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You were startled when Eomer found you in stables, and you were annoyed at yourself for being startled. Perhaps that was why you were shorter with him than was appropriate.
“Your Majesty”, you said curtly, nodding in his direction as you hoisted a sack of oats. Then you remembered yourself and dropped into as low a curtsy as you could manage.
“Let me”, he said. He took the sack from your arms, annoying you further. You scowled at the back of his head as he placed the oats by the stall. He was dressed as if to go riding, though you’d heard no others come to the stables to prepare their horses.
It felt so strange to be shy around Eomer now, when once you had teased and confided in him without thought. He had always been higher born than you, of course, but as children you’d been much taller. You’d felt so protective of him - a dear, sad-eyed boy you had loved from the first.
Then one summer he had suddenly sprouted - tall, gangly, and long-limbed as a colt. You’d stolen each other’s first kisses out on the plains, whispering of love as young folk were wont to do. But as you’d grown it had become more. He had trembled, the first time he pressed you down into the heather, caught between the urge to forget himself and his desire to not forget you. You should have felt vulnerable and exposed out there in the open, but how could you when his body covered yours so well?
Nephew of the king meant he might be out of reach for you, but he wasn’t the king’s heir. It wasn’t impossible. You hadn’t realised that you had always believed in a secret corner of your heart that one day you would marry Eomer. Not until the tears had slid silently down your face, half pride, half sorrow, as you watched the golden circlet placed upon his head.
“I have not seen you these many weeks” he said, seeming awkward now. You regretted your coldness.
“I’m sure the King of the Mark has many duties to keep him busy”, you said airily, trying to lighten the mood. You failed.
“Aye. Although having a queen by my side would no doubt lift my burdens”.
You turned your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with the tack.
“A bride will be an easy enough thing to find, now especially. You must have your pick of all the finest, far-flung ladies”. Your voice sounded even enough to your ears. Steady.
“The people of Rohan are proud. I do not think they could love a foreign queen. They need someone who knows their ways, understands their customs”.
“And where might you find such a queen?” you asked levelly, keeping your eyes and hands busy with the tack.
“I hope I shall not have to look far.”
Eomer’s voice was closer behind you. You turned sharply and he was right there. He was close enough that you could smell his familiar scent: worn leather, Firefoot’s mane, the herbs they strewed across the Golden Hall’s floors. It was tempting to inhale deeply, to fall into it, but you balled your hands into fists and resisted.
“You mean to choose a bride from the Mark then? I’m sure any of the great houses of Rohan would be honoured by an offer of marriage”. Your voice was less steady now with him close, and you felt yourself tremble on a precipice between cruel and terrible hope and oblivion.
“There is only one house I seek to honor,” he said with significance. He moved toward you again, until you were only inches apart. The corner of his mouth tilted up now, but still he seemed nervous.
You were face to face. His head was bare - he only wore the crown on feast days and for ceremonies. Beneath the beard and the armour he was still Eomer. Your friend. Your love. As dear as he had ever been as a boy. The tension in the room broke as you laughed and shook your head in exasperation.
“Gods, Eomer, you never could ask a question true!” you cried brightly.
An answering smile spread across his face and his hands came to your waist.
“Then you’ll have me?” he asked, leaning in for a kiss.
“How can I when you still haven’t asked me?” You laughed, turning your face away.
He kissed your cheek instead, once, twice, thrice, smiling all the while.
“Marry me?” he asked, voice suddenly earnest and low. “Marry me and be my queen and have my children?”
You turned your face to him again, took his head between your hands and stilled him. He pressed his forehead against yours.
“Eomer”, you sighed. He hummed, his eyes sliding closed. “Eomer, you could have any maid in the kingdom”.
“Nay”. His eyes opened, blazing bright. “Nay, I could have no other”. He took your hands from his face and held them between you and squeezed, insistent. “I want no other”.
You watched him helplessly as he kissed your hands, first one palm, then the other.
“I ask again, will you let me love and honour you always? Will you be my wife?” He let your hands drop and suddenly you missed his warmth.
It wasn’t until you felt his chest pressed firm against you, his mouth soft and warm on yours that you realised that, unbidden by thought, you had said yes.
“Yes”, you said again, twisting your fingers into his hair. “Yes.”