Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As Lothíriel swept a courtesy to Éomer, her mind whirled. Her first, overwhelming, instinct was to avoid looking at his face, but she immediately realised that would be entirely ridiculous. One could not conduct a whole dance without looking at one's partner. And besides which, both her mother and aunt had urged her to put on the best show she could of bland, diplomatic friendliness. Even her brother had pitched in: “Sorry to have put the cat among the pigeons, sister dear, but I'm sure I can rely on you to undo the damage. Just show all the gossiping harpies and slanderous buggers that you don't give a shit.” (Lothíriel strongly suspected that, now the two men were back on friendly terms once more, Éothain's language was rubbing off on him).

Steeling herself, she peeped up at Éomer. His face did not give much away – a bland mask of kingly dignity. Only a slight twitch of his cheek muscles suggested that he too was struggling to keep his composure. Taking a deep breath, she extended her hand and he took it, leading her to her place in the set.

It was one of those dreadfully dull Gondorian dances. They circled left for eight measured steps, then right, then he held his arm aloft while she pirouetted in stately fashion beneath his hand. The set rearranged itself into a line of couples, and the top couple – Siliveth and Úron, she noted with surprise – formed an arch, beneath which the others passed. Then the whole process started again. The eight steps in each direction unfortunately ensured a brief spell of uninterrupted conversation, and to add to the misery, it was not the sort of dance where one swapped partner.

For two whole repetitions, neither could think of anything to say to the other, and Lothíriel wondered if Éomer, like her, was able to feel the gaze of the surrounding throng boring into them. She could almost hear the murmurs: “Does Princess Ivriniel seriously expect everyone to believe that codswallop about the young gel having been in her company all along?” “Doesn't he look stern?” “Well, the cat certainly seems to have got her tongue...” “Look, he won't even lower himself to talk to her now he's discovered first hand what a trollop she is...” “She may put on a show of pride, but she's shown herself to be no better than she should be...” Lothíriel caught sight of Bronaer standing by the edge of the clearing, looking very pleased with himself. Bitterly, she wondered whether he had told all and sundry the story of the lost swan brooch.

Then a most strange thing happened. Úron seemed to catch the direction of her gaze, and his lips narrowed into a determined line. With a raise of one well tended eyebrow, he looked Bronaer in the eye, and raised Siliveth's hand to his lips as if his movement were part of the dance. But then, to Lothíriel's amazement, at the last moment he turned Siliveth's hand upwards and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, all the while keeping his eyes fixed upon Bronaer. The latter's brows drew together in a furious frown, and with a look like a darkening thunder-cloud, he turned heel and stalked off into the relative gloom around the edges of the clearing.

Almost as if Bronaer's fury counterbalanced her own mood, Lothíriel felt her spirits rise inexplicably. Úron gifted her with the faintest of smiles, and she realised that she had an ally. Finally feeling some steel return to her backbone, she decided that she must do exactly as her mother and aunt had requested. Having pirouetted beneath Éomer's hand, the couple found themselves facing one another as the others passed beneath their outstretched arms, and Lothíriel finally managed to string a sentence together.

“How fares Chang? Did you take him to the healers?”

There was the slightest, almost imperceptible softening in Éomer's face. “Yes. They've reset his leg, they think it should heal much better this time round. Laerwen's tending to him, with a bit of help from Erin and her man.”

“I am relieved to hear that.”

They lapsed into silence for a few moments. Then Éomer obviously remembered that he too had certain social obligations.

“You and your aunt made good time on the way back?”

“Yes, thank you. I gather that you did not.”

“Nah, Arodon's head injury was causing him trouble – he kept having to stop to spew. Sorry, shouldn't have said that in the ball room...”

“No, no, that's fine. I should imagine that it's actually one of the less offensive things currently being said...” Lothíriel's voice trailed off. She had blurted that out without thinking and now realised she really should not have opened that particular jar of worms.

“Béma, I'm sorry. I've really put you on the spot here.” Éomer sounded genuinely contrite. “So you don't think they're buying your aunt's story.” This last comment was delivered in an undertone, so as not to carry to the surrounding couples.

“I fear not. But please, do not feel guilty. It was entirely my fault – my decision and no-one else's, to run off in pursuit of Merilwen.”

“But mine to follow you,” Éomer replied. Then almost stumbled as a look of surprise came over his face. He recovered himself rapidly, before muttering in a low voice to himself, “I was right… I've been played. Why the crafty old...”

Lothíriel gaped in astonishment. But before she could enquire as to what in the name of Angband he was talking about, the band played the final chords of the dance, and the partners were required to retreat to their respective lines, and bow or courtesy to their partner.

Éomer's bow was graceful, and he followed it by saying in a clear, carrying, voice “Thank you for the dance, your highness. Now, if you will excuse me, I promised to fetch your aunt a goblet of iced lemon punch.” He smiled politely (Morgoth's balls, she hated that polite smile, compared to the genuine warmth in the previous days – and as for his sudden switch to formal language...) He turned to leave. Lothíriel felt her heart sink. Then he glanced back over his shoulder, and spoke again in a lower tone, sounding less like the monarch imbued with an overweening sense of his own importance, and more like the man she knew. “Sorry to rush away. I just don't like to leave your aunt waiting. And… I've got something to clear up with her... But if you'd like… I could get you some punch later...” Just for an instant that grin she remembered from the game of pebbles flashed across his face. Then just as quickly it was gone. He turned on his heel and made his way through the surrounding crowd.

Her heart abruptly switched from plummeting to soaring. To her chagrin, however, this sudden flowering of hope against the odds was almost as painful as her previous despair. Valar, she could not stand much more of this. An overwhelming urge to do something, anything, swept over her. However, before she could make a fool of herself, either by standing in the middle of the dance floor like an unwanted débutante, or worse, by hastening in pursuit of him, Lord Úron appeared at her shoulder.

“Might I have the pleasure of the next dance, your highness?”

Lothíriel almost sighed with relief. “Certainly, my lord.” She offered him her hand and he led her to the part of the dance floor nearest the band. To her surprise, the band struck up one of the Rohirric tunes – it turned out to be the dance which had required Éomer to hold her so close.

Blushing at the memory, she found herself swept into the arms of Lord Úron. However she need not have worried. Despite his slight limp, he turned out to be an elegant, graceful, but mercifully impersonal partner. His right hand settled in the small of her back, but somehow lacked the searing heat that Éomer's had imparted the last time she had danced this dance. His other hand, with which he grasped her own, was elegantly manicured, although still noticeably bearing the calluses of a practised swordsman. Yet still it lacked the vibrant roughness of the Rohir's. And his smile was friendly, but lacked the intensity of gaze which had made her innards melt.

Lothíriel took a deep breath and made a decision; having done her social duty by showing the world that she and the king of Rohan were on perfectly civil terms, this dance would be for her own benefit, and would allow her to set her own personal ghosts to rest. The contrast with her previous experience would be all to the good; it would show that this dance, and by extension, the other parts of her life, could be reclaimed from their entanglement with the handsome horselord, and returned to her own sole possession.

The dance allowed for much easier conversation than the previous one, for all that the steps proceeded with greater rapidity. Úron was possessed of a ready wit, and kept up a steady stream of social chit-chat which managed to skirt just the right side of banality, and to offer Lothíriel (indeed, she suspected, was so cleverly constructed that it would have offered anyone) the chance to respond with matching wit and charm. Úron, she realised, was something of a master of the art of negotiating social occasions. Eventually, she found an opening to compliment him on his splendid wordless exchange with Bronaer, and, she rather prided herself, managed do so without drawing attention to the rather curious liberties he seemed to have taken with Siliveth. (This puzzled her; surely even Siliveth was not such a fool as to embark upon a third indiscretion, and even if she were, it was beyond certain that Úron was not the sort of man she would choose. However, she shelved this puzzle, her train of thought interrupted by Úron's response.)

“Always a pleasure to put that ghastly man in his place. I do so hope King Elessar thinks of a way of removing him from the court. Maybe an ambassadorship in Umbar or something. Of course, I rather liked King Éomer's approach.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “Indeed?” she enquired. The last conversation she had seen (from her hiding place within the bush) had involved that wretched brooch, and she feared had culminated in Bronaer pouring poison regarding herself into Éomer's ears.

“Well, one wasn't close enough to hear what they were actually arguing about, but Bronaer seemed to be trying to interest the King of Rohan in some sort of trinket, and for some reason this cause the king to lose his temper, really quite spectacularly, and plant the man a most magnificent facer. Went down like a nine-pin. I'm amazed his teeth weren't knocked loose.”

“Oh my!” said Lothíriel with considerable feeling. “I should very much have liked to have seen that.” She felt her pulse speed up. So Éomer hadn't listened to the poison Bronaer had tried to drip into his ear. He'd reacted angrily. She knew that she was beginning to blush. Again, that little flower of hope opened slightly. Again, she felt a chilling fear. Loss she had steeled herself to cope with. Hope – she was not sure if she could live with hope which was dashed. But Úron's words cut into her train of thought.

“I most heartily wish you could have done,” he responded with a smile. Then his face became quite uncharacteristically serious. “Far be it from me to pry, but I suspect that had you seen it, it might have saved quite a bit of heartache. My lady, I really do not wish to speak out of turn, but, disreputable fellow that I am, nonetheless I was once in love. I lost my love to death, and there is no cheating Námo of his chosen ones. Perhaps it is for that reason that it pains me to think that anyone would lose their love simply to a misunderstanding.”

Lothíriel was rendered speechless for quite some moments.

“You must excuse me for speaking so frankly,” Úron added. “I shall endeavour to move the subject to pleasanter pastures.” And he did so, having the grace to launch into a series of witty anecdotes which did not require a response from Lothíriel.

Having danced with Lord Úron, Lothíriel had no difficulty in finding dance partners (and harboured a suspicion that her aunt had perhaps been hard at work restoring her social standing). Both of the king's foster brothers danced with her, as did a succession of minor nobles. There were, perhaps, one or two who had misconstrued recent events and saw them as an invitation to take liberties, but (channelling her aunt) she found it easy to deliver stinging set-downs to any man who was less than perfectly respectful towards her.

At the same time, she could not help but follow the progress of the king of Rohan (out of the corner of her eye, and trying ever so hard to be discreet about it). After dancing with her, he had, to the disappointment of many young women, made a bee-line for her aunt. They had then had what appeared to be a lively, or possibly a heated, discussion (depending on your view of it, she supposed). Eventually, Éomer had given the princess a somewhat curt bow and withdrawn. She saw Ivriniel give a somewhat rueful shake of her head, and little half-smile, then make her way towards princess Isteth.

From then on, it appeared that Éomer had also not struggled to find partners. It seemed that his possibly having gone gallivanting across the countryside (officially denied) with a young woman not his wife had done nothing to dull his attractiveness in the eyes of the other young women of Gondor's high society. Nor for that matter, in the eyes of some of the slightly older, and one presumed respectably, married women of Gondor's high society. The women appeared to flirt shameless (so it seemed to Lothíriel), and Éomer was polite and attentive (too polite, and too attentive).

The evening stretched into night, and it felt to Lothíriel as though the whole event was interminable. She was trapped on the dance floor, doomed for an eternity, or at the very least, an Elven century or two, dancing with a succession of men she did not find attractive in the slightest, while watching Éomer dance with a succession of women who seemed all too dangerously attractive for comfort. Early on in the evening Aragorn had announced that the court would be returning to Minas Tirith in a se'en-night, and it seemed as if, aware of the fact that this might be their last sylvan gathering, the flower of Gondor's nobility were determined to dance the night away in the most literal fashion.

At last, Lothíriel could stand no more. However, she feared that her mind was in too much of a turmoil for sleep to come easily. She needed quiet in which to find some sort of peace before she attempted to return to her father's pavilion and the comfort of her bed. Instead, her feet took on a life of their own; they carried her across the meadow and down the gentle slope to the edge of the great river. Behind her the sky was beginning to show a slight hint of paler blue above the mountain tops to the east. At last she made her way to the edge of the turf, above a muddy bank overlooking the river. Her mind began to still at last. Drawing her lace shawl close, she closed her eyes for a moment, then let the peace of the scene before her enfold her in a calm she hadn't felt for days. At the back of her mind, though, there was a quiet voice lamenting the fact that the calm was a sad calm, the calm of mourning for something lost. At the same time, there was almost a feeling that she was waiting, waiting for something that would start the world moving anew. In this strange mood, she lost track of time.

Lothíriel wasn't sure how long she stood there for, arms wrapped around her body, looking down the low bank, across the waving reeds and out to the blue water of the river beyond. A light breeze whipped the water into small waves which danced to the music of the wind, the same music that rustled through the brown heads of the reeds. Still, she felt utterly alone and bereft.

It seemed to her as if she sensed his approach before she heard his first footfall. Her stomach tightened. Was she doomed always to be preternaturally attuned to his presence? She did not want to turn to look at him, afraid that he would wish to talk of his reluctant proposal, even more afraid of the mad desire that he might repeat it, and that she would say yes. And positively terrified of the idea that this desire was utterly in vain.

Her pride rebelled against this line of thought. How could she possibly throw herself at a man who had only asked for her hand out of a sense of duty? And at the same time a treacherous voice in her head – a voice which railed against the vicissitudes of fate – demanded to know why she couldn't magically return to that afternoon over the game of go, when he had seemed to like her, or that night when he had whirled her round the dance floor, his hands strong in the curve of her waist?

“Lothíriel… Lothi...” His voice was hesitant, almost nervous. It seemed so incongruous in a man so imposing, so obviously a warrior used to command. She could feel her own pulse, fluttering in her throat, like a bird trying to fly into the air. But still she could not turn to look at him.

He spoke again. “I've been a blaardy idiot. Can I start again?”

Slowly, she turned to him. He was gazing at her, his face intense and serious.

“When I proposed to you, I didn't do it out of duty.” She saw a look of confusion cross his face for a moment, then he said, or rather blurted out, “Well, I did of course… oh, faarkin' hell, I'm faarkin' this up again...”

Despite herself, Lothíriel felt her lips quirk into just the faintest hint of a smile. Éomer must have caught it because she saw his shoulders relax, just a tiny bit.

“I mean, the timing – I felt I had to do it then. But I wanted to. But I wanted to do it properly...” His voice tailed off, and he looked at her expectantly. Suddenly she couldn't look at him. She dropped her head and found herself contemplating her jewelled dancing slippers (now rather muddy) with a concentration most unlike her. She could feel her cheeks heating up – warm enough to toast currant buns, as her childhood nurse had been wont to say when she was caught out in some petty misdemeanour.

Something uncannily like a sigh of relief seemed to escape Éomer. She felt his hand take hers, warm, strong fingers wrapping themselves round her, callouses brushing her skin.

“As soon as all the court ladies of Gondor arrived, and your brothers started telling me how easy it would be to find myself compromised, not to mention some of my lords and thains telling me how much they needed me to get married, I got… Well, fed up to the back teeth. Swore I wouldn't marry, ever, just to spite the buggers. But I think… I think I'd already fallen for you. I kept telling myself you were too young and didn't know the stuff you'd need to make a good queen...”

At this, Lothíriel raised her face and gave him a sharp look, her lips narrowing to a thin line.”

“Ah, bugger, I'm making a mess of this again...”

“You are, rather,” said Lothíriel, dryly, but a twitch at the corner of her mouth gave away the fact that the slightly surreal proposal was beginning to appeal to her sense of the absurd.

“Ah, Béma's arse, I'm crap at this. Like I told you, right ocker.”

Lothíriel decided that she needed to give him a bit of help, and reached out for his other hand. He looked slightly startled.

“It is customary,” she said, with a chuckle, “To tell the lady why you want to marry her, rather than to tell her why you previously did not want to.”

Now in possession of both her hands, Éomer pulled her gently towards him.

“Because you are beautiful. Because you can play a mean round of the encircling game. Because you're bloody brave, and handy with a throwing knife. Because you call your brothers obscene names (and too right – they're an annoying pair of bastards).” Lothíriel couldn't help herself – a giggle escaped her. “Because you don't give a shit about convention, only about what's right. Because...”

She found herself looking into his face once more. He was now smiling, that flash of teeth and slightly knowing, humour-filled twinkle in his eyes. And something else too, something that made her pulse race once more.

“Because, from the moment you first offered me that faarkin' cucumber sandwich, I've wanted to do this...”

He released her left hand, only to slide his own round her waist till it came to rest in the small of her back. She could feel the heat of it, feel every finger, feel the pressure as he pulled her closer to him until her body was flush against his. His other hand rose to caress her cheek, then gently move to cradle her head. “Your hair, so soft, smells… mmm...”

And with that he bent his head and brought his lips down against hers. Lothíriel's breath seemed suspended; whatever she had expected from his kiss, it wasn't this… this fire, and driving desire. Her hands moved as if of their own accord, one clutching the rich cloth of his sleeve, the other burrowing into that tawny mane. His lips were rough, slightly chapped if anything, from a life spent in the open air. His beard was rough against her cheek, but at that moment she didn't care. The very roughness of it felt right. His breath came hot against her skin, and she gave a little moan, only to find that he seized the opportunity to run his tongue across her lips.

Her body seem to take over on instinct. She tangled her fingers deeper into his hair, and opened her mouth, letting her own tongue dart out to meet his. Warmth, heat, a feeling of melting against him. The whole of time seemed to slow down, the meeting of their lips the conduit which channelled lightning through her whole body. Her pulse raced, her body flamed. He seemed to feel it too – his hands quested around her waist, over her back, along the neckline of her bodice, cupping her breast, his fingers drifting languorously across the smooth silk. Without even thinking Lothíriel pressed into his touch, nipping his lip with her teeth as she did so. Éomer gave a breathy, shaky groan.

Then, to her intense disappointment, pulled away.

His hands settled on her upper arms, holding her at arms length, and he gazed down into her face. His eyes were dark and intense, their normal grey-blue having been replaced by something altogether stormier. But at the same time, his mouth turned up in a gentle smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with happiness.

“Blaardy hell… you kiss better than some sheilas...” He paused. “Ah, best not go there.” Lothíriel tried to step back into his embrace, but Éomer let his grip slide down to her hands, holding them clasped to his chest to make a space between them. “We have to stop before we really give the Gondorian harpies something to gossip about.”

Lothíriel had a fair inkling what he meant, but couldn't resist saying, with a smile which produced quite wicked dimples in her cheeks, “What sort of thing would they gossip about?”

In answer, Éomer bent his head once more and trailed a line of kisses down her neck and along her bare shoulder until he met the neckline of her dress. Lothíriel tipped her head back to let him kiss down along the line of silken lace, feeling his tongue dart across sensitive skin down towards her cleavage. He let go with one hand and placed it round her waist – just as well, Lothíriel realised. Her legs felt suddenly as though they wouldn't support her, and, for some unaccountable reason, the brush of his lips on her skin seemed to have sent a flood of fire to her… well, a polite young lady surely wouldn't be able to find the words for the place in question. But her current situation was leading Lothíriel to question whether she was indeed a polite young lady. She repeated the question, lips touching his ear, her voice coming out surprisingly husky.

“What sort of thing might they catch us doing?” Just for good measure, she nipped his earlobe gently between her teeth, then reciprocated by kissing her way down the side of his neck. She was rewarded by his hand sliding down over her arse and pulling her in tight against him. Another unladylike thought suddenly assailed her; there were really far too many clothes in the way between his body and hers. She pressed herself against him as best she could.

Then Éomer let out a huge sigh and stepped back, reluctantly, as if his feet were stuck in treacle. He held her hands once more.

“I'm beginning to think you have a fairly good idea...”

Lothíriel couldn't help a giggle. “But I'm a mere chit out of the school room...”

“Yeah, but nah, but yeah...” He grinned, white teeth flashing. “I know the Gondy bastards all think I've dishonoured you already, but I really don't want to. Well, I do, obviously, but not like this. Properly, in a bed, after we're married.”

“Perhaps you'd better get round to asking me, then.”

“I already did. You said 'no', remember?”

“I was cross.”

“Lothíriel, will you marry me?”

“Yes. Now we're engaged, will you kiss me again?”

Éomer obliged, but this time a gentle, soft kiss. Lothíriel smiled at him, and said, “And again, like you did just now?”

Éomer tenderly brushed the dark curls of hair back from her cheek. “I think we really had better go back and find your father. Because, seriously, if you kiss me like that again...” He brought his lips next to her ear and whispered, his breath hot and sensual, his words so low that she could only just hear them.

Lothíriel's eyes widened and her mouth formed an “Ohhh.” Then she added “I think I might enjoy that.”

Éomer gave her a positively wicked grin in return. “Might? Believe me, darling, I'd make blaardy sure you enjoyed it more than you've ever enjoyed anything in your life… but not now. Please, not now, while I've got some self restraint left in me. For the love of Béma, let's go and find your father.”