lined up on his desk, ready for his use. No, the house was open, but when you went inside you found it filled with smoke and mirrors, making you wander about until you did not know anymore what was real and got hopelessly lost. And now that his sister had gone, he was the only one who seemed to notice.

The others all thought they dealt with the real Lothíriel when they talked to his charming, accomplished wife, but he knew better. Sometimes he caught glimpses of a different woman, a flash of unexpected humour or a fleeting look of sadness on her face, but she suppressed them at once upon noticing him. Even the devastating directness she had shown on their wedding night was nothing but a blind to hide behind.

Irritated by the direction his thoughts had taken, he put the quill down. What did it matter? He could leave the running of Meduseld in her skilled hands and concentrate on more important matters, which was what he had wanted. So what if he did not know the innermost feelings of his queen as long as she fulfilled her role? He didn't know himself why he cared, but now and again the matter would suddenly irritate him, like an itch he could not scratch.

He rose and stretched. Soon it would be time to join his wife for a cup of kahva, an aromatic beverage imported from Harad. She had brought a small private stash of the curious brown beans with her from Dol Amroth and after his first taste he had become firmly addicted to the brew. It had become their custom that when she had her own breakfast they would share a pot and Éomer privately considered that for the introduction of kahva to Meduseld alone, it had been worth marrying her.

Suddenly he heard a loud shriek. He whirled round. Had that been Lothíriel's voice? Then the sound of running feet sounded in the anteroom and a door banged. What had happened? He grabbed his sword from the bed where it lay and ran out into the corridor. The door to the terrace surrounding Meduseld just clunked shut, but he caught a glimpse of a white nightgown and black hair. Another shriek floated back.

"Lothíriel!" he shouted and raced after her.

When he burst out the door he found her kneeling on the ground with an anxious guard bending over her.

He jumped to her side. "Lothíriel, are you hurt! What happened?"

The guard gave him an anxious frown. "I have no idea! The queen just came running out here."