Yours to Command

Night's Lady

My own true love, the salty sea,
Whither will you carry me?
North, where giant fishes roam
And under icebergs make their home.
East, where beckon Gondor's shores,
Here the Ship Kings set their course.
South, where stars and moon seem close
Spices grow and lions doze.
West, where lies a distant land,
Wondrous fair, but we are banned.
My own true love, the salty sea,
Whither will you carry me?

(Sea shanty from Dol Amroth)

***

The music wove through his troubled dreams. Clear notes, soothing him and bringing peace with them. For a long time he just listened. A harp, his mind informed him after a while. And a low voice. A little rough. Tired. He liked the voice. It sang of the sea, and ships, and a beautiful country far across the ocean. He had never seen the sea.

Only a sea of grass, floated across his mind. A limitless expanse of green and gold, with ripples of wind running across it, and merging into the sky. Beautiful. Then the music changed, picking up speed, and his feet twitched. A dance tune. My love has claimed a ribbon from me... He opened his eyes.

A high ceiling, dim shadows chasing across it from the firelight, met his sight. He lay in a bed, covered with blankets. It was not his own room and hot and stuffy as well. The harp was still playing, but the voice had ceased. He frowned, for he wanted it to continue. Slowly he turned his head. It took an effort to do so and he frowned again. Surely turning his head had once been the easiest thing in the world? How weak he felt.

A woman sat in a chair by the side of his bed, her face lowered over her harp. Wearing a simple blue dress and with her black hair caught up in a thick braid, she absentmindedly plucked the strings. At the weariness lining her face he felt his heart contract. She should be laughing and dancing, not sitting in a dark room late at night, worrying. From the recesses of his memory rose the image of her smiling up at him, happy and carefree. Then the last notes of the song faded away and with a tired sigh she leant back in her chair. Silence spread, the hushed stillness of the dark hours just before the coming of the dawn. Somewhere outside an owl called.

He watched her rub her eyes. They seemed black in the muted light, but beautiful even when tired. Unseeing. Suddenly he realized that he knew the silken feel of her skin under his fingers, the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips. Time seemed to contract as memories crashed down on him. A man handing him a letter. Black eyes glittering malevolently in a dark face. A fight. A death.

Éomer gasped. "Lothíriel?"

She jumped up, setting down the harp with a discordant clang. "Éomer?" Her hands found his arm and travelled up it with lightning speed. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, where–"

He never got the chance to finish his question, for Lothíriel grabbed his head and kissed him. At first she only got hold of his cheek, but she quickly corrected her aim. "Oh Éomer!" A sob escaped her. "He said you were on the mend and would wake up soon, but I didn't believe it."

"He?"

"Aragorn."

Tears were streaming down her face and he lifted a hand to brush them away. "You're crying."

"I'm sorry." Her fingers shook as she traced them across his face. "You're awake!"

He frowned. "Lothíriel, where are we? What happened?"

"In the Houses of Healing. Don't you remember? You were poisoned."

"Poisoned!" He tried to sit up, but instead sank back into the cushions.