#*fans herself*

‘You stayed.’

Éomer’s utterances, still tinged with the remnants of his agitated slumber, bore the weight of both observation and inquiry. In his tormented reverie the night prior, he had resigned himself to the likelihood of being awakened by a different maid, if not by Edelmer himself. He had braced himself for the eventuality that their brief encounter in her new allocated chamber had concluded their friendship, or whatever it was that they had shared, and that their eyes were destined never to meet again.

To be proven wrong had never felt sweeter to the prince.

And so, he beheld her. Just for a moment longer. A twinkle of indescribable elation illuminated his eyes, dancing within them, while a giddy smile etched dimples into his cheeks. His joy was so profound that, for once, he paid no mind to his dishevelled appearance in her presence, his hair tangled from restless tossing and turning when sleep would not yet grace him with its veil of dreams. He, who for the past months had unconsciously devoted more of his time to the grooming of his beard and hair in anticipation of their next meeting by the hearth, felt no compunction about presenting himself in one of his most unadorned states. Deep down, he knew that she would never think any less of him for it. If there was any kind soul in this world to whom he would gladly bare his heart and display his real self, it was Éorhild.

It would always be Éorhild.

A tender smile graced his new chambermaid’s lips as she walked around the bed, delicately setting the tray with his morning repast upon his lap.

‘Fresh bread, a glass of cider, a piece of chicken adorned with melted cheese, and some potato slices flavoured with the finest spices. On the side, I have added some grapes if you are still hungry,’ she announced softly, maintaining a professional demeanour despite their albeit confusing intimacy. ‘I ensured that the chicken’s skin was cooked to a crisp, as you love it.’

His still-waking mind was lured out of the fog of slumber by the mingling aromas emanating from his plate. They evoked childhood memories of his late mother, who so often sheltered him within her embrace while eating at the royal table under Meduseld’s arches. Her ordinarily solemn composure she maintained in the company of courtiers, was kept at bay in his presence. Instead of ceremonious phrases rehearsed beforehand, flows of affectionate and playful words would spill from her lips, only to be heard by him. In time Éowyn did hear them too, but there once was a time when he was the sole receiver of such cherishing. Then, the darkening clouds in the east was a concern kept away from his guiltless mind. He still had time, his mother would say. It mattered more for him to remain in good health and on a saddle.

His chambermaid suppressed the urge to lay a hand over her stomach as the scents reached her in turn. Though without voice, they told of people from across the continent, of flavours without borders. They carried the songs of the sowers and reapers who nurtured the crops until they were ready for trade. The billowing vapour still bore the undulations of the river’s currents, licking at the barges ferrying the spices to new lands. An earthy bouquet fated to caress his tongue whispered of craggy mountain passes and ancient rocks paving the path for carts to reach the Golden City. They were born of the ground to taunt her, born to prepare them for others and never taste them herself.

Perceiving the slight pinch of her lips, Éomer shifted towards the centre of the bed and gestured to the vacant space beside him.

‘Please, do join me. Have you had your breakfast yet?’

Éorhild merely bowed her head, crossing her hands over her pressed thighs. After she had greeted and announced herself to Edelmer in the kitchens, she had endeavoured to feast on a cold salted bun. Naught more. The labour of her first tasks had already whetted her appetite, so conflicted her emotions had remained in the morn.

‘Thank you, but I need none, your Majesty.’

‘None of this, Éorhild, I beg of you!’ the prince pleaded, holding out his hand for her to grasp. ‘Are we strangers to each other now? Must I be punished so by indifference for having my heart stir at your sight?’

Silence met his beseechment. Fear still scorched her soul despite her decision to retain the position of chambermaid. She needed not speak it. He could sense it in her gaze so far averted from him, longing for every second she would allow him to hold it. Now that the court’s conventions permitted her to observe the royal family and touch her prince, it appeared a colossal weight that he was guilty of placing upon her innocent shoulders.

Yet his perception only resembled Éorhild’s dismay in part. It was not so much the weight of the demands entwined with the hardship of her new duty which caused her every joy to fester in its bud. It was rather her distrust in her own capacity to remain proper should their eyes meet again. Her wits were crumbling with every shared glance; when all would be ruined, what would dissuade her from claiming his lips where anybody could see? The king’s wrath would no longer constitute a threat, for she would dismiss the consequences of her passion on a whim.

For her sake and Éomer’s, she had to shun his affection. But how would she find the strength, when her very soul was consumed by the will to be his?

‘Éorhild, I can hear your stomach fussing. Please, do eat with me. I am not inviting you as a lover, but as a friend who cares about your well-being.’

Stunned out of a response, Éorhild shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The prince exhaled and dragged himself out of bed, clad in naught but his night shirt. He strode over to a small table across from the footboard of his bed, swept his belongings aside, dusted it off, and set his desk chair by its side.

‘If you do not find it in yourself to join my bed, even chastely, let us break our fast in a proper manner. Please, sit.’

Aware that she had little reason to decline now that her body had betrayed her hunger, she complied and lowered herself into the seat. He set the tray down upon the table and nudged it towards her as he sat on a stool on the other side. She hesitantly picked a potato slice and nibbled at it, a flush of embarrassment creeping over her at the idea of the prince observing her as she ate. Not wanting to upset her further, Éomer imitated her, using his bare hands instead of the lavish cutlery she had brought him. If she did not use them, neither would he.

‘Why have you chosen to stay, if I may ask?’ he whispered. ‘I was certain that I was never to be in your presence again, and you do not seem to rejoice at the thought of being a chambermaid either.’

She finally looked at him. A blush warmed her cheeks as her attention lingered on his dishevelled tresses, stirring an unexpected longing within her to smooth them with her fingertips.

‘I had chosen to decline at first,’ she confessed, ‘but as soon as I found myself before Edelmer this morning, my heart dictated me to stay. I could not explain it, my lord. Instead of resigning and asking to be replaced as your chambermaid, I wished him a good day and before I knew it, I was preparing your meal.’

‘I see. Do you regret this choice now that you have entered my chambers?’

Éorhild swallowed a piece of spiced yam and pondered his question in silence. Did she regret it at all? Did she come to wish that she had stood her ground? It had not crossed her mind in the slightest.

‘No, I do not, my lord. In fact… I fear I could not bear a life away from you, a life where we are strangers and I am not devoted to you.’

‘Oh, Éorhild…’

Without a second thought, Éomer extended his hand over the table, gently taking hers. Despite its coarse and dry texture, her skin seemed to him as soft as the finest silk beneath his touch. Oh, how he craved to cover it with tender kisses until his last breath! Dying at her feet would be such a heavenly way to pass. Devotion would change sides, for once. She would be the princess, and he would be her servant.

‘I could not drag myself away from you, even if I tried,’ he murmured, plunging himself into her misty eyes. ‘But I understand that you need boundaries, you have made it abundantly clear. Name them, and I shall respect them.’

Her fingers curled around his. Her thumb gently traced the lines of his palm, sending delicious shivers throughout his body.

‘Let me accommodate myself to this position before I utter them,’ she sighed with a shy smile playing upon her lips. ‘This fear shall pass. I hope.’

‘Then your will shall be done, my sweet.’

Replenished enough to face her tasks, Éorhild let her prince finish the plate while surveying his chambers, planning which areas to clean once he departed for his own work. She compiled a list of her priorities, organising the tasks in the most efficient order to ensure her work — and his life — would be made smoother.

With enough effort and hard work, she could become an exemplary chambermaid. She was sure of it.

‘Tell me, what has my uncle ordered for me to do today?’

‘The King has demanded that you visit some of the villages in the Fold to lift the spirits of those whose barns and homes were devastated by the recent storms. Lord Fréaláf will accompany you to distribute provisions. After this, King Théoden demands a report and a list of what relief to bring so our brothers and sisters can have a home as promptly as possible.’

‘This winter will be particularly harsh. I would not want to see my people suffer in such trying times. I will go to meet them.’

Éorhild bowed her head and smiled.

‘You are fated to be a great king. I have always known it. And I shall never cease to proclaim it.’

With these words, she withdrew to the washroom to prepare a warm bath for him. On a stool she had carried over to the side of the tub, she arranged soap and washcloth neatly while the water heated above the fire. So absorbed was she in her task that the sound of Éomer fumbling with scrolls in the next room seldom reached her. Before the kettle had fully boiled, she lifted it and poured the steaming water into the bath, before sprinkling milk, fragrances, oils, and dried flowers into it.

Behind her, while she filled a basin with cold water, Éomer entered, still in his shirt. She rose and bowed, folding a towel over her forearm.

‘Your bath is ready, your Majesty.’

‘Thank you, Éorhild. I shall… um…’

Instantly understanding his intent, she turned to face the wall. As her eyes trailed along the carved patterns on the wooden panels, she heard his shirt rustling to the ground. It was enough for the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle and for her lungs to forget to draw air in. The muscles of her abdomen, below her navel, tightened in a way they never had before, and it required all her willpower to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape her clenched lips. Perceiving the sound of his foot breaking the surface of the water, she gripped the wall, out of breath, digging her nails into the wood. A shard pressed painfully into her skin, keeping her grounded amid this dizzying euphoria.

What evil was seizing her? Was the biting winter cold rooted into her bones? She could scarcely believe that she had fallen ill; the previous night had been warmer than any she could remember in the maids’ quarters. Yet it ached at her core. Warm and cold waves slithering through her organs one after the other.

And she savoured it. Somehow, it was a kind of soreness that soothed.

She paused for a moment to steady herself before slowly turning to face him. As expected, his shirt lay discarded on the cold floor, and she took one step forward to collect it. It was then that the figure in the bathtub piqued her curiosity.

Éomer had reclined in the warm water, his bare torso rising and falling with each breath. Through his parted knees, emerging from the surface, she could discern droplets of the milky water scintillating upon the thin patch of hair across his chest. The skin of his arms, propped up on the rim of the tub, gleamed faintly in the candlelight. For the first time, she witnessed the sculpted strength of his muscles, carved by years — if not a lifetime — of training. War, she reckoned, could only have honed them further.

Her gaze drifted upward to his broad, toned shoulders, and she caught sight of the quiet elation softening his traits. With his chin tilted up and his eyes closed, he rested his head against a folded towel, surrendering to the warm embrace of the bath. His brass hair tumbled down over his collarbones, brushing the water’s surface with lazy grace. And if the foreign sensations already roiling within her had unsettled her reason, the vision of his hands idly tracing circles in the water only served to stoke the flames smouldering in her core.

‘Your Grace,’ she muttered, clutching the towel between her hands, ‘must I await you in your chambers? I am unsure of the expectations set on a chambermaid at such a time.’

One of his eyes flickered open, and a grin curled his mouth, digging a dimple just beyond the edge of his moustache.

‘Please forgive me; it has been so long since I last had such a soothing bath. Théodil never put such care into ensuring my mornings would be filled with comfort. I should have taken a moment to describe my routine. If you would be so kind as to hand me a washcloth and soap, then you may take your leave.’

‘Of course, your Majesty.’

She hurried over to the stool she had prepared and picked up both items. Yet, as she moved to present them to him, her attention was drawn once more to his torso, half-submerged in the water. In a fleeting moment, something deep within her resolve fractured, and before she could resist her will, she was kneeling at his side. He straightened in surprise, his puzzled stare fixed on her as she dipped the washcloth into the basin and worked the soap against it, coaxing a thin lather to form.

She lifted his hand in a tender gesture to press his knuckles to her lips in a ceremonious kiss. As she did, she guided the washcloth along his forearm, towards his elbow. One would have been blind not to notice the shivers that rose on his skin, as the object of his every desire attended to him in such an unpredicted and intimate act of care. He cupped her chin and waited for a word from her, his breath suspended in anticipation. But it never came. Not a flicker of expression betrayed her thoughts. She remained ever so calm, her focus absolute as she washed her prince’s arm and shoulder in meticulous strokes, ensuring that no inch of his skin was left untouched. Neither did she show any hint of repulsion as she scrubbed his armpit, still bearing the remnants of sweat from a night spent in anxiety.

‘Éorhild, what are you—’

His voice faltered, interrupted by a soft exhale that seemed to emanate from his very core, as her hand caressed his chest. Inside it, his heart pounded and blurred his sight, as though the very rhythm of his pulse was overpowering all reason and earthly senses. Never had anyone made him feel so small, so delicate, beneath their touch. Éorhild treated him as though he were the most precious being in existence, and he sensed it in every gesture, every look she cast upon him. And, in turn, it cost him all the mental discipline to resist the urge to pull her into the bath with him, to fondle her hips, whether over or under the fabric of her maid’s shift. Had he had his way, his lips would have been left scorched and raw from kissing her with the intensity fuelled by the passion that had consumed him over the long months.

Her hand halted on his abdomen as the gravity of the boundary she was on the verge of crossing dawned on her. Flushed with shame, she hastened to wash his legs and feet, her movements now sharp and uneasy. Without warning, she placed the cloth in the palm of his hand, her gaze dropping to the floor as she reclined on her heels.

‘Forgive my inappropriate behaviour, my lord. I now leave the matter in your hands.’

She scrambled to her feet, flustered and clumsy, placing the clean towel on the stool. Yet before she could flee, he caught her wrist with a gentle but unyielding grip and placed a single kiss there.

‘Do not leave me, gentle Éorhild. There is nothing to forgive.’

Her arm trembled, so consumed by guilt was she for her weakness. What had overtaken her, to wash him without consent, crossing a line so dangerous to cross? She had always been the pillar of reason and composure within her social circle and among the maids; Hilda had made a point of instilling these values in her, ensuring that she would eventually pass the torch with confidence to someone capable in time. Her steadfastness, once her cornerstone, now felt so brittle. The strength she had prided herself on, the very motivations that carried her through countless harsh nights in the maids’ quarters, crumbled piece by piece, like a fragile edifice battered by the unforgiving storm that was her affection for Éomer.

And she could not forgive herself for it. What model was she setting for the others? If Hilda could witness her state, she would have rightfully given her a piece of her mind. She would not have been tender or measured in her words; and that was precisely what Éorhild needed. She had to find someone who would speak plainly, who would shake her from this vicious daze and remind her of the perils that her feelings entailed.

Éorhild cleared her throat and withdrew her hand.

‘I must ensure that your clothes are pressed before you leave, my lord.’

‘Théodil already did it,’ he replied with a brief smile, betraying his disappointment. ‘You may ready my armour.’

‘Very well, your Grace.’

When Éomer stepped from the bath and patted himself dry, he craned his neck, his gaze catching Éorhild’s silhouette hunched over the bed as though she were lost in thought. Her hands moved diligently, polishing his breastplate with practiced care; yet her eyes were lost, fleeing to a distant horizon far beyond Meduseld. What thoughts, he wondered, occupied her mind? Her shifting demeanour — at times devoted, at times distant — left him to doubt whether her decision to remain his chambermaid was born of genuine will or a sense of duty she could not escape. He would not put it past her; duty had always been her light, shaping her every decision, giving her purpose, and driving her to arise with each new day.

And her hand, so deliberately caressing his body… What had prompted it in that moment? What force had steered her pretty limb, influencing her into crossing a boundary she had so desperately kept at bay?

The phantom of her touch still haunted his skin. The warmth of her fingers had embraced his arms, as though their imprint had etched themselves into his very soul. He wanted her. He wanted her with a yearning so fierce it eclipsed every fleeting notion of fondness he had ever felt for other women. Never had he desired anything — or anyone — so profoundly. He ached for her to bring him to his knees, and he would not require a single utterance from her to yield. All he aspired to do was to weave her essence into his veins, for no embrace would ever quell this ferocious hunger.

At last, Éorhild turned and retrieved a clean undershirt. In the washroom, she guided the garment over his form, studiously resisting to look at his exposed skin. Averting her eyes, she deftly secured his loincloth and rolled woollen hose up his legs with forced detachment. Without a word, she attended to him and completed the task of dressing him. She led him to a stately armchair tucked into the corner of the room, its dark wood displaying deep red undertones under the sunlight filtering through the window. Across from it, a mirror hung on the wall. Its tarnished gleam, having captured the likeness of generations of royals, still reflected their shared silence.

She reached for an ornate comb, crafted from pale ivory adorned with intricate carvings of traditional Rohirric knotwork and suns. Its artistry told of their people’s heritage, which stirred pride within their hearts, each detail a testament of their forebears and their skills. She passed its teeth through the golden locks on his head, careful not to tug at tangles and cause him pain. The prince shut his eyes and surrendered to the exhilarating strokes of her fingers. Éorhild perfumed his hair and braided it, before stepping back to allow him to rise. Once she had cladded him in his lighter armour, with its leather glinting in the candlelight, she bowed low and pressed her lips to his knuckle in reverence. The gesture sent a shy tremor through him, as though she were bestowing her favour and benediction upon him before he rode to battle.

‘Your Majesty, you stand before me ready to aid your people.’

‘Thank you, Éorhild, truly,’ he murmured, running the pad of his thumb alongside her jawline. He helped her stand, holding her hand for a moment longer. ‘Please do not overburden yourself today. The diligence you have shown since entering my family’s service far exceeds what I could ever expect of a chambermaid. I ask no more than a tidy room and a fresh shirt for the morrow.’

‘I will certainly not settle for so little, of course, you should know me well by now,’ she chuckled, her eyes brightening at last now that the tension had evaporated. ‘Should my tasks be completed ahead of time, would you grant me leave to visit the market? I wish to buy a few apples for myself.’

Éomer returned her smile and reached over to a small oak box resting on his desk. He opened it and retrieved a gold coin, pressing it gently into the palm of her hand.

‘I wish for you to buy yourself those apples and treat yourself to a pint of cider while you are at it. There is nothing quite like old Balthain’s steaming pastries to pair with it.’

‘My lord, I cannot—’

‘I knew you would refuse,’ he said with a knowing smirk. ‘So, to ease your guilt, you may buy a couple of those pastries for us to share after dinner tonight. I will also expect a bottle of cider. And since I hate loose change, you might as well spend it on yourself.’

She scowled, but after a brief pause, she reluctantly accepted and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

‘It is my first day and you are already spoiling me.’

‘And I am happy to. If others gossip, let them. It is not forbidden for me to give you presents.’

‘My lord…’

A laugh slipped off her lip, diffusing a comforting warmth throughout his chest. What a chime! What a melody! He could listen to it endlessly, forevermore. He would cherish waking to the sound of it each morning, if not from the lingering scent at the curve of her neck. That of life itself, a balm to his soul, affirming the simple joy of knowing she exists, and the blessing of being so near to her. And, he hoped, that she loved him as much as he did her.

Éomer directed her to where the fresh linens were kept, but he was not surprised to see her already familiar with the location. With a last gaze, rich with fondness and trust, he departed, his duty calling him to the struggling villagers of the Fold.

The day passed more swiftly than Éorhild had anticipated. In contrast to his younger years, when she had been brought to tend to his chamber, Éomer had become noticeably tidier, and cleaning his quarters was no longer the arduous task it once had been. As intended, she exceeded the expectations he had voiced and tended to the upkeep of his private areas with an unequalled level of attention. Not only did she replace and washed his linens, but she also dusted every nook and cranny, the intricate carvings in the wall panels and the furniture, as well as each lantern and scroll she could put her hands on. All floors were swept, all candles replaced, the bathtub emptied and thoroughly scrubbed. His muddy garments were washed, infused with subtle fragrances, and hung to dry by an open window in the wash house beneath the Golden Hall.

When her chores were at last complete, she retreated to her own quarters to wash away the day’s labour. She hung her uniform to air by the window, opting instead for a loose woollen dress. A headscarf came to conceal her hair, lending her a modest yet graceful air. With her green mantle fastened at her shoulders, she gathered her coin purse and wicker basket; thus adorned, she stepped out, bound for the bustling market of Edoras.

Her path led her to the heart of Meduseld, where she encountered Lady Éowyn, sitting by the hearth with a pelt over her knees. A radiant smile lit up her face as she read a freshly delivered letter. Éorhild paused to bow respectfully, and she could not help but appreciate the contentment that the lady displayed. There could be no doubt — the letter’s author was Lord Faramir of Minas Tirith, whose words had the power to brighten up the lady’s day and life.

As she passed under the arches, Éorhild’s thoughts meandered, unbidden, to the memory of that evening when she and Éomer had shared a cup of tea on the hillside. He had seemed genuinely elated for his sister’s choice of husband. There was this blatant relief in knowing that, amidst the trials of her life, Lady Éowyn had been granted the rare privilege of forging her own destiny in this matter of the heart, no matter how insignificant it may seem in one’s life. Her decision, unshackled by duty or arrangements, seemed to lighten Éomer’s spirit, as though it reaffirmed his hope that happiness could be earned even in the face of adversity.

It pained her so greatly that he would never know the same freedom or joy for himself. Being the heir of the throne of Rohan, Éomer’s hand was not his own to give, but a prize to be bartered, auctioned, and reduced to a tool for securing alliances and strengthening the kingdom’s prospects. His fate was bound by politics, a vicious and weighty chain that no amount of personal yearning could ever shatter. The thought of his desires stifled, and his bliss sacrificed for gain gnawed at her heart with relentless sorrow.

She loved him. The realisation dawned on her, oh so bittersweet. And he seemed to love her too, judging by his tender glances and the weight of his words. Their mutual pining did not strike her as a passing fancy or some shallow infatuation fated to vanish by the next moonrise. No, it felt rooted, profound and abiding. It was as though their souls had wandered the world in loneliness and had finally found each other, now waiting for their bodies to join as one. Yet, the path ahead of them was full of thorns and was paved with the inevitability of reality. She was baseborn, he was to be king. Her heart had already caught onto one of these thorns, left there to bleed for eternity.

A guard stepped forward to open the heavy gate for her. She acknowledged his gesture with a curtsey and stepped out into the crisp air of this wintry afternoon. The creak of the door shutting behind her was accompanied by the faint hum of the marketplace farther into the city. She followed it, drawn like a fish to a lure, her steps heavy. Every so often, her gaze turned to the landscape beyond the ramparts. The world beyond the capital was caught in winter’s grasp, though it had yet to snow in earnest. The once green fields, undulating into hills stretching towards the horizon, had surrendered to the season’s damp embrace; the recent storms had transformed their loamy soil into sprawling swamps of mud clinging stubbornly to the terrain. Under her breath, she murmured a prayer to Béma, the protector of riders. She beseeched him to shield Éomer and Firefoot from harm in the Fold. The thought of them braving the treacherous, mud-laden roads filled her with uneasiness. She prayed for their sure footing, for their journey to be unmarred by peril, and for the prince’s safe arrival to the Golden Hall, where his well-being would once again rest in her hands.

And, catching herself in her selfish fixation of her prayers upon the prince, she lowered her head in shame and apologised to the Vala. She then implored him to spare and protect the villagers, whose livelihoods had been washed away by the storm.

Lower down the hill, the market thrummed with life, serving as both the beating heart of trade and the soul of the community for the Rohirrim who lived there. In its appearance, it resembled any other marketplace. Stalls stood in rows; their wares were strategically displayed to catch the attention of passing customers. A teeming crowd flowed between them, while the sellers, determined to outshine one another, clamoured their unbeatable prices over the constant and unfading chatter. Tantalising fumes of freshly prepared goods wafted through the narrow square. Large cauldrons bubbled over open flames, releasing steamy, mouth-watering tendrils which embraced the crowd, while golden-brown pastries, still warm from the oven, were left out to cool.

Éorhild joined the commotion and clutched her basket tightly to her abdomen. She moved along the rows, folding herself into the smallest space possible to avoid shouldering fellow visitors. At the end of the third lane, she found the fruit merchant’s stall, and her gaze lingered on a cluster of ruby red apples, glistening under the shy sun peeking through white clouds. She selected a few of the finest she could put her hands on and exchanged a few coins for the treasure. She tucked them away inside her basket, a smile tugging at her cheeks as she counted the additional ones she bought, thoughtfully set aside for Éomer and Firefoot.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the judges’ house, standing behind the tanner’s booth. Its pristine façade outshone its neighbours, testifying of the means and the social wellness of its personnel, who maintained it religiously, although the hanging sign creaked noisily as it swayed on its rusting hinges in the breeze. Its sound was almost mournful, as though whispering secrets of the countless harsh and difficult decisions decided within over the years to whomever was willing to lend it an ear. For a moment, Éorhild stopped and stared, her mind straying to the risks that she and Éomer had taken to be near each other and struggled so much to cease taking.

What if the judges inside could clarify the age-old laws of the royal house? Perhaps they could grant her the wisdom she sought, the tools to discern her place as a new chambermaid and choose her course more wisely. She imagined herself stepping through that varnished doorway, humbling herself before the ageing judges, who, she was certain, would welcome her plight with cold detachment and severe judgement. Undoubtedly, they would see the folly in her yearning and warn her of the dangers looming over her head should she pursue him. Only them could shake some sense into her disoriented heart. Could their grave words steel her resolve again as they reminded her of the chasm that lay between her station and Éomer’s?

The embers of her passion had to be snuffed before they consumed her entirely and reduced her life to ashes.

And yet, Éorhild could not bring herself to step forward. Her feet remained firmly planted in the mud, her breath shallow and strained through the lump that had formed in her throat. A thousand questions warred in her mind, and each seemed more absurd than the last as her eyes kept examining the façade, whose grandeur seemed to mock her dishevelled thoughts.

Before she knew it, she was pacing through the thinning crowd, dimming her inner agitation with the thought of alcohol. At the market’s edge, she encountered the cidermaker, a burly man with a strikingly copper-coloured beard wearing an apron tarnished by years of fermenting fruit. She slammed the gold coin that Éomer had entrusted her on the counter in exchange for a cup and a bottle of his finest spirit. The latter she lowered into her basket; the former she rose to her lips, tilting the vessel with abandon. The golden liquid was drained in a single breathless gulp. It froze her throat for a mere second, sat heavily in her chest for another, then the burning passed.

Her antics earned her the curiosity of a group of men with reddened faces huddled around a weatherworn table beside her. Their elbows nudged one other while their laughter rang out in derisive delight. Heat flushed her cheeks — not from the drink, but from their jesting bellowing that followed. Ignoring their words, she kept her chin up and feigned to readjust her head covering. Between the poles of several stalls ahead of her, she could still see the judges’ house, taunting yet promising.

She offered a brief nod of gratitude to the cidermaker, who caught the flush of discomfort in her eyes. He slammed his hands on the counter and roared at the other men.

‘Mind your manners, you louts! Have you got nothing better to do than drink yourselves stupid and pester ladies?!’

But Éorhild hardly perceived the seller’s gallant intervention; her brisk pace had already led her away from the scene. It compelled her straight towards the judges’ house, before which she stood with clenched fists. There was light behind the greenish windows. Taking it as an invitation, her hand grazed the polished handle of the door, and she crossed the threshold.

Inside, the warm air that engulfed her and pricked her reddening fingertips bore a stark contrast to the wintry breeze she was leaving behind. Above her head, a chandelier shuddered when she shut the door, the faint haloes of the candles’ light flickering upon the walls. Its click echoed in the stillness of the otherwise dim room, heralding her presence in what felt like a far louder announcement than it truly was. On her left, a boy was tossing logs into the fire within a red hearth. His hands, blackened with soot and calloused from handling wood, swiftly dodged the flames and sparks. He did not acknowledge her presence; surely, he had not been entrusted with the task to welcome visitors, so young was he.

Further on the right, a lofty and imposing shelf stretched almost the height of the ceiling, carrying more scrolls and volumes than she had ever seen in her life. It was a fantastic collection of knowledge and history, gathered along the years and borrowed from the neighbouring realms. Some of the edges were gilded, others frayed, their spines either pristine or cracked, bearing faded inscriptions of the Rohirric language, ordinarily recorded in oral tradition. They emitted a strong scent of ink and aged parchment, mingled with the eye-stinging aroma of woodsmoke.

In the centre, a table adorned with a single candelabra stood unattended. A lone chair worn by every bottom it had known had been pulled on the other side of the desk, but never rearranged. Perhaps its occupant was soon to return. Behind it was a door separating the room from the rest of the house. Éorhild discerned several voices speaking at once beyond it, and though she could not make out the words, she knew that they belonged to various, simultaneous conversations. Yet, seeing that nobody had come to see her, she spun around to leave.

‘Well, good day, milady,’ a cheery yet calm voice interrupted her course. ‘It is not everyday that a maid of Meduseld graces our humble abode. Be welcome, child.’

She turned swiftly, startled by the sudden greeting. An elderly man stood in the doorway to the adjoining chamber with a tome tucked under his arm. She recognised him as Judge Guthláf, having served his occasional dinners with the king at the palace. He had always struck her as a blend of grace and warmth, not just in the thoughtful advice he lent to Théoden, but also in the genuine compliments he unfailingly awarded the servants on every visit.

‘Forgive me if I startled you, dear,’ he added with a hearty laugh, beckoning her inside. ‘I did not hear your arrival; my hearing is no longer as sharp as it used to be.’

She dipped into a curtsey, her hands clutching the handle of her basket.

‘Good day, your Honour. I apologise for my unprompted visit; I did not mean to intrude.’

‘Oh, child, do not worry yourself. Come, come.’

The boy brushed past her without so much as a word or a glance, his thin frame moving towards the door. It opened for a moment, admitting a single sharp draft that nipped at the back of her neck before the door closed with a resolute thud. She stepped forward, the soles of her slippers producing faint echoes on the stone floor. She stood before Guthláf, whose scrutinising gaze examined her. His dulling eyes half shielded under his bushy saw a gleam of recognition kindled in them.

‘Ah, Éorhild, is it not? You were the orphaned girl that Hilda brought in years ago! She brought you here once or twice in your early days in Edoras, I remember.’

‘Your memories are clearer than mine, I must admit,’ she responded shyly. ‘I mostly remember you from your visits to the king.’

‘Oh, that was long ago, and you were but a girl. How could I blame you? Anyway, do speak freely, child. It is rare for anyone of your station to seek our help, so I suspect that the reasons you passed our doorsteps go far beyond the tidying of halls or the pouring of wine.’

While speaking, Guthláf trotted around with surprising ease for his age, advancing towards a corner obscured from her by the bookshelf. There, he retrieved a wooden chair, which he promptly dragged behind him to offer her. She bowed her head in gratitude and eased herself onto the seat, clasping her hands together for warmth. The old man sat across from her, leaning his elbows onto the table and staring at her, neither in an urging nor in a prying manner. The smile etched into his cheeks encouraged her to gather her thoughts and speak.

‘Yesterday, I was named chambermaid of the prince,’ she stuttered, unsure what to even ask. ‘I know that the oath I am bound to swear will differ from the one I swore years ago. Would you happen to know what it officially entails?’

Pondering her question, he fidgeted with the signet ring around his middle finger.

‘What shall change, you ask? New duties, new expectations, as you probably know already. I suppose that you have had a taste of them today, have you not?’

‘Indeed, your Honour.’

‘Mh. In addition to the maintenance of his belongings and quarters, you will act as a personal advisor in many ways. Not as a political one, mind you, but there will be many a time when you must act as his conscience, ensuring that he does not make a mockery of himself or his status at official or diplomatic events, for instance.’

His words echoed in her mind, tormenting her further. Éorhild balled her hands into fists, grasping the coarse wool of her skirt to ground herself. What had possessed her to seek counsel here, when she was unsure of what answers she needed to hear?

Lately, she had been hardly capable of acting as anyone’s conscience, least of all Éomer’s. She had only ever been the type to abide by the rules without question, until now, when she only posed a threat to his balance and clarity of mind.

‘I…’ she trailed off, unsure how to continue. He waited with relieving patience, rubbing his chin in anticipation of what she might confess. ‘What of the nature of my relationship with the prince? I am aware that my former oath involved a strict vow of celibacy, but what of this new pledge? I know of many maids who covet my position to be free of it.’

‘Ah, you are not the first to ask me this, child!’ he laughed. ‘This new oath you will swear will be negotiated with the person you are serving — the prince, in this instance — and compromises may be made, if he so wishes. If he does not object to your taking of a lover, then he will not have you vow for a life of celibacy again.’

She shifted in her seat, her hands plucking the lint on the wool’s surface. Her eyes darted to the fireplace, whose heat worsened the blushing creeping up her neck and dyeing her cheeks a crimson hue. Her nerves were unravelling, thread by brittle thread, with each tug of her fingers. The prospect of being freed from such a restrictive and frankly unfair pledge did nothing to soothe her turmoil; in truth, it only fanned it further. Despite her disorientation, she possessed enough reason to understand the cruel reality of the situation. It mattered not whether her regained freedom would enable her to find a lover of her choosing. The laws of court and birth, the unyielding expectations of their respective places, were a steel cage locked imprisoning her heart and its desires. Seeking comfort in each other’s arms would still be forbidden to Éorhild and Éomer, and no amount of resistance would lift the ban.

But then, like a single ember catching fire to a dry leaf, an idea flickered to life in her mind — wild, unprompted, and unbecoming of her usual sense of propriety. It was not one that she prided herself on, nor did she desire to voice it to anybody else, but if she wished to be given the wisdom she dared not speak of, she had to play a game. She could not pose the question as herself, lest she be revealed as a greedy servant. Guthláf’s curious gaze and the heavy silence that had befallen the room, only disturbed by the crackling fire, pressed her reason with an urgency she could not ignore.

‘Your Honour,’ she began, her voice forcefully wavering as she feigned fear, ‘are there any provisions within the laws — any precedents — that might allow a master to take liberties with his chambermaid?’

Her words suspended in the air seemed weightier than any of the volumes lining the bookshelf beside them. Beads of sweat trailed down her temples, so ashamed was she to even speak such preposterous implications towards Éomer, gleaming in the firelight cast upon her profile. The heat in her body, prompted by her hurricane of emotions, was suffocating her. Her trembling fingers unhooked her mantle as she muttered an apology and folded the cloak over the chair’s back.

Master Guthláf stared at her in disbelief. His wrinkled hands, clasped over the book he had been carrying, twitched around each other.

‘Éorhild, has the prince…?’

‘No, no, your Honour,’ she hastened to reassure the old man, whose face had turned as pale as the snow on the mountain peaks. ‘It is just… I am unused to being so often in the presence of men in closed quarters. I do not know what it is that men wish for, and, perhaps, in a moment of weakness, something could happen.’

Éorhild winced, the sharp sting of self-reproach piercing her all the way to her very marrow. What a clumsy explanation she had improvised! She felt her own words stumble and wash over the old man, who, to her surprise, seemed to soften at once. If she could have reached out and snatched her words back, she would have done so in a heartbeat.

For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes drifted towards the logs aflame in the hearth as he searched for the right words to speak to a fearful young woman such as she. From the concern that contorted his traits and further wrinkled the corners of his mouth, she guessed that his answer would not be as pleasant as she had anticipated. There was a terrible truth hidden behind his pale irises, threatening to darken the discussion at once.

Finally, he cleared his throat and considered his visitor with pity.

‘A matter such as this is no small one, my dear child. But you must know this.’

He rubbed his finger upon his upper lip, mustering his courage to face her with a revelation that could terrify her.

‘The laws of the royal house are such that if a male individual cared for by a female chambermaid wishes to engage in… certain activities with her, he may command it, and she must comply without question.’

Her sweat turned to ice at once, stabbing her with a chill that no fire could thaw. Indignation coiled inside her core like a serpent constricting around her insides to smother them before it could feast on them. More than ever, she understood Éowyn’s pain.

How could such a humiliating thing be asked of a woman? Did her body not belong to herself? Was her flesh just another tool of service, stripped of agency?

She had willingly ceded her heart to her duty when she was not yet a woman and had until this day never once regretted it. Its unique desires and ambitions had been stifled when she pledged her devotion to Meduseld, and the wellbeing of its inhabitants had become her sole beacon. Her soul, too, she had bound to them out of loyalty and respect. It had resisted every order, every expectation, never crumbled under any form of pressure or intimidation from other maids or Edelmer. But her body, surely that should remain hers.

But if even that was forfeit to the whims of tradition or the impunity of kings, princes, and marshals, what did she have left? Nothing but her name. The thought hollowed her out, leaving an echo of despair where there once had been resolve. A name was nothing that she used for herself; it was always to be spoken by others. It was as easily erased or forgotten by the trials of time as stories of old that nobody wished to pass down anymore. It did not dictate who she was as a person. It did not tell of her personality, of her values, not even of her flaws. Its letters bore no witness to whatever good service she had provided to anyone. Its syllables were blind to the comfort she knows she had brought Éomer that night under the stars, when she sang his mother’s song to him.

The world suddenly felt so hostile, its rules and unholy chains that dug into her flesh keeping her on her bleeding knees. Oh, what life had she chosen? The question scorched her chest, too bitter for her to contemplate for the time being.

Guessing her consternation, Guthláf reached over to take her clammy hand. He gave it a squeeze, accompanying the gesture with a knowing smile, devoid of joy.

‘I know, child. I know,’ he murmured. ‘If the prince demands your presence in his bed, you must obey. But know that if he ever displays violence towards you, in bed or in his chambers, there are laws to protect you.’

Ironic. There were no laws to safeguard her dignity if her body was demanded against her will, yet if he so much raised a hand against her in anger or force, the judges might intervene. But even that faint hope was a fragile thing. It was frayed with the knowledge of who her adversary then would be.

A royal. Against the glory of his title, her station was nothing but dust encrusted in the grooves of the floors she was destined to scrub until her death. She was not so naïve as to believe that justice was blind to their disparity, nor foolish enough to presume that the scales would ever tip in her favour. No matter how righteous her cause, her whisper would falter beneath the roar of his status, her truth obscured by the glow of the crown he was promised to.

It was not just fear that churned in her belly but the unshakeable certainty of her own insignificance in the face of power. Her nails bit into her palms, nearly drawing blood. Yet, somewhere through the fog, a spark of defiance ignited. She could not change the laws, nor could she wrest power from a prince. But she could cling to her sense of self, her identity and her will. If the world offered no protection, then she would have to be her own shield.

‘I see,’ she replied coldly, withdrawing her hand and flattening it upon her thigh. ‘So, if I understand well, he could order me to share his bed, and neither he nor I would be punished for this offence?’

‘Not unless he harmed you.’

For now, that would have to be enough. She was not sure that she could handle much more dwelling on the matter.

‘And to think that so many maids would sacrifice everything, even tear each other apart to be in my place,’ she scoffed, tying her cloak around herself again. ‘They have not counted their blessings.’

‘My child, there is much gratification in exercising this function,’ Guthláf prodded with a shake of his head. ‘Should you satisfy your master’s wishes regarding the upkeep of his chambers and his person, there are many ways in which you would benefit from this position. Some chamberlains and chambermaids have been granted lands in the past; some were elevated to the status of courtiers. Do not abandon yourself to such defeatism. I have seen your work at Meduseld and the only person I have met who carried her tasks with such grace was Hilda herself, Béma bless her soul.’

‘Yet I would have to sacrifice my integrity for these privileges, and I am not quite sure that I am willing to do so. Lord Éomer has always treated me kindly, but to know that he holds such power over me is…’

Her voice trailed off, her mind too weak to consider the outcome of their relationship should he grow weary of her avoidance and decide to take the matter in his own hands. She did not believe him capable of doing so; but too often had she witnessed the lords of the court misbehaving towards other women to put it past him.

‘Éorhild, if that is of any consolation, I have seldom ever heard of a master ordering it from their maids. Not within the royal family, that is. Be at peace; I am sure that Lord Éomer would not trespass your boundaries, unless you prompted him to. But surely you are not silly enough to do such a thing, are you?’

Their gazes locked across the table, and Éorhild felt that time itself paused. The judge’s eyes, weathered by years of truths both spoken and withheld, reached into the recesses of her spirit. A chill ran through her; her thoughts might not be as shrouded as she had believed. Did he know? Had he, from the moment that she crossed the threshold, discerned the tangled threads of her forbidden yearning? Did he see past the clumsy detours of her words and perceived what her heart truly wished to know?

His stare pinned her into place and her breath hitched, shallow and shaken. His expression betrayed nothing, stilled into a mask of patience. Beneath it she sensed an unspoken knowledge, as if he was merely awaiting her to confront it herself.

‘Did you already know, my lord?’ her voice rose, although little more than a strangled whisper.

His eyes softened, but his answer, when it came, confirmed that he had grasped what she had struggled to articulate.

‘Do you truly believe that you are the only young woman to have come to me in hopes that I would give her my blessing to pursue the object of her desire?’ he responded, his voice hardened now that the matter had been bared between them. ‘Do not fool yourself, girl. Your pretty head would be severed from your shoulders by morning if you indulged your urges.’

His patronising tone made her recoil and press her back against her chair. The defiance born of her indignation, however, had not been snuffed out. She rose to her feet, those of the chair scraping against the stone with a discordant tone that offended their ears. picking her basket up off the floor.

‘I have taken enough of your time, your Honour,’ she hissed. ‘Thank you for your counsel.’

Her knuckles paled as she clutched the handle, turning on her heel, desperate to evade the suffocating atmosphere of the house. Each step she took towards the door grew heavier than the last, her mind a cacophony of self-recriminations and accusations towards Rohirric society.

She reached for the latch, her trembling fingers stiffening at the touch cold of the metal, but before she could push it, Guthláf’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘Child,’ he said, his tone an odd mixture of consternation and compassion, ‘you will not flee the danger your heart poses by storming out of this room.’

Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, and reluctantly, she turned to look at the old magistrate, still sitting at the table behind the dying candle. His gaze was no longer the scrutiny she had sensed moments before. It had transformed into something gentler, almost fatherly.

‘Whatever it is you seek,’ he continued, his palms flattening against the wood, ‘you will not find it by avoiding the reality of your circumstances. So, if you truly reject my counsel, hear at least this; no amount of earthly pleasure shared with the prince is worth your death. No man is worth your death.’

Tears brimmed her eyes within a second. A tremor crossed her lower lip, and although the old man’s sight was no longer as precise, it did not escape him.

‘Hilda was proud of you, you know? Every time she and I shared a glass, she would tell me about her prodigy. You were the daughter she had never had the joy to have. Please, do not waste your life away on a whim. She would not have wanted that.’

Éorhild could bear it no longer. She pushed the latch and left, without so much as a goodbye. Outside, the bustle of the market had died down, and most of those who had stayed behind were helping the merchants with the packing of their goods and the cleaning of their stalls. None of them paid attention to her, and she was grateful for it. Pressed against the door, her chest heaving with strain, and tears streaming down her red cheeks, the last thing that she wanted was to be noticed.

She clasped her chest, sensing her erratic heartbeat underneath her palm. Her breath, reduced to succinct shallow gasps, caused her shoulders to curl inward, as though she was shrinking around herself. The world around her blurred, the people, homes, and mountains fading into indistinct shapes dancing before her. Her eyelids fell and she drew some fresh air through her nostrils, letting it fill her lungs like a balm applied to her dilapidated nerves.

One breath. Then another.

Gradually, the haze began to lift, but the haunting image of her head on a pike ruined her every effort. Her basket collapsed at her feet, spilling the beautiful apples she had acquired earlier. The cider bottle, she would later find solace in, had not shattered, and merely rolled against her shoe.

Below her feet, the earth was seized by a faint quake. Someone far away shouted, but she failed to understand their words. Her feeble knees caused her to totter away from the door, her hand holding fast to the wall. But the force it took her to take a step surpassed her. Her chest burnt with distress, and dark blotches began to stain her sight.

‘Éorhild?’

Her eyelashes fluttered open upon the mention of her name. It was the only clear perception amidst the drowning sensations of her reality crumbling all around her and swirling ever closer until it would swallow her whole. Through a squint, she made out the shape of a grey steed with a proud, white head. Perched atop it was a red figure she could not recognise.

The voice rose again, although not directed to her this time.

‘Return to the stables and demand an audience with the king. I shall meet you there without fail.’

‘But my lord—,’ another voice responded.

‘I am not leaving my chambermaid in distress here. Do carry on. I will bring her to the palace and find you.’

Hooves trampled the ground as the riders ascended the hill to the royal stables. Éomer muttered an order to Firefoot, and the horse trotted up to her right as she collapsed onto her knees, bruising it on a rock. The prince slipped off the saddle and knelt by her side, holding her quivering hands in his own.

‘Éorhild, what has befallen you? Has harm been inflicted to you?’

Her head shook in feeble protest as a sound, more air than voice, escaped her throat — a rattling whimper that seemed to drain the last of her strength. Without another word and realising that she was in no state to clarify the situation, he gathered her form into his arms. Her body, lighter than she would have imagined, slumped against his torso, unable to resist even if she had wanted to. With delicate motions, he set her down on his saddle, her head lolling back. Éomer swung himself onto the horse and anchored her between his arms and legs. He braced her against his chest, curling one shoulder forward and pressing his cheek to her hair to keep her head fastened.

Though half-lidded eyes, she caught sight of her fallen basket, the bottle and apples scattered onto the ground beside it.

‘The apples,’ she exhaled.

‘Nevermind them,’ he intoned into her ear, nudging Firefoot back onto the path. ‘Let me take you back home.’

His horse launched forward; its step brisk yet steady enough for Éorhild to remain firmly seated. Around her, the city fell into a fog of her own making, and the hum of the merchants closing shop was reduced to a distant purr against the rhythmic clopping of Firefoot’s hooves upon the golden dirt. For now, there was nothing but the path ahead and Éomer’s heart beating alongside hers in her ears.

She must have lost consciousness, for when next she opened her eyes, the wintry air and landscapes were beyond reach. Her vision swam back into focus and the first thing she registered was the softness beneath her — a bed, far more comfortable than the straw mattresses she had occupied for most of her life. Her body was warm, soothed by the calming scent of lavender woven into the linens tucked snugly around her. Across from the bed, her green cloak had been neatly folded and laid to rest on one of two chairs standing on either side of a round table, towering over her slippers. Whoever had brought her there had also taken the precaution to take off her woollen hose and head covering and had disposed of them onto the chair’s back.

It was Éomer’s chambers. She already knew them like the back of hand.

The pads of her fingers caressed the weave of the sheets as she wondered whether she had dreamt the day’s events — the bath, the market, her encounter with Guthláf, and the chaos that followed. But as her thoughts settled, she knew they were real. One thing was certain; someone had carried her to this sanctuary, and for the time being, she was safe.

She hauled herself up with tremendous effort and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Much to her relief, her head had ceased its spinning. She was just about to attempt to stand when the door opened and Éomer entered, carrying a steaming bowl of spiced mashed potatoes. When his eyes locked with hers, he almost dropped the dish to come to her side, but he clung to it and hastened to place in on his bedside. He fell at her feet, pressing his lips to her hands.

‘Éorhild, you gave me such a fright!’ he breathed out between kisses. A flutter in his voice betrayed the concern that hard burdened his heart ever since he found her by the judges’ house. ‘Oh, my beloved, name whomever has caused you such torment and I shall hunt them for sport!’

Her fingers brushed through the blond strands on his head, their course coming to a halt when his cheek nestled against her palm. She could not help the smile lighting up her features at last; his mere presence alleviated her troubles, although, in a way, he had been the cause of it all.

He remained still, breathing in her scent at her wrist, his breathing matching the steady rhythm of her pulse. His hand came to enfold hers, neither pushing it away nor forcing it back through his hair. It was there, undemanding, merely demonstrating his affection, as though to reaffirm his support.

‘Nobody has offended me, my lord,’ she spoke, her dry throat causing her words to emerge raspier than expected. ‘Be at rest.’

‘How could I? I thought I was close to losing you, Éorhild, and my heart could not bear it.’

He extended a hand to stroke her jaw, his twinkling eyes admiring her for a moment. Then, the spicy scent emanating from the bedside table reminded him of the food he had brought in from the kitchens. He withdrew his hand and offered her the bowl and a wooden spoon. ‘Here,’ he chuckled, making her hand cup the dish. ‘You must eat. You need strength.’

The spoon danced in Éorhild’s hand as she stirred the mash, the aroma reaching her and prompting her to eat. The savours spilled across her tongue, engulfing her entire mouth. She closed her eyes to allow the complexity of the tastes of such simple food to overwhelm her. The herbs, the spices — she recognised them as those reserved for the highborn. She had carried countless delicacies adorned with them to the royal table for years, in private dinners and banquets. So often had she considered to defy the rules for a single bite, just to familiarise herself with the food that her peers had put such care into perfecting and to know, at least once, how it melted on the tongue. Now that Éomer had allowed her to partake in the discovery of such seasonings, the divide between their ranks seemed ever so thin.

Her hand shook slightly when she planted the spoon back into the bowl. It was not solely due to the soreness of her limbs, but to the act itself. The fact that Éomer had taken the initiative to bring her some sustenance after the incident, how relieved he had been when he found her awake, and the fact that he had her cumbersome clothes put aside while she was asleep, moved her.

Along another mouthful, a wave of guilt traversed her stomach, causing it to churn. She stole a glance towards the prince, whose brow creased with concern at her puzzled expression. This was not how things were supposed to be. She was the servant; she should be the one to ensure that his stomach was full. That was the natural order of things and had been since she first entered Meduseld at the tender age of twelve. Yet here he was, kneeling before her and presenting her with food.

How reckless she had been, allowing her whirlwind of emotions to submerge her into unconsciousness. He should not have to bear the consequences of her idiocy — his attention diverted, his time wasted, his care given to someone unworthy of it.

And that was one of her main concerns. She did not deserve his attention at all, not that day, not ever. She should have remained in the shadows of the hall, hugging the walls as a faceless phantom in the royal household. The day that Éomer had deigned to engage in a conversation with her had been both a blessing and her doom.

‘Forgive me, your Majesty,’ she uttered in shame. ‘I did not mean to trouble you at all. This is unnatural, you should not have to—’

‘Sit down, Éorhild,’ he said in a gentle command. ‘And what ever do you mean by unnatural?’

‘This, you tending to me while I am soiling your linens with my dirty dress. I apologise for this mess; I must wash them tonight and change them again.’

Éomer cradled her face, the warmth of his skin instantly ebbing away the spiral that was ravaging her thoughts again.

‘Beloved, I would sleep between muddy sheets for the rest of my life if that ensured your welfare.’

Her tears hung on the tips of her eyelashes. He sat beside her and enfolded her in his embrace, placing a kiss in her hair.

‘You have borne so much for me, my family, and our kingdom, Éorhild. So, no, you owe me no apologies. For once, let me shoulder this weight with you.’

The heartfelt intentions behind his words tipped her tears off the edge. They cascaded down her cheeks without restraint, the dam of her composure fractured by his kindness. He guided her head to his heart and rested his chin on top of it, lulling her until she could speak again.

‘I do not deserve any of this,’ she said with a sniffle, moving to blot her tears with the hem of her sleeve, but finding his thumb already wiping them away. ‘Not from you.’

‘You deserve far more, and it is high time that somebody told you so,’ he responded, touching his forehead to hers. His hand curled around hers and his lips kissed her knuckles. ‘Now, will you tell me what happened earlier today? Help me understand.’

With great reluctance, she turned back to the bowl on her lap. She forced herself to ingest several spoonfuls, in hopes to delay the inevitable moment she would have to confess the reasons behind her earlier collapse. Éomer remained seated by her side; he did not press her; he did not speak. His unspoken patience reached her and assured her that he would wait for as long as she needed.

‘I spoke to Master Guthláf,’ she divulged, her gaze still downturned to the nearly empty dish.

‘What for?’

Éorhild laid bare her heart to him, sparing little in her revelations. She spoke of the unease gnawing at her over the inevitable scrutiny she would face from the other maids, resentment brewing from her appointment as chambermaid without Edelmer’s assessment of the quality of her work. She recounted how her fondness for him had intruded her every waking thought, dissolved her sense of propriety and blinded her to the bounds of what was tolerated or forbidden.

She conveyed her anguish at the market, where thoughts of consulting the judges over the oath she would have to swear if Éomer secured her position as chambermaid after her trial. She described how, after draining an entire cup of cider, her feet had carried her to Guthláf, before whom she had circled around the subject with hesitant words, though the old man had understood her purpose from the very beginning.

She related the magistrate’s blood-curdling words regarding her consequential beheading, should she succumb to her emotions, and how the thought of Hilda’s profound disappointment, were she to witness her unrest, was unendurable. All of that, she explained, had been responsible for her collapse at the market.

Éomer lent her an attentive ear throughout her account and refrained from interrupting her at all. He merely nodded, considering her troubles and pondering a solution to alleviate her fears. Although he did not voice it, he did blame himself for her anguish. He had demanded too much, without serious regards to what circumstances he had forced onto her.

‘And there is something else that Guthláf informed me about.’

‘Tell me.’

‘As my master, you possess the right to summon me to your bed. I would hold no voice in protest; it would be my duty to yield to you, entirely, without resistance.’

His dark brows drew together in a frown, his gaze fixed upon her with a palpable unease. Her words had stirred something troubling within him, enough to give him the impulse to rise to his feet and struggle to contain his confusion. After rubbing his face with the balls of his calloused hands to regain his composure, he turned to her.

‘Please,’ he implored, his voice low and unsteady, ‘tell me you are not considering such a wretched thing.’

With a resigned sigh, she finished the bowl and set it gently aside before facing him again.

‘Desire or no,’ she began, her voice as heavy as his, ‘that power rests in your hands, always hanging over me. My body, our laws dictate, will never be mine to own.’

‘Éorhild, for Béma’s sake!’

His face flushed crimson, a tumultuous blend of anger and hurt twisting his traits. His eyes welled with unshed tears, and his teeth sank into his bottom lip, his force stopping just on the verge of bleeding.

‘Is that truly what you think of me?’ he shouted. ‘Is that what you have been waiting for? For me to use and abuse you until I discard you when the novelty fades? To treat you like an object, as though you never mattered to me?’

Éorhild wept in return, gripping the bedsheets between her fingers.

‘No, that is not—'

His voice cracked, betraying the rawness of the rage and sorrow swelling within him.

‘Damn it, I may be a man, Éorhild, but I am not…’

He suppressed a sob, his eyes never leaving hers.

‘I am not that kind of man. Never would I betray you or your integrity. Never would I raise my hand against you. Do you know why?’

She shook her head, the intensity of her sorrow mirroring that of the storm in his eye. It compelled him to draw nearer to her and offering himself at her feet. With a peculiar vulnerability she had never witnessed from him, he anchored himself by holding on to her hand, laying the other over his heart. Some unseen force urged him to speak, to unburden himself from secrets he had hidden for too long. And so he did with absolute honesty, uttering his truth, meant for no one but her.

‘From the moment I laid eyes on you that evening, months ago, I have been bewitched,’ he confided. ‘I no longer recognise myself. I do not eat, I do not sleep, I have forgotten what I stand for. So often do I wake in the dead of night, with a gnawing pain in my gut. It grips me, relentless and cold, a constant reminder of what I cannot escape. It pulls me from the little rest I find to taunt and torment me about what I cannot control. Every minute of every day, I want to scream myself hoarse, to exhaust myself until I collapse, so I do not have to feel, even for a second.’

Only then did Éorhild grasp the extent to which they had been sharing this torment. They had been nursing their wounds in solitude, each concealing what they could of their anguish to protect the other. Yet their bond had done nothing but press salt into those very wounds, never permitting them to heal. All this time, they had worn smiles veiled by invisible tears.

‘But you know what?’ Éomer continued, urgently pressing her hand against his chest, as if contact would be enough to convey what he was not sure he could articulate well enough for her understanding. ‘Given the choice between this misery and the opportunity to forget your existence… I would choose the misery. I would endure it all over again, without a second thought. And I would thank the Valar for every moment of it.’

Éorhild rose to her feet, her movements hastened and unsteady; he was there with her in an instant, his grasp on her hand unwavering. His eyes bore into hers, intense and searching, seeking a glimmer of affirmation, a spark of hope that her heart mirrored the agony in his own.

‘Why would you ever want that?’ she cried, clutching his fingers in despair. ‘Would you not wish to be free from all this pain? Free from the impossibility of whatever our emotions plead us to become for each other?’

Before he could offer a reply, she cradled his face between her palms. Their breaths mingled as she leant in.

‘Éomer, I am poor. I am but a maid — someone that those of your rank can tread upon without fear, without consequence, with all the impunity the world affords your station.’

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, carrying with it a brine he shed.

‘I will never make you happy,’ she continued, her voice shattering like glass under the strain of her emotions. ‘All I have done, I see it now, is lead you astray. From your duties, from your role as Prince of Rohan. You are the future king, and sooner or later, you will have to marry Lady Lothíriel. It is written, inevitable. There is nothing — nothing — that either of us can do to change it. So why? Why would you choose to inflict this woe upon yourself?’

‘Do you truly not understand?’

He cupped her jaw, drawing closer still until their noses nearly touched. Éomer, the stoic prince who so often veiled himself in an air of detachment, now stood before her utterly undone, his sobs breaking through the brittle barriers of his composure.

‘Were you not a maid and I not a prince, I would have married you without question. I would have raised a house from the earth itself for us. Shaped every piece of furniture to your liking. I would have roamed the wilds, killed animals with my bare hands to drape you in their pelts, until the cold would never dare reach you. Until every shadow and scent of our house gave you a sense of security and home. Until it breathed only of you.’

She opened her mouth to speak, but he laid a finger upon her lips, seizing the opportunity to caress them.

‘I would have crawled on my knees to the ends of this world to seek the rarest herbs and remedies when your body is weakened. I would have woven the finest silk to compliment the rich brown hues of your eyes. I would have had you trample on my back so your feet would never hurt from stepping on a sharp rock on your path. And I would cherish every child you would be willing to give me. My whole life would have become a shrine to your beauty and to the righteousness of your soul.’

‘But why?’

‘By the Valar, have I not made it clear?’

He swallowed hard, his thumb grazing her cheekbone with tenderness.

‘I love you, Éorhild. And it tears me apart.’

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