Yours to Command

The Houses of Healing

What makes a rider? His horse.
What makes a warrior? His sword.
What makes a king? His honour.
What makes a man? His heart.

(Saying from Rohan)

***

Lothíriel hummed to herself as she picked up another roll of bread from her breakfast tray.

"That's a gay and lively tune," her maid remarked. "A new song you're learning to play?"

Lothíriel stopped when she realized what music she hummed: from one of the dances of the Rohirrim. She busied herself with settling her tray more securely on her lap and taking a sip of tea.

"No, just something from last night."

She could hear Hareth drawing the curtains and opening her bedroom window, admitting birdsong and the smell of moist earth from the garden outside. The breeze of fresh air did not have the coolness of early morning anymore and Lothíriel wondered how late it was.

"Did you sleep well?" her maid asked, still bustling about. "No bad dreams?"

The comment surprised Lothíriel. "Bad dreams? No. Why?"

Hareth stopped for a moment. "You're asking me why? Lothíriel, you were attacked by a warg yesterday!"

"Oh! The warg!" Lothíriel found she had forgotten all about it. "No, I didn't dream about that."

She could almost see the old woman shake her head. "The resilience of youth," Hareth muttered. "And I nearly died of fright just hearing the tale."

Floorboards creaked as her maid crossed the room towards the wardrobe. She clucked her tongue. "Really Lothíriel, what did you do to your lovely dress? The hem is all dirty. And where did you pick up all these spider webs?"

Lothíriel tried not to look guilty. "I had a look at Denethor's maze. You know we used to play there as children."

"Lothíriel, you didn't go wandering about the garden all on your own, did you? Your father won't like it if he hears of it."

"I was perfectly fine. The King of Rohan had the kindness to accompany me."

Her maid shook out the dress. "The King of Rohan? Isn't he the one who saved you from that warg yesterday?"

Lothíriel nodded. She smiled when she remembered Éomer's words to her father at the end of the evening, when the Dol Amroth party had retired. Being thanked once again he had replied, "On the contrary, I am in your daughter's debt."

Unlike most of her father's entertainments at home, the evening had turned out quite enjoyable after all. Very enjoyable to be honest. The Rohirric dances were less complicated and much livelier than their Gondorian counterparts. Once Éomer had explained the steps to her, she had picked them up very quickly. And although at first the sensation of having a man so close and feeling his warm hand resting on her waist, guiding her, had been rather strange, she had soon got used to it.

Taking another bite from her roll, she wondered if it would be possible to play Rohirric music on her small harp. The tunes had a strong rhythm, a bit like a slow heartbeat, overlaid with quite a complicated melodic line. When she had mentioned such to Éomer's bard, Cadda had offered to teach her how to play some of the simpler tunes. However, she felt unsure if the bard had offered out of mere politeness or had meant it sincerely.

"So what are your plans for today?" Hareth interrupted her musings.

Lothíriel had very definite ideas on that. "I intend to go riding again."