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Chapter Text

Veiled Hearts

In the wake of the broken Siege of Minas Tirith, all those who resided in the White City were grateful yet full of despair. For they were alive, yes, but their minds were burdened by a future of Shadow.

Still, hope remained in their hearts, stubborn as a deep-rooted weed growing forth between the rubble of the shattered walls of the Rammas Echor. That collective hope was greedy for the meagre light that managed to break through the dark clouds overcast.

The Race of Men was stubborn, indeed. Despite their severe losses, they kept their head down and continued their labours. They buried their dead and they mourned their losses. They healed the broken and reunited with loved ones. They rebuilt, replenished, comforted and wept. They looked out ahead towards the East and they strengthened their resolve to continue the fight against the Darkness.

And so the dwellers of Minas Tirith found courage with and for one another, as everyone did their part. Their resilience was unwavering, though their hearts were as heavy as the stones that had been used to build – and break, their home and refuge.

Even the smallest of effort held its weight. From digging a grave for a fallen soldier to offering a cup of water to a weeping widow.

For that reason, smoke billowed from the chimney of the Apothecary Wing of the Houses of Healing that day.

Another batch of poultice had just been readied for the patients at the Houses of Healing, and it had been securely stored in a ceramic pot.

Lothíriel washed her hands in the basin and moved to lean out of the window. Like all the Healers and their assistants, she was tired. The brittle respite from the war after the Battle of Pelennor Fields meant that the Houses of Healing were overwhelmed with patients requiring attention in various degrees.

She had only a little experience in Healing that could be of actual use, but she was well versed and trained in herb lore. The young lady was glad to help. Besides it being her duty as a Princess, it was a beneficial way to keep her anxious mind busy.

And busy she had been.

The few minutes to herself were much needed.
The air was stuffy inside the stillroom in the House of Remedies, however the air outside the window overlooking the herb garden was heavy with the pungent smell of smoke, dust, blood and sorrow. She closed her eyes and let the wan rays of the sun touch her face.

Just a bit more, and then she would prepare the tinctures the Healers had asked for.

True to her resolve, she opened her eyes and was about to walk away from the window, when movement caught her attention. A lone figure all but stumbled into the herb garden from the doorway of the wing where the more distinctive patients were looked after.

He moved to hold on to the parapet visible from the left-hand side of her view. He was only a few feet away from her window.

The silence was heavy, brimming with unspoken pain and pent up sorrow.

He swayed back and forth slightly for a few moments before bending forward over the parapet, hands still clinging onto stone.

A choked sob.

A gasp.

And then a gut-wrenching wail echoed from him through the otherwise empty garden, and he sank on the floor. Then, leaning his back to the short wall, the man let his head fall against it. His bearded face was contorted with anguish, and he sobbed quietly, one hand over his brow.

Here the man had find a private place to release his profound grief, and she was intruding upon it.

Lothíriel moved further out of his sight, feeling slightly guilty, but she continued to look at him with worry and fascination.

He clearly was a distinguished warrior and leader from the Riddermark. His long, partially tied-back blonde hair and the visually striking armour he was wearing was proof enough. Stains of blood and dirt did not reduce the splendid designs of motifs and carvings on the plates and leathers of his protective gear.

Lothíriel had no trouble imagining the same man, earnest in his sadness, to be equally forthright during battles.

With his imposing stature, wild hair and elaborate armour he would have made a terrible and beautiful sight out on the battlefield.

And as she gazed upon his crumpled form, she wondered what loss had broken this man down, quaking with quieted sobs and gasps.

What terror had this man seen while at war?

Her heart ached for him as she caught sight of the tear tracks through the dirt on his bearded face.

He stayed put for a while, and she too continued to watch him soundlessly, yet eagerly for every detail of his being. Slowly he seemed to come to himself and his tears too had subsided. Eventually, he rubbed his face roughly and leapt to his feet, his armour ringing clear in the quiet of the herb garden.

He gripped the parapet and heaved a great sigh. And then he did something that Lothíriel did not expect.

Softly, in a deep, clear voice he sang a slow and beautiful lament in a language she did not know. His voice cracked and faltered in some places, colouring the song with raw emotions.

Her breath caught in her throat and she stared at him, enthralled. Yes, it was a lament, but she could also feel pride and love, and her heart ached once more. His loss was profound.

Too soon the song ended and he chose to remain quiet to look down at the ongoings of the Fifth Circle that were visible from where he stood.

A sudden urge overcame Lothíriel to do something. Right now he was alone, but perhaps she could offer some comfort to him, like she had done for patients of the Houses of Healing. If she could not talk to him, then perhaps she could help him clean up a little. It was what she did best and it might set him at ease.

Having made her decision, she turned around to the basin and promptly bumped into something solid.

Startled, she looked up at the figure and saw her eldest brother looking down at her. Elphir, the heir of Dol Amroth. 

“Brother!”

His expression was unreadable, and he stepped around her to look through the window. With a frown, he turned back and asked: “Sister, have you been staring at Éomer King all this time?”

“I was not staring, dear Elphir.” She said as smoothly as possible while she struggled to keep both shock and embarrassment from her face.

That man was the King!

“I was trying to see if I could be of service to him in some way. And... is the King of the Riddermark not someone more of Ada’s age?”

She did not look at him for his answer and instead gathered a few items that she thought would be useful to the man... King in the herb garden. A washcloth, a drinking cup, a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread stuffed with nuts and fruit. The bread was from her own, untouched, morning meal.

“What you heard just now was part of the song of Théoden King. He died valiantly in the Battle of Pelennor Fields today. His nephew, Éomer son of Éomund, the man you see there, is now the King of Rohan.”

She halted her movements, and she looked down solemnly. “May the forefathers of Théoden King welcome him in their Halls. ”

Feeling his incessant stare, Lothíriel turned to look at her brother. His face was still unreadable. Like their father, he was stern and wise. She knew that there was something on his mind, so she quietly waited for him to speak.

“The reason why he is here... Unbeknownst to even him, Éomer King’s sister joined their cavalry,” he said, slowly, “Lady Éowyn, she slew the Witch-King of Angmar in an effort to save her uncle. Though she defeated him, she was wounded severely. Théoden King gave his last breath while being held by his nephew. When Éomer came upon her after that, he succumbed to reckless abandon, thinking his sister dead. She was supposed to be in Edoras, you see.”

She pressed her hands against her mouth and glanced at the window in an attempt to reconcile the story with the person.

“Fortunately, our father realized that she was alive, close to death, however. And she is now in recovery in the wing whence Éomer King probably came.”

“The Valar be praised, what a relief!”

“Yes, praised be.” He replied softly and fell quiet, still staring at her.

He then took two steps towards her and gently gripped her shoulders to look her deeply in the eyes.

Finally she could see that he was both troubled and exasperated. “Lothíriel. You should have left for Dol Amroth weeks ago –"

“Elphir!”

“Listen to me. As you are still here, you must stay hidden. I cannot guarantee your safety here.”

“You cannot guarantee my safety anywhere, Elphir. It is the end of times.”

“Nay, not yet. Dol Amroth needed you to rule in our stead.”

“Siloril is doing fine there. I could not bear the thought of being far away from you and Amrothos, Erchirion and Ada.”

“And we are worried because you are here.”

Lothíriel pressed her lips together, frustrated at her brother’s inability to understand her. “Here I am of use, Elphir. More than I could be back home.”

He shook his head, in his own turn weary of his sister’s obstinacy.

“It is as it is, Lothíriel.”

“Indeed.”

“Just stay in these quarters unless it becomes dire. Sir Feruion will guard over you and if necessary, take you elsewhere.”

She nodded. “I understand, I shall stay hidden.”

“And do not approach Éomer King.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You do not trust him?”

“I trust him with my life,” replied the man fervently, “we all do. He is beyond valiant and loyal.”

“Then what harm is there if I do approach him?”

“It is because you might be put into the sight of any spies of the Enemy.”

Lothiriel struggled to understand the underlying meaning and her face showed it.

Her brother sighed deeply. “Ada was supposed to have this talk with you, but I can act in his stead, I think.”

He sat down and had her sit next to her.
“In case Ada and I do not return to you... If… when you and Éomer King survive this war, then it is our father’s hope that you two are betrothed. For the sake of Rohan and Gondor.”

“I see.” Lothiriel felt her heart stutter in panic by the prospect of such a daunting union. Being a Queen to a foreign nation.

Yet it made sense.

As a Princess of Dol Amroth, she was raised for leadership. This was her purpose.

Or it used to be.

The future was shrouded in uncertainty, and she could not think too far ahead yet.

“I suppose Ada does not want us to act prematurely in such matters.”

He patted her hand, almost in a father-like fashion. “You are wise, dear sister.”

“Thank you, Elphir. I am grateful that you do not keep me in the dark.” She smiled softly at him and kissed both his cheeks. “I do love you.”

“And I love you.” A thin smile cracked at his lips. His sister saw a hint of sadness creep through. It was the looming Shadow ever present in the eyes and minds of the Men of the West.

She stood up, wishing to do something to dispel the anxious mood that had settled upon them like a thick blanket on an airless summer night. Quickly she placed the pitcher of water in one of his hands and the package with the rest of the items in the other.

“Elphir, could you please tend to him in my stead?”

He obliged and allowed himself to be ushered through the door. Lingering though, he gazed once more on his sister and he quietly spoke: “We are in desperate times, Lothíriel. We will go to battle once more soon. We... do not know who will return to you, if anyone does at all. Keep its burden light, do not soften your heart for him or anyone else new yet.”

They shared a look, and she murmured her agreement.

After closing the door, she peered out of the window to look at her brother and the horse-lord.

Elphir helped Éomer freshen himself up. Then her brother filled the cup with water and placed the pitcher next to the King on the stone bench. With a pat on the King's shoulder, he took his leave of him and went to meet his father.

Lothíriel watched Éomer unwrap and eat the bread. When he was done, he finished the water and placed the cup and the pitcher neatly back on the bench on top of the wrapper.

Then he stood and he cleared his throat. With a start, Lothíriel realized that Éomer was staring expectantly at her window.

Did he know that she had been watching him? Was he waiting for her to show herself?

She adjusted her clothes and quickly veiled the lower half of her face with the hem of her head covering. Then she moved into his line of sight.

At once, his hazel-green eyes met her grey ones, and she felt her stomach swoop.

In a deep, clear voice, he said in Westron, “Thank you for your care, milady.”

A slight tremor passed through her body. Lothíriel was not able to speak and only bowed her head to him.

He too inclined his head and then he went back, she assumed, to where his sister was resting.

She took a minute to stop staring where he once stood.

Chapter Text

Merely three days after the Siege of Minas Tirith had been broken, the Captains of the West set out towards the Black Gates of Mordor in a seemingly futile exercise. Her father, her brothers, and their fearsome Swan Knights went, perhaps never to return.

Lothíriel wept openly as she watched the Hosts of the West march over the sullied Pelennor Fields. She kept her eyes trained on the banner of Dol Amroth until she could see it no longer beyond the horizon.

She mindlessly tended to the patients, her melancholy partially hidden by her veil, not wishing to reveal that it felt like a fruitless endeavour to provide care. Why seek to nurture something that was almost certainly doomed to perish?

Time seemed to drag on, and with great difficulty a week had passed since the Hosts of the West had left the City. Then, as she was half-heartedly inspecting some herbs, a strong wind picked up and swept through the garden.

At once, her heart felt lighter and she ran to gaze towards the East, where the Princes of Dol Amroth and the Hosts of the West had gone. 

Sure enough, the Shadow of Mordor retreated!

Hope and joy bloomed in the hearts of Men in Minas Tirith. When she looked towards the sun that finally remembered to shine, she saw a couple kissing on one of the higher walls. She saw people embracing each other and others yet crying with relief.

But her worries were not over. Who of the Princes would return to her? Even if the war was over, even if Sauron was defeated, it would be still days until she would see her family again. 

Not long after noon, a Great Eagle came and gave a message to the people of Minas Tirith. 

“Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
For your watch hath not been in vain,
And the Black Gate is broken,
And your King hath passed through, And he is victorious.
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
For your King shall come again,
And he shall dwell among you
All the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
And he shall plant it in the high places,
And the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!”

Lothíriel had been staring out from the Watchpoint at the Pier of Minas Tirith, hoping to see the Dol Amrothian cavalry. Upon seeing the blue banner in the distance followed by a host of Swan Knights, a cry of surprise escaped her throat and she leaned forward, desperately trying to find some proof that they were indeed as alive as the reports had said. 

It was no use because the Knights all looked like each other from this height. She had no choice but to await their arrival in the Houses of Healing. After almost two hours, Imrahil, Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos found her in the High Hall of Healing. 

"Lothíriel!" 

She had just finished distributing salves and tonics to the Healers at work in the High Hall when she heard Amrothos call out her name. 

Seeing the four men stand in front of her, Lothíriel felt as if a heavy rock had been lifted from her chest, and she could finally breathe again. 

At once all of them moved to embrace her, and she laughed and wept and kissed their brows, her heart light and full.

She did not have long with them, but she was content. She had seen and felt that they were largely unscathed, and that was enough for her. Not that there was a chance to, because almost immediately, Prince Imrahil left to find King Elessar, and his sons too had their own duties to fulfill. 

"Stay safe, Lothíriel." Elphir told her and he adjusted her veil meaningfully. 

With a smile that warmed their tired and bedraggled souls, Lothíriel sent her brothers off to their responsibilities and she released a sigh. 

She could not leave the Houses of Healing yet, nor did she wish to. She had her own weight to pull. 

Still maintaining her veil, Lothiriel worked hard as a Herbalist to provide support to Healers and patients alike.

Ever since she had begged the Warden to let her stay and help, Lothíriel had vowed to herself to not be a burden to the Healers. Though she had spent most of her time in the stillroom in the Apothecary Wing, she was able to come and go in the Houses of Healing as she pleased.

Nobody gave her a second glance. Some of the other workers wore veils, too. Most prevalent were the veils that completely hid the face. These were mostly used to preserve the modesty of underdressed patients. Other staff members covered the lower half of their faces because they had little tolerance for bad smells.

As far as Lothíriel knew, she was the only one whose identity was an open secret, one that was strictly kept by the Warden. True to their nature, not a single Healer or assistant held any interest in her title. To them, she was a Dol Amrothian Herbalist who had come to support them, and that was all they cared about.

Her veil also helped her blend into the background. Lothíriel was privy to many talks, meetings, and discussions of its inhabitants, and she learned of many rumours, heroic actions, and tales of woe. And also of her cousin Faramir’s visits to Lady Éowyn. 

Even as she dutifully performed her tasks in the Houses, she carefully steered clear of Éomer King, who was with his sister save for the time he spent in meetings with Prince Imrahil and King Aragorn.

What was notable about his behaviour, was that he tended to linger in the herb garden with and without Éowyn. Once or twice, in fact, she had noticed that he was looking up at her window, and she had hidden from him in the recesses of her window, taken aback.

Though Elphir's warning words had been clear to her, now that her heart was freshly unburdened, she enjoyed thinking about the Rohirrim King. And how could she not? If her father's hope was answered, then this man could very well become her husband. It would take time for to get used to the idea.

To be honest with herself, she was already warming up to that idea. Deeming it a safe form of self-indulgence, she looked at him whenever she could from afar. Despite him being the furthest thing from Gondorian men, his appearance was formidable and his movements belied strength and grace. His dedication for his sister was endearing, as was the private display of emotions. He loved dearly and deeply. 

It did not take long for her to become enraptured by him.

One day, while she was at work in her quarters without her usual head covering, a knock was at her door, and she heard her name being called by Faramir. Mindlessly, she opened the door wide to see him but also the White Lady next to him. 

Lothiriel stared at them in bewilderment. She had not expected him to take Éowyn along to see her.

Her cousin had the decency to look embarrassed. 

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, quickly and Lothíriel noticed he was flushed in his face and speaking with more energy than usual. “I have some news to share with you and I did not think of your state of dress.”

“Please come in.”

As they walked in, her eyes caught sight of their enjoined hands and she immediately remembered them as the couple she saw on the day that the Shadow retreated.

“Éowyn, allow me to introduce Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil. Lothíriel, this is the Lady Éowyn, niece to Théoden King, sister to Éomer King -”

“And your betrothed?” She interjected, smiling softly.

Upon seeing the couple exchange happy glances with rosy cheeks upon her words, Lothíriel felt a flutter of happiness. She loved her cousin dearly and she was glad for him.

“I am overjoyed to meet you, Lady Éowyn.” She bowed deeply for them. “May the Valar bless your union and keep you both as radiant as the shimmer of the sea at high noon.”

“It is an honour, Princess Lothiriel,” replied the Lady of Rohan in kind, “Faramir sings your praises often. Having you and the Dol Amroth Princes as kin is a great blessing to myself and the Riddermark.”

They sat at down together near the window and immediately Éowyn’s gaze fell on the silver head cover that Lothiriel had carelessly tossed on one of the workbenches. 

Faramir noticed her look. “Ah, yes. The Veiled Lady. It has been Lothíriel who has been surreptitiously helping the Healers.”

“The Veiled Lady?” asked Lothíriel, amazed. 

“Yes, cousin. Though you may dress the same as the others, your height, and your regal manners have set you apart enough for you to receive a nickname.”

“Oh, I see.” She looked down at her hands in worry. It seemed that she was not as hidden away from sight as she thought. 

Éowyn looked at the cousins in wonder. “Your father has been the keeper of Minas Tirith, Princess, why would you conceal yourself?"

Lothíriel blushed slightly, taken aback, and she stood up to serve them a sweet herbal tea of her own making. “My brother advised it for the sake of my own safety and that of Dol Amroth. I could become a target of mischief, according to Elphir.”

“You are an obedient sister to your brothers,” said Éowyn as she accepted a cup, “my own brother would definitely appreciate that trait.”

A small thrill went through Lothíriel when she heard those words. “You think too highly of me, dear Lady, I am not nearly as obedient as my brothers wish me to be.”

Her cousin smiled indulgently. “Lothíriel maintains a keen balance between insubordination and filial piety.”

His betrothed raised her eyebrows in interest and met the younger lady's gaze. 

No doubt, the siblings from Rohan had the very same eyes.

Lothíriel blushed harder and turned away, busying herself with finding something to serve alongside the tea. She found a small assortment of dried fruits, taken from the storehouse in Dol Amroth before she left, and offered it to them.

“Before the siege began,” said Faramir, “Prince Imrahil had instructed the women and children to leave for Dol Amroth. Instead of obeying, my cousin concealed herself and quietly joined the Healers, because she wanted to help.”

“It would have been unbearable to leave and only await news of the war.”

For some reason, Lothíriel felt the need to defend herself. The women looked at each other in mutual understanding. 

“I know that feeling far too well.” Éowyn's voice was quiet and sombre. 

Faramir reached out and held her hand, and then he steered the conversation back to Lothíriel. “When she was young, my cousin sister was normally the epitome of sheer obedience. Once her brothers' guards were down, she would sneak off to forests and plains to forage for herbs or wreak havoc in the kitchen to practice making potions -”

“Or steal Amrothos’ boat and visit islands nearby -” supplied Lothíriel, a small smile dancing on her lips. 

“Or hide away in the library instead of studying -"

“Or convince me to teach her sword fighting, only to accidentally cut her own hair -”

“Mother was so upset." She shook her head with a wistful smile.

“She never let you near blades again!” Faramir said with a chuckle.

Éowyn quietly continued to listen to the retelling of their youth, evidently enjoying the easy manners of the cousins. 

In the days after, Lothiriel spent a little time with Éowyn every afternoon, and sometimes they were also accompanied by Faramir, when he was able to get away from his duties of Stewardship.

One day when they were alone together, Éowyn was watching Lothiriel prepare yet another concoction for the patients of the Houses. 

“Lothiriel, my dear cousin...”

“Yes, my lady,” replied she absently, continuing to whisk the liquid in the bowl.

“Until when will you be wearing the veil? Minas Tirith is the safest now than it has ever been.” 

The Princess stopped her work and looked at Éowyn, wide-eyed.

She had gotten so used to blending into the background for more than a month, that she had not even thought of simply not wearing the veil. 

She was safe. All her loved ones were safe. The world was on the mend, slowly, nevertheless, the darkness was gone.

Éowyn was right. Lothíriel was a fool. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Come now, Amrothos, do not be so obstinate.”

“How could you even think to do this to her? Are you not her father?”

Prince Imrahil sighed and rubbed his temple, sitting at his desk in his private chambers in Minas Tirith. Tomorrow would be King Elessar's coronation. After attending that momentous occasion, he intended to send Lothiriel home, so he would have one less person to worry about. However, before he could do that, he needed to put in motion something he had in mind for a while.

Earlier that afternoon, his daughter had come to him with her brother Elphir in tow, insisting on sitting down to talk.

“Elphir had told me to keep myself hidden,” she had said, “Is it safe now, Ada?”

“My precious daughter,” he had then replied while kissing her forehead and motioning her to sit down,

“if you had left for Dol Amroth like I had instructed you to, you would have not had to skulk about in the shadows.”

The Princess had then raised her chin in defiance. “If I had gone there, I would not have been useful to Gondor. I will have you know,” and she had paused dramatically, “I was one of the two Herbalists who provided the King with athelas.”

Elphir had barely suppressed an affectionate grin when she had held her chin aloft, and he had sat more comfortably in his chair, in anticipation of the incoming storm.

“All of the West is grateful, dear daughter,” their father had replied, “I do not discount your efforts. However, you are irreplaceable to your family, and I insist you bear that in mind.”

At that moment, as Lothiriel had bowed her head in understanding, Erchirion and Amrothos had entered their father's office.

“You had sent for us, Elphir?”

“Yes... Sir, if you please.”

Prince Imrahil had nodded decidedly. “I have gathered you here now, my children, as a new era dawns and we can look at the future with hope and wisdom... As leaders, we are responsible for our people's future and thus we need to strengthen our ties with our allies. One such ally is Rohan - “

“Sir...” Erchirion had spoken in a slightly alarmed tone, “Do you intend to use Lothíriel for that means?”

Imrahil's intentions had been news to the two younger princes, their dusky faces stricken with shock.

“Éomer King is an honourable and dear friend and ally to me -”

And then the storm that was Amrothos finally broke loose in the office of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. 

Amrothos was seething. He had leapt up from his seat, staring one by one at his family's faces. He realized that both Elphir and Lothíriel were not surprised by their father's intentions.

“Why her? Faramir is getting married to the Wraithslayer, is that not sufficient?”

His father decided to meet Amrothos’ anger head-on. 

“Now more than ever the allies need to support each other in rebuilding their kingdoms, replenishing stocks, and fortifying the borders. Such ties enforce the duties and responsibilities to one another, bound by individuals who are aware of their purpose and embody the high morale.”

“You intend to send Lothíriel far away so she can make sure Rohan fulfils promises to Gondor?”

“They do need us as well, Amrothos, this would benefit all parties.”

“How would Lothiriel benefit from this, sir?”

“She is a princess of Dol Amroth, raised with the expectations to marry for the benefit of Gondor. It is her purpose! She will not marry some small-time noble when she can be the Queen of Rohan.”

Amrothos laughed humourlessly. “How can she be a Queen of a people who have a different language? Not just language, but their traditions, and lifestyle as well. She is but a child, barely twenty summers she has seen.”

“She can learn,” interjected Erchirion, “she could take some time to get familiar with their way of living and ruling. In fact, because of her age, it will be easier for her to be shaped to Rohirrim standards.”

Amrothos spun towards him, disbelief and anger flashing from his eyes. “You want to send her away as well? Do you not love her?”

“Of course, I do love Lothíriel, Amrothos, but she is no longer our baby sister. If her fate lies in Rohan, we should send her with blessings and unwavering support so she can thrive in the knowledge that Dol Amroth has her back.”

Amrothos sputtered. “How you speak so devoid of emotions or care! Éomer King does not even know of her existence – “

“He knows that Prince Imrahil has a daughter,” Elphir calmly said, “in fact, Lothíriel shall be taking care of Faramir’s wedding here next spring, as per Éomer King’s request.”

“I am?” she asked, amazed, finally speaking up. 

Her father confirmed it with a nod. “The topic came to order this morning as a sidebar to the discussion Elessar’s own wedding arrangements. We decided you would be able to strike a good balance between the wishes of the couple and the resources available.”

Amrothos once again protested. “It is too much of a responsibility for her, you decided without even asking her.”

While Lothíriel was grateful for his protection, she could not help but feel... Belittled by him. “It can easily be done, Amrothos, do not think less of me.”

“No, no,” said Amrothos, and he approached her with a reassuring expression, “l am trying to ease your burden - “

She moved away from him in frustration. “Do not ease my burden, because I am perfectly able! I was the one who arranged Elphir's wedding, remember?”

“Fine, then take care of the wedding arrangements, but do not tell me that you wish to become Queen of Rohan.”

“I wish to be of use. And if I can be of use... in Rohan, then I am content with that.”

She watched her brother grip his hair in frustration. “You - you do not need to be so far away just to be of use. You do not need to sacrifice yourself to strangers to feel worthy of our love!”

Lothíriel leaned back in her seat, a frown upon her face. He was not wrong.

It was daunting to think that she would leave her life in Gondor to live - and eventually rule, a kingdom of strangers. Alongside a king who was a stranger to her as well.

Furthermore, she did not deem herself worthy enough to be called a Queen. Up until now, she had enjoyed a calm, luxurious life and even here in Minas Tirith, she was at ease putting her skills to use and providing care and comfort to those who required it, on her own terms. Being a Queen meant sacrificing her time and life for the sake of a whole population.

“I think we are all getting ahead of ourselves,” said Elphir at length. “Ada has not yet spoken to Éomer King of a possible betrothal to our sister. And if and when he does, we do not know if he will be willing. He might have a lady waiting for him in Edoras or Aldburg.”

Amrothos released his hair, his grey eyes full of hope. “Yes, of course! Éomer King shall return to a kingdom falling apart. He shall have not the luxury to think of getting wed himself, as long as more pressing matters persist.”

“Do not take joy in the dire state of Rohan,” warned Prince Imrahil, “merely for the sake of keeping your sister near.”

Amrothos blanched. “Not at all, sir. May the Valar bring a speedy recovery to Rohan's affairs, sir, all I wish for us to be realistic about –“

Then his father held up a hand to silence him, his patience finally gone. “Enough. You all have had your say. Lothíriel, tomorrow I shall formally introduce you to the court, including Éomer King. Afterwards, I shall speak to him to consider your hand in marriage, yet I shall not press him for a swift decision. You are right to bear in mind his worries, Elphir, and we shall be considerate to him in that.”

He dismissed his children and took his leave to attend a meeting. Before he left, he turned to his daughter and said, “you can forgo the veil now. I shall announce your presence officially, so be a Princess and not a Herbalist from henceforth.”

After her family meeting, she immediately had gone to the Warden to give him her thanks, her recipes, and the numerous vials of Dol Amrothian herbal medicine she had been making in her spare time. He had received it all with gratitude and commended her for selfless contributions to the Houses of Healing.

Then she had gone back to what had been her home for the past few weeks. As instructed, she had cleared out her belongings from the apothecary room that had been assigned to her and was moving into his personal quarters in the Southern Guesthouses. Lothíriel had carefully arranged her instruments, books, and supplies into two big crates and sent them off with Feruion, the Swan Knight that had stood guard over her since she was a child. 

The only thing left to do was to visit her patients and the Healers and their assistants to say goodbye. She once again donned her head cover and covered the lower half of her face, as she was aware that none would recognize her without it.

After exchanging well-wishes with the patients, she approached the Healers and greeted them.

“There you are, milady,” said one of the Healers, “the Warden had mentioned you would come to say goodbye. Will you now show your face to us?”

“Certainly.” She replied and she took off her veil.

“Princess Lothíriel.” One of the Healers from her own city spoke up with a smile. “I had thought it was you, milady.”

The other Healers chimed in, expressing their mild interest in her identity. 

Finally, after exchanging words of gratitude and goodbye, she hid her face once more and left the Houses. 

As she went down the stairs towards the herb garden, she reflected on her time spent in service of the Warden. She had had a rough start, which had been full of embarrassing mistakes and moments in which she had felt out of her element.

Yet the Warden had not given up on her. It could have been due to the shortage of staff, but Warden Bair Nestad and Ioreth, one of the Healers, had managed to coach Lothíriel enough to have the skills and confidence for her role as Herbalist. In turn, she was able to impart her Dol Amrothian knowledge of herb lore to her fellow Herbalists and Healer’s assistants.

In a matter of days, Lothíriel had earned her place in the Houses of Healing, and she could now look back on her service with pride. The sense of fulfilment she got when someone appreciated her had been her main driving force in life and also here, in Minas Tirith. 

Taking her leave of the Houses of Healing had taken longer than she had planned. Dusk had already settled, and the path of the herb garden was only dimly lit by a single torch near the stairs adjacent to the Apothecary quarters she used to reside in.

Resolved to waste no more time, Lothiriel hurried along the path between the patches and shrubs, only to trip and lose her balance.

She landed quite ungracefully on her backside, and she felt a sting on her left hand.

She winced and loudly swore with one of Amrothos’ favourite colourful phrases. 

Then she heard a strange and unexpected sound, like a laugh being stifled. She looked back over her shoulder and saw a hand extended towards her.

It was none other than the King of Rohan.

“Permit me to help you up, milady.” He said after clearing his throat. “I hope that you are not hurt.”

As she allowed herself to be pulled up by him, she thanked the Valar for small mercies. Never had Lothiriel felt so mortified, yet never was she more grateful for her veil. This situation would have been even worse if he had known who she was. 

She dusted off her clothes and looked up at Éomer. He was standing quite close to her. Her breath caught in her throat. This was the closest she had ever been to him. 

She cleared her throat and inclined her head. “I thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty, though I feel quite embarrassed that you had to witness that.”

His mouth curved in a small smile. “I was considering letting myself go unnoticed, but I could not hold myself back after your...” He paused to search for the right words in Westron, “Ah, words of frustration.”

Seeing him up close with a pleasant expression on his face was downright unnerving. She grew up around men, but those men were family. And those who were not always kept a respectful distance from her.

No, this horse-lord, he was a different being altogether, calmly making conversation with her alone after dusk. 

The light from the torch highlighted the soft waves of his hair and his handsome bearded face. Lothíriel bit her lip, willing herself to focus on the fact that the King of Rohan had heard her use unladylike language. It was a gross misstep in the court of Gondor. 

“Your Majesty, please forgive me-”

Éomer barked a short laugh, louder than she expected, and she jumped slightly.

“Do not apologize, milady. I would do quite the same if it happened to me. Pray tell me, are you from Dol Amroth?”

He was... surprisingly talkative.

She nodded.

“Yes, I figured. One of my companions who has fought alongside me during battle, has made me familiar with those words.”

Lothíriel did not know how to respond, so she merely adjusted her veil with her left hand, only to feel the sting once more. Pursing her lips to keep herself quiet, she cradled her injured hand with the other and looked at it closely.

“Milady, you are hurt.”

The concern in his eyes did nothing to quell her nerves. Her stomach swooped and she had to remind herself to stay calm. 

“Not to worry,” she quickly said, “I know just the thing.”

Lothíriel walked about and searched the plants until she found the one that she was looking for. She snapped off the top of one of its stems and let rubbed the sap leaking from it on the scratch on her wrist. “There, now it will heal quick enough.”

“You are a master of herb lore.” Éomer had been watching her closely. “Milady, are you the same veiled lady staying in these quarters, making and handing out herbal medicine?”

He had noticed her. She truly was bad at hiding in plain sight, she thought, perturbed. At least her identity was hidden from him. 

“I am no master, but yes, I am whom you speak of. However, I am leaving for home soon, so I have moved out of there.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” The man said, softly. “My Uncle Théoden was used to be interested in herb lore in his younger days. He would have loved to share his knowledge with you.”

Lothiriel noted the downcast tone of his voice. “His passing is a great loss to the West, Your Majesty. It would have been an honour to learn from him.”

He was looking at the ground, seemingly lost in thought. Yet he spoke up once more. “Then you were the one who sent me water and something to eat, a while back.”

It was not a question.

“The bread was something I had not had before.”

Was there no end to this man's talk?

Éowyn had told her that her brother was a grumpy brute who went out of his way not to talk with women.

“Yes, it is something I make for myself with my favourite spices and fruits. It tends to keep well for travel, too.”

When she glanced at his face, she realized that he was staring at her with a strange expression. Her heart skipped a beat, unsure of what was happening, and her mind raced to find an excuse to leave. 

 “Thank you,” he suddenly said, still looking at her intently, “for watching over me during my moment of weakness.”

She inclined her head, at a loss of what to say.

An oddly comfortable silence stretched out between them, with only the rustle of the leaves filling the quiet of the herb garden. 

“Forgive me, I have been keeping you here.” 

Once more she looked up at him, but he was looking aside with a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“For some reason, you have a very calming presence and I wound up saying more than I expected of myself.”

What a curious thing for him to say! 

“No, no,” stammered Lothiriel, “it is my honour to be able to be of use to you. I do need to go, however - “

“Yes, of course –“ He quickly stood up straight, his hands folded behind his back. 

“Our talk was lovely.”

“Indeed, I... I feel refreshed.” The ghost of a smile flitted past his lips and he took a step backwards, as if only now realizing their proximity. 

“Then I wish you... Ah, good health, milord.” Lothíriel curtsied and started moving towards the stairs that led to the courtyard of the Citadel.

Éomer followed her until the steps and he bowed in kind. 

She inclined her head once more. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

“Good night, milady.” She heard his deep voice say as she turned and made her way back to her room. She did not dare look back. 

Lothíriel lay awake for a long time after returning to her bedroom in the Dol Amrothian quarters, thinking. 

Observing Éomer from a distance was one thing, but standing next to him and having his complete attention on her?

She could scarcely think of anything else that was more thrilling.

It took a long time for her heart to stop racing that night. 

Chapter Text

For the past ten minutes, Lothíriel had been staring at the dress she was supposed to wear to the coronation that day.  

Her father had instructed her to wear this particular dress, one that was made by expert Elven hands. The cut and the neckline would highlight the feminine side of her tall, slim build, and it had a stunning glossy fabric that would change from a silver shade to a green one through movement. Therein lay the problem. It was a rich dark green, one too similar to the Rohanese flag.

 
If it were not for the silver, a more contemptuous observer would claim that the dress was indeed made of silky Rohanese flags altogether. 

With a groan, she fell back on the bed and flopped about in frustration. Her father was a politically savvy man, but he sometimes lacked the delicacy of matters on a smaller scale. If she was presented to court wearing this gown, then all of Gondor would know of Imrahil’s intentions towards Éomer. 

Suddenly she sat up and looked at the dress with narrowed eyes. 

Rather than just advertising that he intended Lothíriel to be wed to Éomer, perhaps it also meant something else. 

She stood up and grazed the smooth fabric with the tips of her fingers. 

What if it was meant to be a warning instead to other contenders, hoping to approach the King of Rohan with their daughters or sisters? After all, Lothíriel was the most powerful and influential maiden of Gondor, superior to all other unmarried women of the court. A match between her and Éomer was not only advantageous, it was highly expected. No other woman could stand up to her, so they should not even try. 

Her Father, she decided, was a clever politician, even in this matter. By making her wear this dress, Prince Imrahil would improve her chances with the Northern King in twofold. Rivals would be scared off and Éomer would notice her, thereby increasing the chances of a successful match. 

It was not a given, however. 

Imrahil did not know of his young friend’s intentions towards marriage. Éomer had been King for a handful of weeks, the heir to the throne for mere months, and during that time he had been in exile, in jail, or at war. Had he even had the chance to consider marriage? 

Lothíriel moved to the dressing table, where her jewellery for this day had already been prepared. She picked up a silver and gold ring and studied it for a moment. 

From what she had heard, Éomer had been ready to die on the battlefield, having seemingly lost the very last person he loved. His sister Éowyn.

Both being very much alive though, their royal bloodline would continue through them, as long as they married and were fruitful. Éowyn would marry Faramir and their sons would have a claim on the throne of Rohan, ensuring an heir even if Éomer would not take a Queen. 

She slipped the ring on and beheld it. The elegant intertwining of the two noble metals reminded Lothíriel of the potential match between herself and the King of Rohan. 

Suddenly nerves took hold of her and she hastily pulled it off. 

She was getting ahead of herself. 

Mentally she reprimanded herself for thinking about Éomer. She had been doing it too much, ever since their meeting last night. 

Until late she had lain awake thinking of the man who had laughed and talked with her last night. In that short span of time, she had not felt like a Princess. And he had not felt like a King to her, either. 

Last night, he had been a young man, with bright hair and curious hazel-green eyes. His smiles had been partially hidden by his beard, and the hand that had pulled her up from when she had fallen, had been broad and warm. From their short conversation, she thought that he was an intelligent, well-mannered man full of kindness and grace. While she had been unladylike in his presence, he had been gracious, both in looking after her and thanking her for her help. 

In fact, he had noticed her presence in the Houses of Healing as well. After all, he had been a routine visitor even after Éowyn had left. 

She gasped, recalling what her cousin Faramir had told her, as well as what the Healers from Dol Amroth had said when she took her leave of them.

She was called the Veiled Lady. Her height and her manners had betrayed her. She was conspicuous because of who she was, even as she tried to be someone else. 

And Éomer had also made note of her Dol Amrothian speech and the travel bread she had given him. Not to mention, Éowyn could have spoken to him about her, because she already knew that the Princess and the Veiled Lady were one and the same. 

Was it possible that he was aware that she was Princess Lothíriel? Did he connect the dots? Did she make a complete fool out of herself in front of him? 

She sank down on a chair and gripped her forehead in consternation. 

What if she had offended him with her behaviour? It was likely that any chance she had with him had been ruined because of her. 
Anxiety and disappointment bubbled up in the pit of her stomach and she doubled over in her seat. 

She had feelings for Éomer King, and it was more than a passing fancy. Apparently, his vulnerability and his unlikely talkativeness had endeared him to her. And she had even dreamed of him. Blonde hair, a maroon red cuirass, the smell of horses, and snippets of his Uncle’s lament sung in his deep voice. 

King or no King, that man was unlike any other she had ever met. He was wonderful. 

Oh, and she was a fool! 

A child. 

Here she was, obsessing over a King of strange lands, a man who was eight years older than her and probably wrapped up in much more important business than her silly existence. His Uncle's funeral. His sister's wedding. The stricken lands and impoverished people of the Riddermark. 

And her Father wanted her to marry that King! How disappointed he would be when he found out that she herself had ruined the chances of their union before the notion had even been made. 

Lothíriel buried her fingers in her hair, and she whimpered, pitying herself. 

For a little while, she thought and thought about the King, the Princess, and the Veiled Lady. She lay in bed, threw her pillows about, and muttered curses in her breath. 

Then, when most of her nervous energy had been spent, she dug out a little white seashell that reminded her of her mother. With a single finger, she traced the spiral, again and again. 

Slowly but surely, the last of her nerves were soothed, and instead, a calm came over her. 
In the end, she had done nothing wrong. She was a Princess and she was a Dol Amrothian Herbalist. And there was nothing she had to be worried about, she decided. 

If Éomer found out her dual identities, then he found out. And if he was offended by any of it, then she would apologize to him.
She nodded to herself, glad to have worked out her mental tangles in the privacy of her room. 

She called in her maids and got ready for the coronation of King Elessar. She was Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter to Prince Imrahil. She would wear that ridiculous dress with her head held high and she would have a grand time at the coronation. 

Indeed, she was having a grand time. 

On Amrothos' arm, she witnessed the coronation at Pelennor Fields with great interest. To be present at the culmination of the Victory of the Captains of the West, there was no greater honour. This day would be sung about for ages to come. 

As Lothíriel was led to stand next to her brothers and Father, she eagerly took in whatever she could see. So many different folk, dressed in their finest raiment, their faces as radiant as their appearances. Everyone was united in their joy and she was grateful to be part of it. 

If she had gone to Dol Amroth when Imrahil had ordered, she might not have been able to join this event on time, she thought, with no little satisfaction. 

Her eyes scanned the people present and naturally, her eyes fell on Éowyn. The White Lady was smiling broadly at Faramir, who stood on the dais near the King Elessar. How heartened  Lothíriel was for her cousin, that he found someone that loved him openly without pretense or duplicity. Truly, the lady from Rohan was a splendent and remarkable woman. 

After the ceremony was completed, the procession led through the gate and passed through many flower-laden streets, accompanied by singing, cheering, and more flowers. Finally, they reached Merethrond, the main hall of the Citadel where a feast was arranged not far from the dais.

Eager to share his knowledge, Amrothos pointed out all significant parties and regaled his beloved sister with tales and jokes. Lothíriel paid rapt attention to his words, happy to learn more of what had happened beyond the walls of the Houses of Healing, while she had hidden away making salves and potions. 

 He went round to introduce her to everyone he knew, deftly steering clear of the dais, where the Steward and the Kings sat. The person she found most interesting, was the Halfling called Meriadoc Brandybuck, who, in turn, seemed very eager to talk to her as well. They made a promise to meet up in the following days to discuss herb lore.

When she finally sat down for a drink, her father beckoned to her from the dais. It was time. 

Hoping to control her nerves, she straightened the fabrics of her dress and approached the men of great importance as elegantly as she could. She curtsied deeply and greeted the Kings and her cousin.

“My daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, who is the youngest of my children.”

“Well met, Princess Lothíriel,” said King Elessar, his eyes warm and kind, “you have been a great boon to the Houses of Healing.” And he blessed her in the Elven tongue.

“The Warden was most obliging, to put up with me, Your Majesty.” She replied, happily meeting his eyes. 

She then smiled at Faramir and finally turned to Éomer, who was dressed in his finest green robes, his leather cuirass contrasting handsomely against them. 

“Hail, Éomer, King of Rohan.”

He, in turn, bowed his head and murmured a greeting with a slight frown above his studious eyes. 

Then, before she could try to understand his expression, she was whisked away by Amrothos, who evidently was diligent in his efforts to keep her away from the Rohirrim King. 

“Come, sister, let us dance!”

And it was just as well because shortly after her greeting, she saw her father leading Éomer King out of Merethrond and presumably towards one of the meeting rooms in the Tower of Ecthelion for a private conversation. 

“Ada lost no time there!” said Amrothos wryly. 

Both stared at the doors for a few minutes and then shared a look.

“No, Lothíriel, do not go spying on their conversation!” He said, catching the look on her face. 

“Do put this platter away for me,” she pushed her plate of dainty hors d’oeuvres into his hands, “I will be just a minute.”

She picked up her skirts and briskly walked out of the Hall, across the courtyard, and through the door of the Tower towards the stairs. As her foot hit the first step, a large form came barrelling down the steps. 

She quickly moved back just as Éomer King managed to come to a halt mere inches in front of her. 

A deep frown marred his face, while his mouth was set grimly. Only for a split second, shock flashed in his eyes when he registered that Lothíriel was standing in front of him. 

He shifted in place and looked aside as if he was considering saying something, but he remained quiet. Instead, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed. 

Before she could respond, he moved past her, exiting the Tower with great speed. 

Amrothos approached Lothíriel a second later coming from the way Éomer had left, the same shock on his face as she had. 

“I take it that their meeting did not go well.”

His sister nodded slowly. Wordlessly they went up the stairs and peered into the room that had an open door, where they found their father. He was sitting behind a desk, holding his head in his hands. 

Upon seeing his children, he rubbed his face and picked up a quill, only to drop it back on the desktop. 

“It seems,” he said after a long stretch of silence, “that my dear friend Éomer will not – rather, cannot think of marriage while he deems his kingdom is on the brink of falling apart.”

He sighed deeply and he looked at his daughter with guilt. “I have asked too much of you and of Éomer so soon, and now I fear I have spoiled any such possibilities that would benefit both my king and my kin.”

It took her a while to consider the weight of his words, so she said nothing. Amrothos on the other hand, did have much to say but he stayed quiet out of respect. His relief was palpable nonetheless. 

“Furthermore, Éomer King has requested I do not make you wait for a betrothal to him, as that might not come at all.”

Imrahil was downcast, full of guilt and pain. Lothíriel knew that he loved Éomer sincerely. It was a unique bond between two people who were not just comrades in arms, but friends and allies. There was something more. In Imrahil, Éomer had found a worthy successor of his own Uncle Theoden. In Éomer, Imrahil had found a fitting inheritor of the guidance he used to bestow upon late Boromir, his sister-son. It was no wonder then that Éomer’s face had been dour, in the same manner, that Imrahil now stared unseeingly at the desk. 

Lothíriel sighed. At the heart of it, this potential match was not for her sake, not even for the sake of Gondor or Rohan. It had been about her father and his friend. Perhaps he had been too hasty to broker a marriage, but it was all done with the right intentions. And now it seemed that both of them were worried about having lost the other. 

“Ada.” She walked up behind the desk and gave him an encouraging smile. “Do not grieve for something that was not meant to be. He will be all right. You shall stay friends and allies even without marriage as a safeguard.”

Then she wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders and kissed his temple. Imrahil leaned into her and allowed her to console him. 

“Thank you, Lothíriel. I hope you are not upset by all of this – “

“I assure you, I am quite well.” A slight tremor could be detected in her voice, and she immediately started rubbing his shoulders comfortingly to distract both him and herself. 

She felt her brother looking at her intently as if he was trying to figure out how she was truly feeling. She took a deep breath and smiled at him, hoping to keep the dull ache of rejection from her face. 

She followed the two Halflings patiently, three days later, as they searched for the right place for yet another session of elevenses and herb lore. 

Each of them was carrying a basket filled with their favourite brunch items, sourced from different places. This time Merry had added a pouch of pipe weed for them to enjoy. 

“This seems to be as good as any place. The food will taste splendid here, I am sure of it.” Pippin said, looking around the herb garden. 

Lothíriel laughed at his satisfied face. “Yes, it is actually quite convenient. I had been taken care of this garden the past few weeks.”

“Bless me, is this the garden you spoke of?”

They settled at the stone benches near Lothíriel’s old quarters and started their meal. They enjoyed the fruits, breads, and cured meats, different kinds of jams and cheeses, alongside a fine selection of tea and juices. 

While they ate, they strolled between the patches of soil and the Princess introduced them to the herbs that were indigenous to the regions of Gondor and Arnor. For the greater half of them, Merry claimed to have knowledge of their usage and cultivation. 

“These I have not seen before.”

“They are native to the Bay of Belfalas, dear Perian. I have planted these myself.” She took a bite from her bread and knelt down next to a little shrub. “This is seaberry. In autumn it will have bright orange berries, which can be juiced or made into tea. It is great to have that during cold weather.”

The Hobbit took note with interest and asked follow-up questions, not just about the seaberry, but also about the cocklebur, the Amrothian sage, the sea wormwood, and the Rosa Rugosa.

“I had managed to mix up some sand in these patches,” said she, enthused by their genuine willingness to listen, “I hope that these will thrive here. The Royal Gardener assured me he would look after them as per my instructions.”

“These look right lovely, milady,” said Pippin between a pull on his pipe and a piece of cheese, “Has Sam seen these? He is also a gardener by profession.”

“I would love to hear his thoughts,” she replied while she snapped off a twig of sage. “Perhaps he can join us for our next meeting of food and herb lore.”

Then she rinsed it, crushed it and made tea from it, adding a spoonful of honey towards the end. She took a sip and smiled. With a refreshing flavour akin to pine and mint, sage tea could easily lift her spirits. She had been having it daily since she came to Minas Tirith. 

Their talks went well into luncheon and afternoon tea was not far off when they heard a soft clanging sound coming up the stairs. 

They turned to look and saw Éomer emerge from the stairway, wearing his full armour but gripping his helmet in his hand, the white horsetail atop it neatly coiled up. 

Pippin did not bother with any formalities.

“Éomer King, come join us. I have discovered an unlikely but mighty combination of jam, cheese, and bread that will make you feel like you are in a field of wildflowers in early summer!”

Lothíriel, on the other hand, immediately stood up from her seat and curtsied to the Rohirrim ruler,  tension rolling through her body. 

He bowed his head as well and then turned to acknowledge the Halfling.

“Thank you, Master Took, however, I have to leave shortly with my men for patrol and reconnaissance.”

The man looked back at the Princess, who stood gazing at a nearby shrub, unsure of what his presence meant. 

His armour was polished, his beard was neatly groomed, and he looked undeniably regal and imposing. She desperately wanted to look more closely at him, but she just as desperately wanted to flee from there. 

His rejection had stung her more than she had expected. 

While Lothíriel had forgone her veil, she still had chosen to keep her distance from him. It was true that he had not intended to malice her, nor did she blame him for his truthfulness... But her inexperienced heart had been hurting after his quick dismissal of their possible union. After all, he had been the first man she had genuinely taken an interest in for something beyond an infatuation. 

It was not as if she had not been warned, though. Elphir did tell her not to have any hopes and Amrothos had actually made a complete spectacle of just how impossible their match would be. Yet her chest ached at the thought and sight of the young warrior King. 

She could not stand to be around him. 

Éowyn and Faramir had been asking her to join them for some of their meals, their walks, or their discussions. She would have happily obliged every time, were it not that Éomer had often been present as well. Not wishing to be seen as uncaring, she had joined a few meals and one discussion with the presence of Éomer King since the fated day of the coronation. And even at those times, she made sure to sit far away from him or as much as possible out of his sight. The other times that he was near, she could depend on the Warden, the Halflings, or especially her brothers to seek her out and whisk her away from him. 

But her brothers were not here now, as he stood next to her, looking at her with once more an unreadable expression. And the Halflings looked on at them, curious and silent, with no reason to interfere. 

After what seemed minutes, he cleared his throat, forcing Lothíriel to look at him.

“How is your hand, milady?” he said hesitantly, and he glanced at her left hand.

She studied his face for a moment, looking for signs of disdain or annoyance. There was only his usual frown. Evidently, he had figured out that she and the Veiled Lady were one and the same, but he had no issues with it. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty, it has healed well.”

He cleared his throat again and nodded, before shifting the helmet from one hand to the other. “If we – I mean, would you walk with me, Princess?”

It seemed that her confusion and anxiety were clearly visible in her face, as he hastened to add:

“Just a turn about the herb garden, please.”

She acquiesced and took a few steps before looking back at Merry and Pippin. Both of them smiled and Merry waved at her.

Éomer and Lothíriel walked about until he stopped at the furthest point from the Hobbits, which was not far from the Apothecary Wing she used to stay in. 

He glanced at the window of her stillroom and then turned to her. Lothíriel knit her fingers together and met his gaze expectantly. 

To her surprise, he looked away and scratched at his beard. 

“Your Majesty?” She asked, unsure of what to make of the current situation, and she chose to look at a flowering plant just behind him, “do you wish to head back?”

“No, no, I...” He took a deep breath and spoke up. “Princess Lothíriel, I wish to... I wish to beg for your forgiveness, for it seems that I have hurt you.”

Her head snapped to look at him in surprise.

“My lord, I -”

“Please,” he held a hand up to stop her from denying, “my intention was not to slight you, milady, but I think it happened anyway. Your father spoke to you before he came to me, so I know he was given your consent.”

He was not wrong. She studied her hands without giving a reply.

“The reason I did not accept, is not because of you, milady,” he continued, his voice sounding sincere, “Indeed, you are -”

He then cut himself off and held his brow for a moment. 

“Rohan is... dangerous and unstable. We have lost not only my Uncle and my cousin, but countless other lives too. Villages and towns have been pillaged and burned down. Coffers are empty and the people are starving.” He turned back towards her and took a step closer. Almost imploringly he said. “Until Rohan is restored, I cannot risk - I cannot expect a Queen to take a seat beside me.  After losing so much, I – I do not have the capacity to protect something new until I have done right by my people.”

Lothíriel watched him walk over to the parapet to lean on it, and she mulled over his heartfelt and honest words. 

“Éomer King, my father loves you dearly,” she finally spoke as she stood next to him, also looking at the horizon, “and in his love for you, he wished for the union. To support you in your restorations, yes, but also to lessen your loneliness. His love does not weaken because of your refusal. Take heart, for you have his friendship for life.”

It seemed that she had said what he needed to hear because he turned to look at her, eyes full of gratitude. “I appreciate your assurance, milady. Your father is a remarkable man and I hope to be worthy of his friendship.”

A soft smile appeared on her face as she placed a comforting hand on his arm, as she would to any of her patients. “He is and... you are worthy, Your Majesty.”

A long and warm silence stretched out between them as they dared to stare at each other in such close proximity.

She admired the pale colour of his eyelashes, enhancing the brightness of his keen gaze. Her eyes then followed the shape of his beard. Facial hair was considered unfashionable in Gondor and Dol Amroth, but it suited him so well. A part of her longed to reach out and touch it. If she had been betrothed to him, then she could have done so at her leisure. 

Perhaps he could be convinced to change his mind.

Before she could dwell on that – because she did dearly wish for him to reconsider – he took hold of the hand that was resting on his arm.

It was the hand that she hurt the last time that they had been alone together. His larger, more calloused hand held hers close to his face and he studied it until he gently let it fall.

“Do I have your forgiveness, milady?” 

They shared a smile. “Yes. You have my forgiveness, Éomer King.”

“Thank you.” His smile faded and the frown returned. “If you would allow me to say one thing more...”

“Go on, Your Majesty.”

He took a deep breath before he spoke up again. “I have requested Prince Imrahil before, but I implore you directly: Do not wait for me, milady. I shall marry none.” 

His words hit her square in the chest and for a moment she forgot how to breathe. 

Seeing her shock, he shook his head. “Please, I... do not waste yourself on me, I am not -” He took a few steps backward, anxious to leave now. “You deserve the best, so you must not – “

Lothíriel wordlessly watched him struggle with what to say. Clearly, he was at a loss, not knowing how to express himself to her, and he gave up altogether. 

He bowed deeply, then put on his helmet.

“Forgive me, milady, I must be off.”

Without waiting for an answer, Éomer stormed past her, past the surprised Halflings, and left the garden as suddenly as he came.

“Princess, is everything all right?”

Lothíriel released the breath that she had been holding and pressed her lips together. 

She had heard Merry's question, but she found no way to give an answer. 

Chapter Text

She was Princess Lothíriel, the youngest child and only daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. She was raised to be proud of herself and her heritage. Her education was never limited and she was free to pursue her passion of herb lore. From a young age, she was given the responsibility of running her father’s household. Many nobles had asked for her hand, but they were all refused as her father could not bear to part with her yet. She was a strong-willed descendant of Númenor and the jewel of her family.

Yet as she lay on her bed, in the dark, shedding tears until she could no longer, she felt foolish, childish, and selfish. Tired of her own emotions, she reprimanded herself.

You are a Princess and you need to carry yourself with dignity.

It did not work for the first two times, but on the third time, she managed to even out her breathing. She refreshed herself, changed into her night clothes, and sat on her bed, fidgeting with the little white spiral, her reminder of Dol Amroth and her Naneth.

When had finally gathered about her wits, she decided that her feelings did not require reciprocation. Even if it went unanswered, her love for him was a beautiful, gentle thing. Pale and fragile like the little Ram’s horn shell she enjoyed holding. It was small, but it was complete and it was hers.

And if he would not have her, then she would not burden him with her heartache. He would not be made to feel guilty, as his reasons were based on honour and wisdom. Her father, too, would be unhappy if he saw her upset.

Even if she could not yet move on from him, she would hold her head up high and smile for the world. After all, she was Princess Lothíriel and she faltered for no one, not even for Éomer King.

Thus, now she felt that she had cleared her heart and cleared her mind, Lothíriel finally fell asleep just before dawn.

And sleep she did, all through first and second breakfast, as well as elevenses. She woke just before luncheon, her stomach rumbling in protest. It had gotten used to the Halfling’s meal times.

As she stood up, she felt refreshed in body and spirit. The resolutions that she had made to herself sprang to the forefront of her mind and she was heartened.

If nothing else, she would be kind to Éomer and to herself.

When Lothíriel finally emerged from her private chambers, she joined the Halflings at their luncheon and ate to her heart’s content. Then she visited the Houses of Healing, discussed with Samwise Gamgee the herb garden, and after dinner, she started packing for her journey back to the city of Dol Amroth.

By the time it was evening, she had not seen Éomer the entire day. When Lothíriel visited the Rohanese quarters of the Southern Guesthouses, she finally came upon him as he was about to knock at Éowyn’s door.

He was clearly jarred by her appearance and he seemed to expect her exit immediately, like she had the past few days.

But she remained standing, calmly. To his surprise, she greeted him with a light curtsey and looked at him expectantly.

“Your Majesty...” She slowly said, “were you not about to knock?”

He continued to stare at her, only his slightly raised eyebrows hinting at his consternation.

“Do we not want Éowyn to join us in the courtyard, Your Majesty?” Now Lothíriel was starting to feel discomfited. She did not know what to make of his lack of response or his unwillingness to knock.

“Sire?”

He frowned and took a small step towards her.

Unbidden, she took a step back and he noticed immediately, but he did not comment on it.

Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke in a gruff, low voice. “Princess Lothíriel, are we good?”

She tilted her head in confusion, unsure what he meant. Seeing this, a look of panic crossed his face and she almost smiled.

She understood now what he was trying to say. He was afraid that she was still avoiding him, and he was worried that his understanding with Prince Imrahil would suffer from it.

Endeared by his concern, the young lady smiled and replied: “We are good, Éomer King. Now, please knock on the door or I will do so myself.”

Éomer relaxed instantly and, finally, knocked. 

Éowyn came out of the room, and to her brother’s dismay, Faramir came out as well. Seeing the smile on his sister’s face though, he remained quiet.

They chose to sit out in the courtyard of the Citadel underneath the stars. Not long after, they were joined by the young Princes of Dol Amroth and the Hobbits. Together they spoke of Théoden King and all of those who had been slain in the war. Songs were sung by the Hobbits and then by Éowyn. Faramir looked at her with an expression of admiration and love, and Lothíriel giggled when she saw her cousin’s face.

Then her gaze strayed to the tall figure sitting opposite her eldest brother Elphir.

In the flickering light of the fire pit between them, once more Éomer looked beautiful and fascinating, even if he was just sitting down at a bench, seemingly deep in thoughts. Her heart gave a painful squeeze to remind her of just how much she still cared for him.

Time passed in a hurry until the day came that the Rohirrim would return home to prepare the funeral for their fallen king.

Lothíriel was going home as well and she would not be back until King Elessar’s wedding, which meant that she was made to miss Théoden King’s funeral procession. She would also miss the handfasting ritual of Éowyn and Faramir, which was to take place in Rohan.

Her father had deemed it best that she would return to Dol Amroth to look after their people until it was time to start preparing the wedding for her cousin, which was to be held in late spring next year. Thus she was well aware that she would not see Éomer for a long time.

That morning, her party left Minas Tirith along with the party for Rohan. When the crossroads came where their roads diverged, they came to a halt. Smiling tearfully, she wished Éowyn farewell, embracing her tightly and kissing both her cheeks.

“Take my love with you, for I proudly keep yours with me, dear cousin,” said the White Lady, “and I will see you again in Minas Tirith where we will become family in truth.”

They shared a smile. Lothíriel took out a package and pressed it into Éowyn’s hands. “I baked this bread for you so that you stay strong and comforted in your journey.”

Éowyn gladly accepted it and placed it into the saddlebag. With grace, she mounted her horse.

Then Lothíriel turned to Éomer, who had gotten off his steed to greet her. 

“I pray that you find the peace you seek, Éomer King.”

Lothíriel gazed at him, greedily drinking in his tall and noble appearance. It would be a year before she would see him again and she wanted to remember him as well as was possible.

He stayed quiet and looked down.

“It seems as if you talk to me better when I am wearing a veil, Your Majesty. Here,” she placed her sleeve over the lower half of her face, “now you may feel more at ease.”

He scoffed and took off his helmet. Then, to her astonishment, he grabbed hold of the hand that was hiding her face and kissed it, his moustache tickling her skin.

“Farewell, milady.”

Her lips moved to reply, but no sound was made.

Behind her called Elphir, who was returning home in his father’s stead. “It is time, Lothíriel.”

She was still reeling from the kiss on her hand when Éomer chose to add to her confusion.

Quicker than her accompanying Swan Knight could react, he brought her horse to her and then lifted her easily up on the mare.

“Oh! What... I – I thank you, Your Majesty.”

The heat and the strength of his hands on her waist were there for mere moments, but they had sent Lothíriel’s mind haywire.

He had touched her with such familiarity, twice! How were these the actions of a man who had been adamantly against their union?

Meanwhile, Éomer had mounted Firefoot once again and the mighty horse bristled with impatience.

Elphir cried farewell to the Rohan party, who bowed as one while astride. The King then shouted a rallying cry in a clear, powerful voice.

“Forth Éorlingas!”

Éowyn and the King’s Éored answered with fierce cries of their own. They sped off. Horse-lords they were, no doubt, powerful and formidable.

It was Midsummer’s Day and Lothíriel was seated at the banquet table between Erchirion and Amrothos. The wedding ceremony had been an elegant and romantic affair, of which Lothíriel had enjoyed every moment. At the time of the coronation, she had been preoccupied with Éomer, but this time she was ever aware of each and every attendee at the ceremony.

How ethereal the Elves were! And Mithrandir, the White Wizard, so powerful and old he seemed, yet at the same time, his face seemed youthful, as if he was free of burden. And the beloved Halflings were ever present with their merry-making and their love for life. Even the Ringbearer, who was the most subdued of his friends, was laughing and chatting.

“Lothíriel!”

Amrothos’ voice snapped her out of her reverie and she turned to him.

“There is someone I would like you to meet.” He subtly pointed towards a man who was deep in discussion with their father.

At once she realized his intentions. “Amrothos. Were you not the one who said I am too young to be wed?”

Her brother heaved a very deep sigh. “Yes... He is the older brother of a very good friend of mine. His fort is located near one of the main trading routes and it is merely half a day’s ride away from Dol Amroth.”

The urge to be upset was strong and she required a long moment to settle herself. “What is the hurry, dear brother?” She said with an insincere smile plastered to her face. For she was in no hurry herself. 

The answer to her question came from Erchirion. “What is the point in waiting? Now that peace will prevail, we can look forward to strengthening our bonds with our neighbours. And he has agreed to a long engagement. A very long one.”

“How much is already agreed upon without my involvement?”

Her surroundings started to spin and she was having trouble with keeping her vision from blurring. She was not ready for any of this.

“Peace, sister.” Erchirion placed a placating hand on her shoulder. “He approached Ada only yesterday. Nothing will be decided without your agreement.”

She slowly inhaled and exhaled a few times, willing her anxiety to go away. Finally, when she regained her voice and her vision, she stood up from her seat and said: “I understand. I will meet with him, but do not expect a positive answer.”

Amrothos scoffed. “You have decided already because he is no horse-lord.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her anger returning. “He has no part in this.”

“’Tis well enough that you realize that,” her brother replied, irked, “he said for you to forget about him, so it is best that you do so.”

The words of her brother grated on her nerves, and she felt belittled by them. She had trouble keeping her voice to a whisper. “Why do you hate him? Are you not friends?”

“He is the best of men, Lothíriel, just not for you.”

“I cannot understand. Am I not worthy of him?”

“Come now.” Erchirion had had enough of his siblings’ argument and he had noticed that people were starting to stare and whisper. “Amrothos just wants you to stay near him... Us. You do know that he loves you dearest and also, you remind him so much of our mother.”

Hearing this, she glanced back at her younger brother’s face, who was looking away with a scowl.

Lothíriel thought for a moment and said, once more resolved to her duties: “Amrothos, kindly introduce me to your acquaintance and I will consider him carefully.”

That night, the Dol Amroth siblings gathered once more in their father’s office to discuss a potential suitor for Lothíriel. This time though, the mood was so different.

“I am sorry, Lothíriel, I swear to you that I did not know!”

“You should feel ashamed, Amrothos, for even considering that joke of a man for me.”

The siblings held each other’s glare for a moment and sat opposite one another near their father’s desk.

Then they simultaneously broke out in laughter.

“The nerve of that man!” exclaimed Amrothos between gasps.

Erchirion looked on at them with bemusement, but their father was less amused. “I do not follow, what did he do?”

Lothíriel crossed her arms and leaned back. “Not only did he accuse me of being older than I am, but he insisted that my dowry be given to him in full at the time of the engagement. Furthermore, he said that I would have become more meek and submissive to be considered suitable by his mother.”

Imrahil glared at his son, who winced and shrunk. “You told me that Lord Iorthon was an honourable man.”

“My friend is an honourable man and I was deceived by him!”

“if your honourable friend is the one who deceived you, then truly I doubt your measures of honour.” Though he delivered that answer with a stern voice, a grin cracked on his handsome face. “By the Valar, what sport is this?”

Amrothos broke out in a laugh, half sheepish still, half relieved that his father’s anger was short-lived.

They all had a hearty laugh. When they quieted down, Imrahil spoke to his only daughter.

“As your father, I will never force you to marry someone who will not hold you in the highest regard. I would rather you stay unmarried like your aunt Ivriniel, than that you wither away like your other aunt Finduilas. I made your mother that promise and I intend to keep it.”

Their collective mood hit a silent and melancholy note. Then Amrothos suddenly sat up and exclaimed: “Am I to understand that Lothíriel does not have to get married at all, ever?”

“No, Amrothos,” Imrahil sighed wearily, “that is not my intention. She should find someone worthy to marry – “

But his youngest son had already stopped paying attention. He grabbed hold of his sister’s hands and spoke solemnly. “My dear sister, I promise you with all that I am, I will keep all men away from you, so you never have to leave us.”

“Amrothos, are you out of your mind?“ Erchirion pulled him away, sat him down, and told him to hold his tongue.

Imrahil was about to speak when a messenger came with his rapport. Seizing this moment, Lothíriel walked over to her brother and whispered in his ear. “You did this on purpose, did you not, Amrothos? Were you hoping to scare Ada off from pursuing more suitors?"

"You mean from pursuing more schemes at your cost..."

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes in anger. "You are a hypocrite, Amrothos Dol Amroth!" 

He cleared his throat and pressed his lips together in an effort to keep a neutral face. “For Ulmo's sake, Lothíriel, do not accuse your innocent brother of being like his father!”

But then he smiled impishly, pleased with the result of his actions. Lothíriel would not feel her father’s pressure to marry at least for a few months. 

She clucked her tongue and walked back to her seat, but not before pinching the skin of his neck.

“Ow! She-devil.” Hissed Amrothos under his breath.

She smiled sweetly and whispered. “Fraud.”

The young Prince would have retaliated if it were not for Imrahil demanding their attention once more.

“I shall have to go, something urgent has come up.”

He stood up, walked to the basin in the corner of the room, and refreshed himself before turning to them once more.

“I have come to a decision...” He paused to wipe his face. “Considering what just happened, Lothíriel. To foster a more organic environment in which you can perhaps meet someone up to our standards, I give you leave to stay in Minas Tirith as you like. As long as you remain in the company of either your brothers, your cousin Faramir, or I. Then, as it pleases you, whenever you wish to return to Dol Amroth, you shall have an escort arranged for you.”

"What? Ada!" Amrothos stood up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "Send her back to Dol Amroth!" 

Imrahil glared at his son, immediately silencing him, before he closed the door behind him.

As Amrothos cursed and started arguing with Erchirion about the importance of getting married, Lothíriel could not believe her ears at her fortune.

She would see Éomer again.

Chapter Text

She had heard rumour that Éomer would return roughly two weeks after the coronation to take his Uncle back to Edoras in a funeral procession.

She was nervous.

On one hand, she longed to see him immensely. She wished to talk to him, comfort him, and perhaps even, if it suited him, ask him about his feelings. She would just as well settle for sitting quietly next to him. On the other hand, spending time with him meant having her feelings and hopes about him become stronger and still go unanswered.

If he had been consistent in his behaviour, she could have been more decisive. He had told her to move on and not to expect anything from him... But then he had also kissed her hand and helped her mount her horse when it was not his place to do so.

Not that she minded it, of course.

But how could she make sense of him? Perhaps in Edoras, it was normal?

She could not bring herself to be upset with him for lack of protocol. He was already burdened with many worries, and court etiquette seemed so... Inconsequential.

Prince Imrahil had mentioned that Éomer had proven to him his willingness to learn. So instead of bearing his burdens alone, all he had to do was ask for help when he needed it. And there were many folk willing to help him, as she had discovered throughout her time in Minas Tirith.

As the second highest-ranked royal lady, it was her duty to stay connected to as many people as she could. Thus she had sought out her friends, her cousin, and even Mithrandir and King Elessar. She had even befriended Queen Arwen. Everyone felt strongly for the King of the Rohirrim, if not love, then definitely friendship or admiration. In particular, it was Meriadoc Brandybuck who sang the highest praises of both Éowyn and Éomer.

Awash in all the loving accounts of Éomer, her heart longed for him more than ever. Knowing what it knew now, it rallied against her mind. For all the sense she had acquired in a lifetime, she did not know how to handle a pining heart.

Meanwhile, as she struggled internally, she was not idle. Lothíriel had more of her gowns, her personal items, and her work materials delivered from Dol Amroth. If she were to stay in Minas Tirith for another month, then she would not compromise on her comfort and her appearance. Whatever her course of action would be regarding Éomer, she was not going to waste her time. In any case, she gave herself until the time of his arrival to decide if she would protect her heart or risk it for his sake.

Every day, she woke up and dressed in her finest gowns, attended court, met with her friends, tended to the herb garden, and visited the library to read more about Rohan, though the books about the country of the horse-lords were but few in number. And, to oblige her father, she greeted all representatives and emissaries who visited King Elessar’s court. She had earned plenty of appreciative looks from the Lords, and she enjoyed the validation in earnest, but none of them could hold a candle to Éomer King.

Aside from her commitments to her king, her friends, and her family, she was free to move about the City. She had been restricted by her Father before, but after the wedding, he had allowed her to visit the marketplaces on condition that she would take Sir Feruion with her.

That was all the freedom she required. Every other day, two hours still until breakfast, she put on her Healer’s garbs and veil, instructed the Swan Knight to become less conspicuous, and visited the marketplaces one day at a time. The routine suited her well, the walk and the liveliness were invigorating and distracted her from her indecisiveness.

Feruion was a quiet, older man with a limp, who needed very little instruction or minding. He had been part of Prince Imrahil’s personal guard until he was no longer able to keep up with the active way of life. He and Lothíriel respected each other enough that he would look the other way if she needed to bend the rules for the love of herb lore. In turn, she would buy gifts for his wife, three daughters, and four grandchildren and she remained forthright about her plans. When she had been given leave to stay in Minas Tirith, she had discussed with him when he wished to return to his family and adjusted her planning accordingly.

The day before Éomer’s expected arrival, Lothíriel and her guard left as per their planning for the cluster of stands and shops near the City Gate at the First Circle. Besides the Guards of the City who were patrolling, very few people were about. The rubble and debris had been cleared and the Gate was in the process of being rebuilt.

As they approached their destination, a party of a dozen horsemen arrived, one bearing the banner of Lossarnach. Lothiriel absently observed how two of them moved on in the direction of the Citadel, while the rest of them led their horses towards the City Stables.

To routine, Lothiriel enjoyed browsing the wares and made sure to buy something from every merchant. Neither supply nor demand were sizeable enough yet, so shortly after much devastation, she hoped to support the citizens of Minas Tirith by buying from whatever was left to sell.

Feruion trailed behind her, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. His armour and head were covered by a silver-grey cloak, which was his attempt at being less conspicuous.

Lothíriel had bought a bracelet, a few apples, and a bag of seeds that were unfamiliar to her. Meanwhile, the herald announced the arrival of yet another host as she inspected a pair of gloves that she found. The gloves were not new, but the leather and the stitching proved fine workmanship. She tried them on and found them to her liking, so she gave a generous price for them.

One last stand was left to visit and then she would return to the Citadel where the Halflings were waiting for her to join them for breakfast. Shifting her bag of wares to the other hand, she walked towards the stand.

“Lothíriel!”

Startled, she turned to see where the booming voice had come from. One horseman of the host that had just arrived, had broken away and moved rapidly towards her. With one fluid movement, the man stayed his horse and sprang off it.

She felt Feruion move in front of her. She even heard the sound of his sword being unsheathed. Her eyes though, were fixated on the person who was approaching her with large strides.

It was Éomer, King of Rohan, in full armour and eyes wide in disbelief and fury. Lothíriel felt like she was in a strange dream, seeing him standing in front of her and Feruion.  Dirty, dishevelled, and breathing heavily. And as handsome as she remembered.

She gestured the Knight to stand down and he immediately bowed and moved aside.

“What the devil are you doing here?” barked Éomer, and Lothíriel flinched at the ferocity of his voice.

She desperately searched for the right thing to say and stammered. “Hail, Éomer King. You are earlier than we were expecting.”

It was not what he wanted to hear, because his nostrils flared. He turned to glare at Feruion. “Why is she here, Swan Knight?”

“Your Majesty, she is here, because she is visiting the marketplace with the permission of her father.”

He was still not satisfied and he spoke again, with gritted teeth. “But why is a Princess here, in the First Circle of Minas Tirith, so close to the damaged City Gate without a proper guard?”

Lothíriel finally spoke up. “Your Majesty, the only people aware of my identity are the three of us and this poor merchant who has been witness to our talk.”

His eyes snapped back onto hers and then he turned to the man sitting behind the stand, who cowered under his glare. Then he said nothing more and stomped back to his steed Firefoot, who awaited him impatiently, sweaty and snorting loudly.

The Princess stared after him for a moment and then followed. She could not let him leave like this.

“Your Majesty, would Firefoot care for an apple?” she spoke while she reached for a piece of the fruit in her bag.

Éomer stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder at her, his scowl ever-present.

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse her. But then he nodded a barely perceptible nod. When she reached his side, he led her to the mighty steed. He patted Firefoot’s head and he muttered a few words in Rohanese. Firefoot let out a loud snort, causing Lothíriel to flinch again, but she offered the apple to him on her open palm. He was quick to chomp it, causing her to laugh at his enthusiasm. Then she patted gently his sweaty neck and moved back.

Éomer wordlessly mounted Firefoot and after one more glower at Lothíriel, he left for the Citadel.

When he was out of sight, she turned to the merchant and placed a few coins on his table.

Then she turned to her guard. “Let us head back.”

Breakfast was well on its way when Lothíriel arrived in the dining hall.

“I was afraid you were not going to show, Your Highness,” Samwise Gamgee said, and he filled a cup of water for her which she gratefully accepted, “it has been an ordeal keeping Pippin from eating your share.”

“You are so gallant, dear Samwise.” Lothíriel smiled warmly at him and placed an apple from her bag on his plate. “Please accept this token of appreciation.”

Samwise blushed. “For silly old me? You are too kind, Princess Lothíriel.”

“Where is my apple?” demanded Pippin from the other side of the table. “I didn’t eat any of your food, I deserve one too.”

Merry laughed and gave him one such fruit from the basket in the middle of the table. “Here is my token of appreciation, now please sit down and let the Princess eat.”

“Fine with me. I am glad that the Princess here appreciates good food, though. King Éomer stormed in a while ago and he all but ignored my invitation to breakfast.”

Frodo piped up. “You cannot blame him for not having any appetite. He has come to bring his Uncle, Théoden King, back to Rohan.”

Merry agreed and soberly said. “Grief settles heavily in the stomach. Poor Éomer King.”

Lothíriel looked down at her hands. She too felt immensely for him. His sorrows lying heavily on him would also explain his bad mood when he ran into her this morning. It only made sense that his awareness of danger was heightened still, having lost so many loved ones in his life.

“Where is he now?” she asked, wondering if there was any way she could comfort him before the funeral procession would leave tomorrow morning.

“He has been in meetings ever since he arrived. I reckon he has to report a great many things to Strider, I mean, King Elessar,” Merry replied while assembling a sandwich of three tiers, “He and Lady Éowyn have been occupied with reorganizing the hierarchy of the leadership. Oh, and they have started the campaigns to drive away the Orcs on the outskirts of Rohan. So those matters are added to the worries of re-establishing enough of the trade routes in order to get ready for winter. For now, though, I think they are finalizing the planning for the funeral procession.”

She listened on as he explained the proceedings, intrigued. Merry had been attending meetings regularly and he would join once more when he was finished with his meal.

Théoden King would be placed on a golden bier in a beautifully decorated wain, and taken to Edoras with a hitherto unprecedented grand following of those who were in the Fellowship, the Princes of Dol Amroth and Ithillien, the Knights of Gondor, and many others to pay homage to a passionate and sincere leader. Éomer would lead the procession and Éowyn would receive them in Edoras. There, after a time to wake over him, he would be buried alongside his ancestors. A great feast would be held in celebration of his life, where they would sing, dance and eat in his honour. Finally, the betrothal of Éowyn and Faramir would take place, so that the people of Rohan could renew their hopes for the future.

The breakfast came to an end and the table was cleared. The Hobbits left to their respective commitments and Lothíriel was by herself, alone with her thoughts.

She had meant to decide tonight if she would increase the distance between herself and Éomer, or if she would try and be near to him at the risk of more heartache. However, the bright-haired king had come a day earlier and with such a sheer force of presence, full of outrage and disbelief, that she felt more unsure than ever.

Even in his anger, he had been a magnificent and thrilling sight to behold. And considering that he was able to recognize her from afar while she was in full disguise, surely that meant that he cared for her?  In his shock, he had even forgotten to address her by her title.

Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered his intense gaze that had locked on to her, his expression grim, looking her over twice to assess her wellbeing. Was it because she was his dear friend Prince Imrahil’s daughter? Was it because he was reminded of the time he, beyond his expectations and imagining, found Éowyn at Pelennor Fields? Or perhaps his grief was so teeming that he was quick to anger over the slightest matter?

Lothíriel's thoughts never strayed from him, even as she finished packing for her return home tomorrow. Even as she bathed and groomed herself, even as she got dressed in a fine deep blue gown with a wide boat neck, even as she sat down and failed to read a book, all her thoughts were consumed by Éomer.

And she loved it.

She mulled over his hardships, his duties, his private and public display of emotions, and his visits to his sister and his men in the Houses of Healing. His sheer dedication to Rohan, to Prince Imrahil and to King Elessar. His voice, his tall figure astride on a warhorse, his dark blonde beard, his large hands, his facial expressions, his ever-present frown, and even the way he had his meals or ordered his men.

There was no one like him.

That day seemed to pass slowly, as she wandered about, choosing to sit with friends, but then begging her leave the next moment when she felt that she was being disrespectful because of her absent mind.

As she finally settled down on a bench near the sapling tree from the line of Nimloth in the courtyard of the Citadel, she tried to placate her heart. It would not do, she reminded herself, to burden him with her love. With his words, he had been clear, he did not want her companionship.

Perhaps she was fooling herself by mistaking his kindness for affection. Perhaps she was more like a sister to him.

Her stomach twisted painfully. The thought was unbearable.

A flurry of sounds spilled into the silence of the Citadel courtyard. The doors of the meeting rooms of the King opened, and out came the Hobbits, Legolas and Gimli. Then came the emissaries and representatives of the realms that had pleaded loyalty to King Elessar, followed by the young Princes of Dol Amroth.

She put aside her book and stood up, happy to see her brothers.

“Dear sister, were you waiting for us?” Amrothos approached her, smiling fondly. He kissed her cheek and held her hand for a second.

“Yes, I was hoping to have a meal with you before you retired. I shall miss you all dearly.”

Elphir and Erchirion also came to her, the former kissed her brow and the latter embraced her. At once, she felt her worries fade. They were her home and her peace.

“Well met, beloved Lothíriel,” said Elphir, a frown on his noble face. “You look a little pale, perhaps you should go see the Warden.”

“I am in good health, you need not be concerned. Is Siloril well? How was Alphros? How was the journey from Dol Amroth?”

Her brothers gave her great joy, even now as she fought with her own greedy little heart. Each of them held a special place in her heart. Amrothos was her partner in crime. Erchirion was the one who knew how to soothe her. And Elphir was never one to underestimate her intellect or abilities. It was because of their shelter, despite their moments of overprotection, that Lothíriel was able to become who she was today.

“I am glad to be done with the debates and meetings,” said Erchirion after barely holding back a great yawn, “I could do with a hearty stew and a pint of ale. We shall see you in the dining hall, Lothíriel.”

The three of them made to leave, but Lothíriel rested a hand on her eldest brother's arm, who stopped and turned to look at her.

"Elphir." 

"Yes?" The Prince Heir gestured for Amrothos and Erchirion to go ahead, which they gladly did.

For a moment, the Princess observed her brother. He was wearing only the cuirass of his Swan Knight armour over his azure blue cotton and silk garments. His curly hair was, as always, tightly braided back without a single strand out of place. There was a light strain in his eyes that was only visible to the ones closest to him.

"How are you?" She spoke softly, ensuring that he knew she was not just enquiring about his health. "It has been six months, but I feel that you are in the same state that you are then. Did you not grieve?"

He broke her gaze and shifted in his place, looking about to see that no one was listening to their conversation. "Lothíriel, I cannot do this here."

"No!" She took hold of his hand and squeezed it. "You have to. I know you miss him and he would not want you to be this way. Did you talk to her?"

"No. Well, yes. She tried to. But how can I? She must be relieved -"

Her heart ached for her brother's suffering. "You do her a disservice, Elphir. Like any of us, she has her flaws, but she is not cruel."

More people came out of the King's Hall, and the siblings moved further away from them.

"I know, but -"

"She loves you, you know. I have seen it."

To her surprise, her brother laughed ruefully and shook his head. "Siloril is too good for me. She does not deserve to be burdened by my -"

"You speak nonsense, she is yours in the truest sense. I look up to the two of you. If not for your own sake, do it for mine. For Alphros!"

"Lothíriel." Elphir pressed his lips together firmly and he cast his eyes to the ground. "If I lose her as well, I..."

"You shall not lose her, not because of sharing your grief with her. But you might if you continue to stay apart from her."

He pressed his free hand against his eyes, surreptitiously wiping away unshed tears. "I need more time."

"You have until your return in a month, Elphir. But honestly..." She took hold of both of his hands and kissed them. "You shall need her, so you can move on together."

Again he shook his head in disbelief, but he relented. "I shall write to her. Will you take my letter with you when you leave tomorrow? And tell me how she looked upon reading it?"

"Of course." She finally let go of his hands and watched him as he tidied his appearance.

Then he smiled at her. "My little sister. You look like Naneth, think like Ada, scheme like Amrothos, and obsess like Erchirion. In what way do you take after me?"

"I do not know," she replied gently and with a sad smile, "But I hope that I love like you do. Unwaveringly."

Elphir pressed his forehead against hers. "At moments like this, I understand Amorothos' insistence on keeping you close, little foolish one."

Lothíriel laughed and pushed him away. "Go rest, Prince Uppity, and I shall see you at dinner time."

Content, she watched him go down the hallway that led to the Dol Amrothian quarters of the Southern Guesthouses. She sighed deeply, feeling blessed to have a loving family that valued her. All this time she had been obsessing over Éomer, forgetting that marriage - to him or to someone else - meant that she would have to live apart from her brothers and Father. Already she saw Father and Elphir in turns, and Amrothos and Erchirion were frequently away to oversee the Swan Knight Academy and the rebuilding of the Amrothian fleet. Moving further away from them would mean she would see even less of them. Truthfully, she did not know how she would handle that. She could have her happiness still, but if she knew that she would be seeing her brothers routinely after marriage, she would be braver in moving on to the next phase of her life as a Gondorian Princess.

Once again, the doors opened, and out came the last few people, including her father, who was talking to Lord Boridhren of Lebennin, and a few steps behind them, Éomer King and Faramir.

“Lothíriel dear,” said Imrahil as he led the representative of Lebennin towards her, “it seems you are already acquainted with Lord Boridhren.”

She smiled and made to reply as her eyes lingered on her cousin and the Rohirrim King. Éomer at once met her gaze and bowed his head slightly.

Bowing in kind, she returned her attention to her father. “Indeed, we have had a very interesting discussion about the use of boiled water when tending to wounds. Well met, Lord Boridhren.”

Faramir and Éomer had left.

The young lord, not much older than her, greeted her with a wide smile, which she thought was endearing. “Well met, Your Highness, your beauty is only surpassed by your wisdom.”

Prince Imrahil raised his eyebrows in surprise. Boridhren blushed and promptly apologized for his bold praise. But Lothíriel laughed and thanked him for his sweet words.

“It is refreshing that you speak your mind freely,” she told him, “the etiquettes of Gondorian court can be dreadful sometimes.”

Her father excused himself to talk to Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach.

“Would you care for a walk, Your Highness?” asked Lord Boridhren.

They took a stroll around the courtyard until it was time for dinner. Lothíriel took a seat next to her brothers and Lord Boridhren sat opposite her.

Without skipping a beat, Amrothos started questioning him, not allowing the poor young lord to further speak with the Princess. She herself was not even able to get a word in, because the moment she tried to interject, Erchirion joined the discussion about the plans to rebuild the Gondorian fleet. Resigned to her brothers’ overprotection, she sighed and picked at her plate. The lord from Lebennin had been a welcome distraction from her thoughts of Éomer.

Then she looked around and realized that the King of Rohan was nowhere to be seen. A bubble of concern welled up in her, but before she could dwell on it, one of the servants came and pressed a folded paper in her hand. Shielding the sight of it from her brothers, she opened it and read:

‘Princess, meet me in the herb garden after your meal. Éomer.’

Astonished, she stared at the words. Then a thrill went through her body and her stomach swooped. He wanted her to meet with him, privately.

Every fibre of her being screamed at her to run to the herb garden and she had to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down. Quickly she put the precious paper in the hidden pocket of her skirts where she kept the white shell, and she stood up.

Elphir frowned after a look at her plate. “Lothíriel, you have barely eaten. Are you not well?”

She stammered and cleared her throat. “Oh, yes… I think I should go to see the Warden of the Houses of Healing.”

Three pairs of grey eyes stared at her with deep concern, and she felt a pang of guilt for her untruthfulness.

“You should be in good health so you can look after Dol Amroth in our absence,” said her eldest brother, “do you wish for me to come with you?”

“No, no,” she replied hastily, “I will be fine, it is just fatigue I think.”

She took her leave and made her way through the hallways and stairs to where the herb garden was.

Before going up the final stairway, she stopped and tidied her appearance.

Lothíriel went up the stairs and into her faithfully blooming herb garden. She heard insects buzzing and the rustling of the plants. The breeze carried the refreshing scent of lavender. It was near sunset and the garden was brimming with life. However, she realized upon taking a few steps further, that Éomer was not there.

Had she not read the paper correctly? She took out the slip and read the hastily written words. Perhaps he had expected her to take more time with her meal?

That made sense, she admitted to herself, given that upon receiving the note she had almost run to meet with him.

Waiting in the garden was hardly a punishment for Lothíriel, for she immediately approached the nearest shrub and started studying its health. Soon, she was fully absorbed by the small white flowers budding from the ends of the branches. Each flower had five silky petals and delicate yellow stamen. She moved closer and gently touched the flower –

“Princess Lothiriel.”

She started and quickly spun around to look at who had called her name.

It was Éomer, but he looked different.

Instead of his full armour, he was wearing a maroon cotton tunic with modest golden and silver needlework at the cuffs and collar. Of the same material, he was wearing fitted brown breeches. His loose, blonde hair framed his face in damp waves, instead of the usual half-up style that the men of Rohan preferred. His eyes were bright, but fatigue was evident on his bearded face. He looked less imposing, she thought, but more attractive than usual.

“Your Majesty.” Lothíriel curtsied in greeting and he nodded in answer.

Then they stood there opposite each other, both apparently at a loss for words, both observing the other closely. Lothíriel wondered at him. The man consistently had issues with communication when she was near.

“I beg your pardon, I understand that you wanted to meet me?” She finally said, curiosity getting the better of her patience.

A look of hesitance flitted across his face before he schooled it to a neutral expression. “Ah, yes.”

He extended a hand towards where they had a talk before, and they both walked to the parapet on the opposite side of the apothecary quarters of the House of Remedies. She took a seat at one of the stone benches, but he did not. Instead, he turned back to her and looked down, deep in thought.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?” She tried to coax some words out of him.

He turned around and looked at her, his expression once again unreadable.

“Milady...” he began and then abruptly stopped, only to speak again. “Princess, why did you go to the First Circle of the City for fruit?”

Of all the things he could have said, this had not been expected from him by her. She stared at him. 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

He rubbed his beard in frustration, and he took a few steps closer to her. “I mean to say... I do not understand why you willingly put yourself in danger for nothing.”

“I was never in any danger, milord. My father is well aware of my trips outside the Citadel, he knows that I keep myself safe.”

“You were not safe out there this morning!” Éomer scoffed.

The princess could not believe what he was saying. “You made me come here so that you could scold me for buying apples?”

He walked over to her until he stood over her. She had to lean back and strain her neck to maintain eye contact.

“Princess Lothíriel!” He said with gritted teeth. “The Wall of Rammas Echor is in ruins! Not five minutes away from the City Gate, my men and I apprehended an undetected party of Orcs. If we had not arrived the moment we did, those monsters would have entered the First Circle and they would have hurt you. Your old Swan Knight would have been slain and no one else would be aware of your fate.”

A chill of fear went up her spine and she looked down, chastised.

With a loud sigh, he sat down heavily next to her and rested his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

Lothíriel’s heart sank down to the pit of her stomach. She had put herself and Feruion so close to harm’s way and she had not even known it! If it were not for Éomer arriving a day earlier than expected, she might not have lived to see another day. Or worse.

She felt foolish and guilty even as she glanced at him. He was still holding his head, belying his distress. Or perhaps his disappointment in her. A lump formed in her throat and she bit her lip, wondering how to make up for the trouble she had caused him. The least she could do was apologize.

Swiftly she got up and curtsied most formally in front of him. He sat up and looked at her with widened eyes.

“Éomer King, I humbly offer you my – Oh!”

Éomer had taken hold of her wrist, causing her to look up directly at his face, which was suddenly very close to hers. His expression held exasperation. “Lothíriel, just...” He sighed deeply. “Just sit down and leave the formalities. I cannot stand it.”

“Oh.” His earnest words left her breathless and she quietly sat down to him. Puzzled by him, Lothíriel thought long about what to say, but she came up short.

“I realize,” began Éomer haltingly and insistently gazed upon her with a frown, “that you did not know about the Orcs. And I also do realize that you need your freedom. But you do not have to visit risky places, do you, Lothíriel?”

He was looking at her with pleading eyes. Her heart gave a little squeeze at the way he said her name and at his close proximity.

He was being too casual with her.

Too intimate.

Though she was still in disbelief that he was here with her, showing such concern and treating her so familiar, she realized that she had to respond to him. She shook her head.

“Then promise me that you will not take unnecessary risks.”

Again, she just looked at him, her wide eyes staring at his imploring face. Then she stammered. “I promise, Your Majesty, that – “

“Call me Éomer.”

Lothíriel pressed her lips together but a smile escaped nonetheless. “I promise you... Éomer, that I shall not take any more unnecessary risks.”

“Ever.” He added.

Was he even aware of his own behaviour? She raised her eyebrows at his audacity to take lifelong promises of her, but she echoed him nonetheless.

“Ever.”

“Good.” He smiled too, and Lothíriel felt her breath catch in her throat.

He was so... Gentle with her. Was there anything more beautiful than seeing a smile on this sweet and gruff man’s face?

All too soon the frown returned on his face, but she did not mind. His knitted brows only emphasized his handsome features.

He did not look away and neither did she.

She felt her heart pounding in her ears as both of them kept looking at the other’s face.

His beard was a dark shade of blonde with some lighter hairs scattered at his cheeks. His nose was sharp and masculine, as was his brow. Oh, and his lips were perfect, and no other description would suffice. The colour of his eyes was a rhapsody of green and brown, alight with warmth as he studied her face. Then they flickered downwards slightly and a thrill went through her.

Did she imagine it or did he actually look at her lips?

Abruptly, the spell was broken by him, as he stood up.

“Good,” Éomer repeated and he turned to look at the horizon. His hair had dried in the meantime, framing once more a serious face. He walked closer to the parapet, his hands clasped behind his back.

She let out a quiet, but long and shaky sigh and closed her eyes. What an effect this man had on her! She needed to get a handle on her nerves before she did something foolish. Again.

A thought occurred to her, and she opened her eyes in realization. When she stood up quickly, Éomer looked over his shoulder at her.

“Lothíriel? Are you leaving?”

The concern in his eyes made her heart flutter. And never had she loved her name more than when he said it.

“I will be back in a few minutes, will you wait for me?”

He nodded and she smiled. Then she left the herb garden and made her way to the kitchens of the Citadel.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned to him, smiling apologetically.

He had sitting at a stone bench, with his eyes trained on the stairs she had taken.

Upon seeing her, he stood up and studied her face for a moment before softly speaking. “I was beginning to think you were not coming back.”

His relief at seeing her made her breath catch and she bit her lip to keep herself from grinning like a fool. “Trust me, I shall never leave you alone like that, Your – I mean, Éomer.”

Her words had been bolder than expected because he seemed taken aback. But the moment he opened his mouth to reply, two servants appeared.

Within a minute, a sizeable spread of food was set out on a small table before the stone bench they had been seated at before.

The princess thanked the servants warmly and sent them away. Then she walked to one of the herb patches and picked a few sprigs of mint. As she walked back to him, she noticed that he had not moved from his spot and that he was looking at her with an unreadable expression.

The fear that she might be overstepping his boundaries stirred in her mind, but she ignored it.

Instead, she rinsed the mint, divided it over two cups, and filled the cups with hot water from the kettle. Finally, she stirred honey into the cups, still very aware of his gaze.

She walked up to him and gently pulled him by his upper arm towards the table. The feel of his bicep beneath his sleeve was pleasantly solid. She had to resist the urge to squeeze. “Please join me for a meal, Your – I mean, Éomer. You were not present during dinner, so I take it you must be hungry.”

He continued to look at her, perplexed, even as he allowed her to move him to his place on the bench.

Lothíriel sat down on his right and sent another smile towards him. Then she proffered a cup of mint tea to him, which he eventually took, his fingers just barely grazing her hand.

“Thank you.” His voice was gruff and low and he quickly drained the cup.

“You are welcome.” She said cheerfully. Taking care of other people was the duty that she did with pride, but taking care of Éomer? That was a privilege.

With this thought, she prepared a bowl of stew and pressed it in his hands.

“You should have something too, Lothíriel.”

She immediately obliged and popped a grape in her mouth.

Satisfied, Éomer had his stew while he watched how she filled two plates with a range of cold cuts and fruit. The moment he put down his bowl, she extended a plate to him.

He snorted in mild amusement, but he accepted it nonetheless.

For a while, they sat and ate in companionable silence. Then he spoke up.

“I cannot help but wonder, Lothíriel... Were you not supposed to be back in Dol Amroth after attending the coronation?”

“I was going to, yes...” She took a sip from her tea. “However, Ada thought it would be wise for me to stay and attend King Elessar’s court, to build and uphold political alliances.” She paused, considering her words. “He also said that it would help me find a husband.”

“Helpful indeed.”

“Yes.”

“And... Is there someone that you consider suitable?”

Lothíriel needed a moment to stop herself from declaring his name. “Ah... Yes, there is one.”

She chanced a look at him for a reaction, but he was busy taking a bite out of a bread roll. After chewing and swallowing rather forcefully, he asked, “Someone like that lord from Lebennin, perhaps?”

“Hmm, perhaps.” She replied airily, and she was secretly pleased. His response was the kind that she was hoping for.

“He stood no chance against my brothers though,” Lothíriel said with a shake of her head, “the moment they caught sight of him, they overwhelmed him with their talks of re-establishing the fleet and the trade routes.”

“What a pity.”

His tone was amused, and she too could not help her smile.

Éomer then held something out for her. “Here, try this. Éowyn loves it.”

She froze and stared at his large hand holding a morsel of food, unable to decide how to behave with such familiarity. Such clear reciprocation of her own behaviour. What did it mean?

Her hesitation did not go unnoticed and he faltered, at once conscious of himself.

Not wanting to ruin a precious, rare moment, Lothíriel brushed his now lowered hand with her own, while meeting his gaze with a shy smile. Then she graciously accepted the slice of apple topped with a thin piece of cheese and took a bite. “Hmm!”

“Good?” His voice was quiet.

She nodded. The pairing of the sweet tartness with the savoury freshness of the cheese was wonderful. She suspected, however, that she would have even enjoyed stale bread if Éomer was the one giving it to her.

She stole a look at him and saw that he was staring at his plate with an unreadable expression.

After finishing the apple, she drank some water and checked again to see if he had started eating again.

He had not.

Deftly, she picked up a cucumber pickle from her plate and put it into his. “Dip this into that sauce.”

He obliged. And then he coughed and looked at her, upset. “Lothíriel, that is revolting!”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled at him sweetly.

For a moment he glowered at her. Then he burst out in a laugh that was so warm and candid, that it filled her up with happiness from her toes all the way up to the crown of her head.

She offered him a drink, which he gladly took to rinse his mouth. Then he started eating again, and Lothíriel smiled to herself before taking another bite as well.

Sunset was fast approaching and while they were done with their meal, neither of them showed any indication of wanting to leave. One of the Healer’s assistants came out and lit three torches in the herb garden after greeting them.

After the assistant had left, Éomer looked over at the Princess and wondered out loud.

“We have spent quite some time here already. Will you not get into trouble for being alone with me for so long?”

So he had some knowledge of Gondorian etiquette, after all, she thought with mild amusement.

“I might. The people of the Houses of Healing know and respect me enough to be discreet. As does Sir Feruion, who is guarding the stairway over there.”

The King nodded thoughtfully and stood up, gesturing for her to join her for a walk around the garden. “I suppose you have given them a lot of help and wisdom in return, as the Veiled Lady.”

Lothíriel sighed as she recalled her time spent in the services of the wounded and fallen. “Hmmm. I do not know.”

She felt him watch her closely as she tried to decide how to elaborate without making herself look a fool.

“Éowyn says you had a very inspiring presence in the Houses.”

“Nay, such praise is ill-deserved. I only did what I could. And compared to the others, it was very little.”

“Why do you discount yourself, Lothíriel? You seem quite disheartened.”

She stood still at the trellis of Iâfthalion grapevines and absently checked the size of the fruit hidden between the vines. Éomer was just behind her, quietly awaiting her answer.

“I suppose I feel like I could have done better. I could have done more.”

For a moment she waited for him to brush aside her words, to speak platitudes and much echoed praise of her presence in the Houses. It would not be the first time her self-doubt was mistaken for want of praise. After all, it was so unexpected and magnanimous of her, a Princess of Gondor, to help out the common folk.

But he stayed quiet and took a few steps further down the path. Lothíriel appreciated his silence and followed him as she gathered the courage to elaborate on her self-castigation.

“Naively, I forced my stay in Minas Tirith to help the wounded, but I...” She paused and took a deep breath to even her voice. “I could not master the horror I felt upon seeing more – more gruesomely wounded patients. M-my hands would shake. My vision would blur. An inspiring presence? No, I was a burden to the Healers.”

She still hated herself for it.

“But you persevered.” Éomer now stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. The dim light of the torches nearby celebrated his masculine features.

Lothíriel shook her head, smiling wearily. “I did, but only because of the Warden. He was able to see that I was able to function in the aftercare and medicine preparation. Otherwise, they would be better off without me.”

“Indeed, you did your part so that they were able to do theirs.”

Then to her surprise, Éomer took hold of her shoulders and brought his face level with hers. “Do not disregard the impact of your efforts. No doubt, your actions are appreciated by those who matter.”

Her heart stuttered, overwhelmed by his broad hands on her shoulders, his proximity and the sincerity of his empathic encouragement.

This man, this beautiful, wonderfully dangerous man.

If he let her, she would follow this man anywhere.

And that was precisely how his people felt about him, she realized. He was a leader in the truest sense of the word. Not only was he a fearless and strong warrior, he was loyal and trustworthy to his friends and allies. And to her, he had shown vulnerability, sincerity, and the ability to uplift even a foolish maiden like her. Any decent soldier would follow him to his death.

Tears sprang in her eyes and she struggled to hold back a sob. Why would he even think that he was not worthy enough to follow in his Uncle’s footsteps?

Éomer quickly withdrew from her, bewildered by the change in her expression.

“If I said something to offend – “

“Not at all!” Smiling up at him, she quickly wiped the tears away. “You are a marvellous man, Éomer. I hope that one day you shall see yourself in the way your loved ones see you.”

He looked away, flushed and unsure of how to respond. Without waiting for her, he walked on.

Sensing his discomfort, Lothíriel cleared her throat and asked a question that had been pressing her for a long time.

“Tell me... When did you realize that I was the so-called Veiled Lady?”

They had stopped their walk to look at the last of the sunset.

“Well...” Éomer sighed deeply and stretched his arms out, clearly tired but unwilling to leave just yet. “At first, I noticed that the bread you gave me was unusual for someone in the Houses of Healing to have. I figured it was given to Prince Elphir by one of his own. That inkling was confirmed when I saw the colouring of your eyes in the window after that.”

“You were able to see my eyes from that distance?”

“I have had to keep a keen eye, roaming the plains of the Riddermark.”

Lothíriel nodded. This time spent alone with him was a blessing bestowed upon her by the Valar. How her silly heart rejoiced and gloried in every minute of it.

He was a beautiful sight in the dying rays of the sun, and she clung to his every word as he shared his observations. And how fortunate was she, that he finally spoke freely with her person.

As if they had known each other their whole lives.

As if being alone with her was second nature for him.

“Then, as I visited Éowyn and my men in the Houses, I noticed you a few times. But I did not have the presence of mind to pinpoint the difference between you and the other Healers.”

“Naturally.”

For a second he paused and glanced at her in a particular fashion. “There was that evening when I heard you using the same... language as Prince Amrothos – “

Lothíriel winced in embarrassment, but Éomer just smirked and continued, “ - in the exact same manner he does, I suspected you to be related very closely to him. As we talked, your physical mannerisms reminded me of your father, especially your eyebrows.”

“We have the same eyebrows?” she said with a frown, causing him to bark another laugh.

“Prince Imrahil frowns just like you do. And when I recalled his mention of a daughter, it dawned on me that I had been looked after by the Princess of Dol Amroth.”

She looked down, flushed. Her father had been very effective in impressing her upon Éomer. “I see.”

Éomer opened his mouth to say something more, but then he stopped himself and shook his head.

It was not the first time that Lothíriel felt silly. She remembered the times she spent in anxiety, fearing that he would be upset with her duplicity. He had not made an issue out of it. Perhaps because it made no difference to him.

The last of the sunset had died away, leaving a dark sky full of stars and a few stray clouds.

On one hand, she did not want to leave his side. In fact, if it were up to her, she would stay with him for the rest of her life. On the other hand, he looked exhausted, leaning on the parapet while staring at the night sky. Soft-looking hair was partially obscuring his face, yet emphasizing the tiredness in his eyes.

“It is late, Éomer. You should take your rest as you have a tough journey ahead.”

He turned to look at her and stood up straight.

“You are right.” He simply said and continued to look at her with an unreadable expression. A flush crept up from her neck.

“You are right, but I do not want to go. Once I go from here, I will be Éomer King, the unintended heir. Tomorrow, I will take my Uncle home and take his throne, and spend my life failing him.”

Invisible burdens bore down on him as he stood in front of her, with his shoulders slumped and a hand now partially covering his face from her.

Her heart squeezed painfully, begging her to comfort him.

Boldly, she took hold of his hand and gently pulled it aside so she could meet his eyes.

“Éomer, do not give into doubt. Everyone who knows you is happy to give you their support and guidance. You shall see hardship and struggle, but you shall overcome it. You seek only the happiness of your people. With you, people are blessed, and Rohan shall prosper.”

As she softly spoke her encouragement, her hand had reached out, unbidden, and caressed the side of his face.

It was only when he covered her hand with his own that she processed what she had been doing, the warmth of his hand seeping into hers.

With a gasp, she tried to pull her hand back, but he did not let her.

Instead, he pressed it more firmly against his face and closed his eyes.

Lothíriel was at a loss, struggling to keep her mind clear. What was she supposed to do now? Let him hold her hand?

Yes, said her heart erratically, he should hold it and never let it go.

She watched him take deep, slow breaths, his exhales caressing the exposed skin on the inside of her arm. She could feel the warmth of his cheek and the hairs of his beard.

He then slowly lifted her hand up with his, so that her wrist was near his lips. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked at hers with such a heat, that she felt it in her core.

Ever so softly, he kissed the inside of her wrist, with his gaze unwavering and his beard prickling her delicate skin.

Then he gently released her hand and stepped back, eyes still ablaze.

She had to remind herself to breathe, so overwhelmed was she by him. Surely he knew what he was doing to her. The intimacy of his touch was beyond any court’s etiquette, whether it was that of Gondor, Harad, or Rohan. This was more than a simple friendship!

With a grave, rough voice, he finally spoke up. “Thank you, Lothíriel. I... I shall try to be worthy of your faith in me.”

Unable to speak, she nodded and smiled once more, moved by the strength in his words.

 “Tomorrow, will you come to say goodbye to – to Faramir and me?”

As if anything could keep her away from him!

She replied, a single tremor in her voice. “Aye, of course. Y – you should rest now.”

They walked towards the stairs.

“Good night, Éomer King.”

A hint of a smile showed on his face. “Good night, Princess Lothíriel.”

They bowed to one another and very carefully she started down the stairs.

Then she looked back over her shoulder. He was looking at her with no less intensity than before.

How she ended up at her family’s quarters from there, she could not recall. She cared not.

As if from a great distance, she heard Erchirion call out when she passed the door to his room. “You took so long at the Houses of Healing. How is your health?”

“Tis nothing, I fell asleep in one of the beds. Good night, Erchirion.”

“Good night, sister.”

Lothíriel quickly shut the door to her room and sank down on her bed.

Her heart still hammered loudly in her ears and her hands were trembling. Her mind was bombarding her with visions, sounds, and sensations of Éomer.

She grabbed hold of a pillow and buried her face in it, before throwing it aside and looking at the place where his lips had touched her skin on the inside of her wrist.

Oh, heavens. That delicate little gesture had set her entire body aflame.

And the way he had looked at her, full of heat and hunger.

Her heart rejoiced.

He cared for her. He was attracted to her. Time and again she had felt that his feelings were mutual. The passion with which he said her name, his wandering eyes, the close proximities, and that glance at her lips...

Heat rolled through her body and she felt constricted in her gown. With a bit of struggle, she took off all her clothes and slipped on her nightgown.

She refreshed herself and sank down on her bed.

The time they spent alone today was as if they were a married couple, talking, eating, and laughing.

Her greedy heart wanted more of him.

More of him sharing his thoughts and feelings.

More of him validating and motivating her.

More of him touching her.

More of his lips on her skin.

More of him, all of him.

If he truly cared for her, then he was holding back. He needed to prioritize Rohan because his duty to his country was of paramount importance. But he would want to marry eventually, right? He was the King after all.

She could wait for him.

The following morning, she woke up earlier than usual, though the entire Citadel was already abuzz with activity.

Save for the nobles who would rule Minas Tirith in the King’s and Steward’s absence, every noble, knight, and dignitary were gearing up to take part in the funeral procession for the great Théoden King.

Lothiriel had donned her riding dress and put her hair up. She snapped on her riding gloves and left her room in the Dol Amrothian quarters. She would not return to it until spring came. Most of her personal belongings were already on their way to Dol Amroth by way of the river Anduin.

Feruion had put the last of her belongings in the saddle bags and was readying his own bags as well.

She quickly had breakfast and walked about, saying farewell to whoever crossed her path. The one she was looking for, was not yet found. Eventually, she realized that she would not be able to have a moment with Éomer alone.

Too soon, it was time to gather for the start of the procession. She joined her brothers and father at their place in the mass of people. Together they observed how the coffin of the King was placed, by Éomer among others, on the golden bier in the ornate wain that stood in the courtyard of the Citadel.

From there the wain would go down flower-laden streets as the people of Gondor paid their respects to Théoden King, starting the funeral procession.

Lothiriel and her family lined up behind the wain, as did the countless others who would walk in the procession.

It was a beautiful and solemn affair, thought she as she held her father’s arm and the procession started moving. She looked up to him then and beheld that he was shedding tears freely.

Eventually, they reached the City Gate where the horses stood ready to be mounted. It was time to leave.

At once, people moved to say their farewells to those who were to stay behind. One by one, Lothíriel embraced and kissed the men of her family, promising that she would stay safe and see them in Dol Amroth at the end of summer. Faramir also came over and kissed the crown of her head.

“Fare thee well, dear cousin.” She said to him. “Please give my love to Éowyn, tell her I miss her dearly.”

Then she watched her loved ones line up in the procession with sadness in her heart, for she would not see them for a long time.

As she stood aside, she looked for Éomer King, hoping to speak a final time with him as well. There he was, at the helm of the lined-up procession, standing next to Firefoot.

Carefully she made her way through the crowd and approached him.

He was deep into a discussion with two of his men, speaking in Rohanese. When he noticed her, he continued to talk, but every few seconds his eyes flitted to hers. Finally, he dismissed the men and beckoned her to him.

“Hail Éomer King.”

“Princess Lothíriel.”

They exchanged bows and wishes, before falling silent.

He looked powerful, once more in full armour. Today though, she knew that his heart was the heaviest it had been since ages.

She wished to comfort him, but she did not know how. So she remained quiet.

“Princess, I hope you will keep your promise to me.”

Apparently, he was serious about the promise he had taken from her. 

“I will, Your Majesty.”

They gazed upon each other for a moment, then she curtsied deeply and said:

“I wish you safe travels and... I look forward to seeing you again in spring.”

“Likewise.” Éomer’s voice was rough, and he bowed deeply with his hand on his heart.

He then mounted Firefoot and watched as Lothíriel gently stroked his stallion’s neck. The horse did not seem to mind her attention. Indeed, he seemed indifferent. She wished the horse and his master well in Sindarin and then stepped aside to safety.

The warrior King cried out a command and everyone fell silent and assumed their places. With a deep and clear voice, Éomer King started a song. Moments later the men of Rohan joined him in a slow, rolling lament in their language.

The song touched the hearts of all who were present and Lothíriel was unable to hold back her tears.

Then the host moved as one, passing out through the City Gate, cutting through the barren Pelennor Fields, and via the North-western gate of the Rammas Echor eventually out of sight.

Chapter Text

It was an early morning in the middle of September, and a salty refreshing breeze from Cobas Haven was blowing into the expansive herb and flower garden that Lothíriel maintained. She had been looking after it since she had seen fourteen summers, with the help of two dedicated gardeners. The sun was too hot at noon, so the morning was the best time to tend and harvest.

“Oooh! Oooh! Nánig. Bug!”

Alphros appeared at Lothíriel's side and showed his aunt the ladybird he had caught in his chubby little hands. "See?" 

"That is a cute bug, Alphros!" She fondly smiled at the two-year-old boy. "You should make a house for her."

"House?" A frown that was unmistakably Elphir's appeared on his brow. 

"Yes, you can build it using twigs, leaves, and pebbles to make a nice place for her."

"Ooh! Adatheg 'Chiri!" He nodded fervently and let out a string of half-formed Sindarin to describe how his Uncle Erchirion had been building structures in Cobas Haven. Lothíriel only knew this because two days ago, Erchirion had taken the princeling out to show him the progress in the port. 

Since then all Alphros wanted to do was build things. And then break them too, afterwards. 

He toddled off to the play area on the cool side of the garden. There his mother Siloril was also resting, as she had not been feeling well the past few days. It had been two weeks since Elphir had returned to Minas Tirith to take care of Imrahil's office in the Gondorian capital. 

Lothíriel snapped a few stems of a herb plant and followed Alphros to his mother. 

"Sister, go rest inside. It will only be hotter here and it might exacerbate whatever you are suffering from."

"Ah, but Alphros still wants to play." Siloril brushed aside a stray black hair. "I can wait a bit."

"I'll mind him. I have strict orders from Elphir. I am to take care of you or he shall forever call me a fraudulent Herbalist."

"Elphir said that?" A strange expression was on the young mother's face, but she stood up nonetheless, as the obedient wife that she was. 

"Yes, he called my skills into question, so you know how serious he is about you." Lothíriel patted her on her back and added: "Remil will bring you your tea and then she will help Alphros with his breakfast."

Remil was Alphros' nursemaid Elphir had insisted on rehiring before he had left for Minas Tirith, claiming that Siloril needed to take better care of herself.

Lothíriel had taken along Elphir's letter for his wife, and as per his instructions, she had closely observed her sister-in-law as she read the letter for her husband. Siloril had not shown the slightest change in expression, however. 

Roughly a month after his sister's report, Elphir had returned as well, as he was scheduled to trade offices with his father. The family had been out for a sunset ride when he had joined them, looking every inch the Dol Amrothian Heir that he was. After greeting everyone and embracing his son, he and Siloril had left early for home. 

When the rest of them returned a few hours later, the couple had been calmly awaiting their arrival in the dining hall. It had left Lothíriel rather unsettled because she had been unable to tell if the two of them had worked out their differences.

For her brother's sake, she had hoped that he had been able to grieve with his wife. After all, Siloril was supposed to be his closest friend, especially now that his childhood friend and fellow Swan Knight Nemir had perished during the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

Also, she had her own feelings to manage. 

It had been two months since she was back in Dol Amroth and, she thought with a hint of melancholy, more than two months since she had last seen Éomer King. 

Through letters from Faramir, Éowyn, and Meriadoc, she had learned that Théoden King had been laid to rest in his rightful place among his ancestors and that Éomer had taken up his rightful place as the King of Rohan. Éowyn had also written in great detail about her handfasting ceremony and that the absence of Lothíriel was felt by many. Faramir had written pages and pages of praise for his betrothed, and Lothíriel found it sweet he found someone whom he could love wholeheartedly. 

The love between Boromir and Faramir was famous throughout all of Gondor. Parents would their children the example of these two brothers whenever their offspring refused to get along with each other. In fact, Imrahil had done it so often that Erchirion and Amrothos spent a few years resenting the Steward's sons. 

Therefore the loss of his elder brother had been keenly felt by Faramir, surpassing even Denethor's, whose noble heart had been slowly corrupted through the Palantir to the extent that even the love for both his sons had become crooked and thorny.

After losing his mother, brother, and even father, Faramir had a heart that once was profoundly lonely and overflowing with the need to bestow its love upon someone who was similar to him, as he longed for understanding and acceptance. Someone who had had the same struggles with life, death, and the Shadow. Indeed, in Éowyn he had found his future and his heart's peace. 

Éowyn knew this and loved him the more for it. Less prolific the White Lady was in her praise of Faramir, but Lothíriel suspected she was vocal enough to the man himself. Instead, Éowyn wrote about Rohan, how it used to be, and the efforts she and her brother were putting in for the kingdom to regain the glory of the old days.

Of course, the sentences that described Éomer’s frequent campaigns to cleanse the Riddermark were read and reread the most by the recipient. 

It seemed that the King set out relentlessly with his loyal men to the outermost regions to drive out the last of the villains and to provide for the people of his realm in those areas. The times he was back in Edoras were spent in meetings to reach agreements in order to prepare for winter.

At the end of summer, his sister wrote, he would set out for Gondor to help King Elessar regain the lands of Arnor and other regions that were now under Gondorian control. Éomer had expressed the wish to be able to complete the first few of many campaigns before his sister’s wedding in June, but Éowyn was concerned for his wellbeing. 

This sentiment was echoed in Merry’s letters, the first one dated as early as a week after Théoden King’s funeral. Between his extensive descriptions of the lands, the people, and the food, the Halfling had praised Éomer’s dedication to Rohan. Yet, he had said, the King slept not until very late and woke up before dawn. Merry, being the King’s squire, watched over him keenly. He had also written that Éomer King ate very little and was at times quite downcast. 

The first time Lothíriel had read the Halfling’s words, she had panicked.

While Éomer King was attempting to do right by his people, he was neglecting his own health and experiencing melancholy. The Princess was halfway packing her bag and gathering her herbal cures when she became aware of her own foolish behaviour.

She had been wanting to leave for Rohan immediately, for a man who did not want her. Even if she was able to circumnavigate the White Mountains and reach Edoras in two weeks' time, with what claim would she be there? His Healer? His friend? 

So in place of herself, she had packed up a variety of dried tea leaves and a tonic that might help the poor man sleep better. Additionally, she had carefully packed seeds of the same tea plants from the Bay of Belfalas, so that Edoras could have their own supply in the future. She also had added the last bottle of her favourite blend of spices obtained through trade from the lands of Arnor and Eriador.

Finally, she had attached a letter for Merry to the parcel, giving him strict and clear instructions on how to put her supplies to use. He had also been told to monitor Éomer more closely and to alert the Rohanese Healers if Éomer’s health went in further decline. Then she had found a willing courier, paid him a hefty amount, and sent him off to Edoras. 

Her behaviour did not go unnoticed. 

“What did you send him off with? To Rohan? Who needs something from you in Rohan?” Amrothos had seen her come out of the courier's office and he had regarded his sister with great suspicion.

He had quieted down soon enough when Lothíriel had replied coolly: “Éowyn requested feminine supplies of Gondorian quality.”

That had happened a month ago and she had yet to receive word from Rohan. Lothíriel stood up from the shrub she had been harvesting and wiped her brow. The temperature was steadily increasing, and she decided that it was time to freshen up for breakfast.

"Alphros, time to go inside."

"No!"

"Alphros, it is breakfast time and we have all your favourites."

Her nephew glared at her from underneath his mop of curly black hair and then pointed at the haphazard collection of twigs and leaves. "Busy!" 

Lothíriel sighed in defeat. 

"How about I help you finish building?" 

"Yes!"  

Remil appeared at their side and the three of them arranged the house until Alphros was satisfied. Then he left with his nursemaid for breakfast. 

Lothíriel brought in her harvest and freshened up, glad to have started her day productively. Aside from Erchirion, everyone in her family was morning people. 

By the time she was presentable enough to have her meal, both her brothers were already at the dining table. To her disconcertion, Amrothos and Erchirion were both staring at her intently as she sat down. 

“Good morning, my dear brothers. Is there something amiss?” She asked as she filled her plate with her favourites. 

The two brothers looked at each other and then back again.

“There is a stack of letters for you,” the elder slowly said, “from your friends in Edoras.”

Lothiriel looked up from her meal, delighted. “I was wondering when Master Meriadoc would reply.”

She stood up and walked over, her hand extended expectantly. Amrothos held the letters up over her head, the peculiar expression on his face unchanged. Then she noticed that he was hiding something behind his back in his other hand.

“Yes, so there is one from the Halfling and one from the Lady Éowyn. And, of course, one from dear cousin Faramir...” His eyes were narrowed as he spoke in a tone that made her feel unsettled. “And there is a parcel addressed to you as well... With the seal of the King of Rohan!”

For a moment, the strength left from her knees and Lothíriel gripped the chair to steady herself as she struggled to keep a neutral expression and voice.

"Amrothos, will you please give me my package?"

He ignored her and turned to look at his elder brother. “Erchirion, have you ever received a parcel from Éomer King?”

To her horror, Erchirion had chosen to play along on Amrothos’ side today. 

“I have not received anything from him ever, have you, Amrothos?”

“Unfortunately not, dear brother. Now why would he send our little Lothíriel something?”

“Amrothos. Give me that parcel right now!” 

They were supposed to behave like adults, but right now they were the most childish people Lothíriel had ever come across. She wanted to see what was in the parcel sent by Éomer King, but she was outnumbered and overpowered.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw movement. It was Sir Feruion and he nodded his head slightly.

Meanwhile, Amrothos was becoming more and more upset, especially considering Lothíriel's eagerness for the parcel. He gave Erchirion the post for safekeeping and took hold of his sister’s shoulders to look her deeply in the eyes. 

She refused to meet his gaze and instead, she glared at Erchirion, but he too did not wish to give her her belongings. 

"Tell me, Lothíriel," said Amrothos in a strained voice, "Has Éomer King been courting you?”

“Definitely not, Amrothos." She pushed his hands away, blushing and blindsided by his question. What a – a ridiculous notion!” 

Erchirion stood from his seat and walked to her other side, staring at her in shock. “Thiri... Do you care for him?”

“Do you not?” She bit back. “He is our friend and ally!”

Feruion had started to move very slowly towards the parcel and letters that Erchirion had abandoned in his shock. Lothíriel knew now what she had to do. 

“Yes, friend and ally, but we do not blush for his sake.” Amrothos hissed. 

“I am not blushing for his sake! He was clear that he would not marry me, so do not make a big fuss of it.”

“Look,” Erchirion wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “you can tell us how you feel and I will help you move on from him. We can help you with finding a worthy husband.”

Amrothos glared at his brother.

“You truly wish to help me?” Lothíriel asked and she looked down, feigning sadness. 

“Yes, yes.” Amrothos did not at all sound convincing, just impatient. “Now, is there something between you and Éomer King that we need to know about?”

Lothíriel sighed dramatically and walked up to the window furthest away from the table. Feruion was only a few feet away from his goal.

“No, it is not Éomer King, there is someone else...”

That got their attention. She now needed them to come towards her so Sir Feruion would be unhindered in his task. 

"Someone else? Who?" 

"Lord Gailen?" 

"No, not him."

"Sir Amathand?" 

Lothíriel pressed her hand against her forehead with much-feigned anxiety.

"Oh, Lothíriel," Erchirion immediately walked to her and stroked her hair, "you are burdened, are you not? Who is troubling you?"

"Lord Boridhren!" Amrothos suddenly exclaimed. "He has been in correspondence with Ada. Is it him?"

For a split second Lothíriel paused and thought. And then she realized she could let Sir Boridhren's burgeoning courtship of her be brought to an end as well. 

"Yes, it is him."

"I knew it." Amrothos grabbed hold of her chin and made her meet his gaze. “That lordling from Lebennin! What did he do to you?”

“He does not agree with me sitting astride. He told me that after the wedding he only expects me to use the side-saddle. And he has issues with my passion for herb-lore."

"That little prick."

Erchirion swore under his breath. “I need to pay him a visit.”

“But do not harm him, Erchirion, he just knows very little of the real world... ” said she, and then, to her brothers’ confusion, her troubled expression turned triumphant.

Though her brothers' overprotection could be burdensome to her, she knew exactly how to use it against them. 

The Swan Knight had retrieved the parcel and the letters, and he moved swiftly away from the table.

Only to knock down one of the chairs.

Immediately, the Princes turned to look at the noise.

Feruion did not wait. He hastily left the room.

“Did he just - ?”

“Yes, he did.” The Princess smoothly moved past her brothers and picked up the chair to put it back into place. Then she lifted up her plate of food and followed her loyal knight out of the dining hall.

He was waiting for her by the door to her royal chambers.

“My noble and loyal Feruion!” She received her items with a wide smile. “Name your reward.”

“My wife is partial to the sandalwood oil you gave me to wear.”

“You shall have it.”

Feruion bowed.

“Please keep my brothers away, dear Sir, and have yourself a lovely day."

“Certainly, milady.”

Lothíriel locked her door shut and carried the letters and parcel with trembling hands to her desk, along with her breakfast plate. 

First the letters, she decided.

She opened her cousin’s letter first, which she hastily read through. It was mostly the exultation of his fiancée and a few inquiries about his upcoming wedding.

Éowyn had written a short letter in which she informed Lothíriel about her well-being and shared some anecdotes of her kinsmen.

Then she turned to the final letter, which was of Merry. As per her instructions, he had sown the seeds and he had encouraged Éomer to take better care of himself. Merry had also been offering the young King the tea and spices at the appropriate times. According to Merry’s observations, both his sleep and his appetite had improved. The rest of the letter described his plans to return to the Shire and he wrote a lengthy goodbye and a promise to keep in touch. 

Lothíriel sighed in relief and thanked the Valar for Halflings. They were the unexpected and clever heroes that the world needed in affairs both grand and personal. 

She turned to the parcel. It was wrapped in a thick linen cloth, tied very securely, and sealed with a symbol of a running horse. Her name was written in a big and hasty script. 

It was only at that moment that she truly comprehended what lay before her. The King of Rohan had sent this. To her, specifically. It was either very costly or private, given the packaging. 

Her heart drummed loudly in her ears, and she had to take a couple of deep breaths to steady her hands. 

Very carefully Lothíriel pried off the seal, cut off the rope, and unwrapped the cloth. These materials she put away very carefully in a wooden box with intricate carvings of swans and boats. 

It was a thick book of some sort, still wrapped in another thick green velvet cloth. On top of the book was an envelope, sealed with the wax horse. Breathlessly, she pried it off with her small blade.

Then she opened the envelope and took out the letter.

It was the same slanted, hasty writing that was on the outside of the package and on the slip of paper she was handed during that faithful dinner.

'Princess Lothíriel,

I begrudgingly admire your ability to feed me something revolting despite being far away. 

In fear of that tonic, I have been better at getting my sleep. 

The tea reminds me of the herb garden of Minas Tirith. It helps.

And the spices, Master Meriadoc uses them wisely. 

You continue to care for me, even from afar, and you have my gratitude. For that, I wish to lend you Uncle Théoden’s herbarium. 

In more peaceful times, he maintained a record of the flora he came across. As you can see, it is quite old and fragile. He wrote in Sindarin, so perhaps it is more useful to you than to Rohan. 

Forgive my clumsy writing, my written Westron is even worse than my speech. I did not want my scribe to write this. 

Keep your promise to me. 

Éomer Éomundson'

Lothíriel sobbed as happiness threatened to overwhelm her. 

If someone had told her that Éomer King would have written her this sweet, personal message, she would have not believed them. 

Despite his hectic life, he had taken the time to write to her and lend her this priceless and precious heirloom.

Her heart sang in great joy as she reread the letter, smiling at his penmanship and his choice of words. 

Then, after composing herself, she put it aside gently and turned her attention towards the herbarium. 

She carefully unwrapped the velvet cover and studied the book with light touches. The bindings were strong, but the parchment paper was coloured with age. She suspected that it had been neglected throughout the period that the King had been under Grima Wormtongue’s influence, for there were stains and tears to be found on the cover. 

“Rohanese Flora, by Théoden Thengelson,” she whispered the title of the book out loud. 

With much reverence, she opened it and studied each page carefully. The King had a beautiful, slanted writing. He had drawn elaborate diagrams of the plants, flowers, and herbs. His descriptions in Sindarin were straightforward and extensive. He had even, she noted with no small degree of appreciation, drawn and written of the symbiotic creatures that helped certain plants thrive. 

Tears welled up in her eyes again as it dawned on her just how great a man Théoden King was. And just how deep Éomer’s grief would run because of it. 

She spent the rest of the day absorbed in the herbarium, taking notes and comparing it to her own plant journal.

Her breakfast plate lay forgotten. 

It was approaching dinner time when an insistent knock took her out of her concentration. 

“Lothiriel, it is I. I wish to have a word.”

“Coming, Ada!” The princess hastily hid the letter from Éomer from sight and made herself presentable. 

She unlocked and opened the door. Prince Imrahil entered and followed her to the sitting area with a window facing Cobas Haven. They took a seat on the beautiful sofa chairs.  

Before she could offer, her father gestured that he had no wish to partake in any of the drinks she was wont to offer.

“My dear daughter, your brothers have told me that you are not pleased with the attentions that Lord Boridhren has been giving you.”

She looked down at her hands. 

“Speak freely to me, I shall not be upset,” Imrahil spoke kindly. “Your happiness is not inferior to your duty to the King.”

“Lord Boridhren is a good man, but he knows very little of the practical reality. While he is appreciative of my person, he seems to be inflexible in matters beyond that. For example, he thinks ladies should only use side saddles and that they should avoid direct sunlight.”

“And you think those opinions are reasons enough to refuse his suit?”

“I see those opinions becoming stronger and more restrictive in the future, due to influences of Gondorian traditions. I have noted that certain nobles are pushing back against the enlightenment introduced by King Elessar. Lord Boridhren might become one of them after marriage, as most of his friends are of that conservative mind.”

“And you wish not to be limited by him.”

“As my husband, he will have the upper hand in my life. I feel he might diminish my freedom for the sake of court politics.”

“You would prefer someone who keeps his distance from the Gondorian court.”

She met her father’s gaze. He was looking at her with a peculiar expression. A flush spread from her neck. 

“If it were possible, then yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. 

“Lothíriel, what did Éomer King send you?”

The change in topic was sudden and she needed a moment to collect herself. Then she stood up and walked over to her study, adjacent to the sitting room. With great care, she brought over the herbarium and placed it gingerly on the low table in front of Prince Imrahil. 

“This is Théoden King’s personal plant journal.”

Her father stared at it in shock. “Éomer King gave it to you?”

“He lent it to me, as thanks.”

“Thanks for what, daughter?”

Lothíriel shifted nervously. “Faramir, Lady Éowyn, and Master Meriadoc expressed their concern about the King’s health, so I sent a few of my herbal teas and such in an attempt to help.”

“I see...” He was still staring at the book. “I did hear that Éomer King was pushing himself to his limits, but I did not realize it was this dire. You are very kind to offer your skills in his service.”

“I am sure that the Rohanese Healers could have done the same as I have.” She sat down with a little smile, happy to receive her father’s praise. “In fact, Master Meriadoc has been taking great care of him, which I think has been most beneficial to him.”

“Yet you were the one to instruct him.” It was not a question, as Prince Imrahil was always very astute in his observations.

Lothíriel nodded. 

Her father leaned towards her. “Lothíriel, is Éomer King courting you?”

She could not shield herself from the directness of her father, and she turned scarlet. “N-no, nothing like that, sir. He made that clear with his words.”

“Aye, yet his behaviour tells me something different.”

The look that the honourable and wise Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth gave to his youngest child, shook her to the core. He knew more than he had let on. 

And she wondered just how much her father knew of her feelings and her encounters with the King of the Rohirrim.

“While I do not know the details of your... Understanding with Éomer King - and you have to thank Feruion for his unwillingness to elaborate – I want to remind you to protect your heart.”

He gently took hold of her hand and spoke more kindly. 

“I have seen him look at you at unguarded moments. He looks at you with admiration, but also with anguish. It is my understanding that his feelings towards marriage are very much unchanged since I last spoke with him.”

And the Prince was not wrong, thought she as she considered his words carefully. 

“It will be in vain to tell you not to hope, as hope subsists us all. It was hope in the Ringbearer that made us live to fight each day. Therefore my counsel to you is: have hope but prepare your heart to expect rejection, as he might not change his mind ever.”

“We are but tentative friends, sir.” She looked him in the eye. “Though I will speak frankly to you and you only... I have yet to meet a man as sweet as him.”

“Sweet?” He laughed melodiously and her blush returned fiercely. “I suppose you have seen a side to him that I have not.”

“You have seen him on the battlefield, sir, I have not.” She answered. 

Imrahil cast his eyes to the ground, his expression thoughtful and distant. “On the battlefield, he was both valiant and reckless, terrifying and suicidal. He wept, he sang, he laughed and he rallied. He held the joy of battle in his singing and struck terror in the hearts of the enemy. He even made to have the last stand as the King of Rohan when all seemed utterly hopeless.”

He frowned and met her gaze. “But when he pledged with such humility his unwavering loyalty to King Elessar so soon after having faced despair... That is when I came to admire him so strongly.”

Lothíriel was listening with rapt attention. Not for the first time she was amazed with how impressed Prince Imrahil was by Éomer King. 

“Since then, I have been helping him whenever I could. And one day, I thought: perhaps I could send a son to be by his side and assist him. So, I expressed this to Elphir.” 

He was explaining his reasons for the offer of her hand in marriage to Éomer. 

“And he said to me that better than sending a son to be by his side, would be sending a daughter. To that, I could only agree, as you are the best of your mother and your father. A great king like Éomer would benefit from your caring nature and your experience as an interim ruler.”

He was quiet again, gazing at the herbarium in front of him for a minute. 

“I feel foolish still that I barely gave him time to breathe before approaching him with your hand.”

Then his guilt turned to amusement. “It seems he has no fear of his own Death, but he fears the prospect of marriage.” He chuckled softly and shook his head.

“And now he has sent you his Uncle’s Book! I am not sure what to make of it, but I am glad to see that he has found a friend in you, Lothíriel.”

“I am glad, too.”

“Will you tell me if something changes between you two, for better or worse?”

She smiled and nodded.

He kissed her temple and held her close, no longer wishing to speak. Lothíriel stayed silent as well, appreciating the time alone together. 

The letters to her friends were stacked in a tidy little pile, ready to be sent. 

Lothíriel was currently struggling with writing a reply to the King of Rohan. A dozen drafts lay discarded on the ground near her feet. 

Any sentence she wrote down, did not do justice to the honour that Éomer King had bestowed upon her. Furthermore, Éomer had very little time for idle correspondence, so a five-page missive of gratitude would be a sorry abuse of his time. 

In a few hours, Prince Imrahil would leave for Minas Tirith and he had said that he and Elphir would take charge of sending her post from there to Edoras. It was just as well because it would be added to the royal correspondence of the King’s office and thus reach the destination faster. 

With a deep sigh, Lothíriel sat back and rubbed her brow. She looked out through the nearest window, the waves in the small bay of Cobas Haven beckoning to her. 

Suddenly, inspiration took her and within minutes she was making her way to the shoreline of the bay. She then searched the beach for sea shells. 

An hour later, she returned to her desk her hands full of the prettiest shells that she could find. From them, she chose a variety of colourful ones, small and sturdy to stand the long journey ahead of them. Among her selection was an angular triton, a reticulated cowrie helmet, and a zebra ark. Her favourite was the plain-looking common spirula, as she enjoyed tracing the smooth spiral with her finger. It held a special place in her life.

As a child, Lothíriel had had an impatient nature, always preferring to run instead of walking, reading the lectures instead of listening to them, and seeking out answers in her textbooks instead of posing the questions to her tutors who would give elaborate introductions to the core of the matter.

The smaller, swifter boats, ones affectionately named Cygnets, were preferred by her to the grand swan ships of the Dol Amrothian fleet, and only chamber maids with clever and fast hands were welcome in the Princess’ dressing room. Being her Father’s only daughter, Lothíriel was given a lot of leeways, but one day when she had lost her temper with one of the maids, her mother had decided that her behaviour had breached the boundaries of what was acceptable.

She had sat her down in her room and explained to her in no uncertain terms that she was never to lose her patience with any one of the household staff again. Furthermore, she would receive additional training in etiquette, in which the main focus would be managing her patience. From the ages eight until twelve Lothíriel was taught, often to the extent that she would cry, how to behave with the dignity and elegance of a true Dol Amrothian royal in situations that tested her composure.

The first year she had outright refused to cooperate, but by halfway the second she had understood the value of tranquillity in dealing with servants. By the end of that year, she had acknowledged that her penmanship as well as her reading comprehension had improved. As the third year she had realized that she had missed out on the finer details of nature, art, and language by being in a hurry to get to the core of the subject matter, the very details that would lead to the mastery of the subject. It had been at the beginning of the fourth year when she had lost her mother, and the lessons were no longer given by a teacher who understood her student. 

Instead of her mother, she had a strict governess who, ironically, had no tolerance for any kind of impatience. That year Lothíriel had finally learned to reserve her impatience for only matters that were personal to her. Anything remotely linked to her station as Princess she learned to treat with complete patience, yet when she was alone with her brothers or with her thoughts, she behaved with complete lack of self-restraint. This had resulted in a few accidents and some irreparable damage to a Cygnet.

Amrothos then had counselled her, in his four-year superior wisdom, that she would have to reel herself in even when she was free to be herself so that she would win the trust of her protectors for when she needed to break the rules. 
She had cried, saying that it was too difficult for her to manage herself like that. Amrothos had shrugged and said, “You will figure it out.”

And to her surprise, she did find a way, thanks to a tale that her mother had told her while they had been at the beach one time, walking the shoreline and looking for treasures of the sea. Seashells were something she and her mother had enjoyed collecting together, and her mother had taught her about the creatures that used to be a part of the variety of shells with their ridged textures or indeed smooth curves. Lothíriel’s favourite by far had been the Ram’s horn shell, which was abundantly present on the sandy shores of Cobas Haven.

According to her Naneth, the shell was inside the squid’s head and it helped him float to the desired depths underwater. 

“This little squid tells us something very important, Lothíriel. Do you know what he says? He says: keep your head up!”

Her mother had pressed the little white spiral to her forehead and then raised her chin up demonstratively, before joining her six-year-old daughter in a delicate harmony of giggles. 

It had been Lothíriel’s favourite memory of her and whenever she traced the tiny white spiral she remembered her mother, their time together, and her little tale of the Ram’s horn squid that had told her, keep your head up. 

One day, when she had been almost fourteen summers old, she had visited the beach alone, and gathered sea shells once more, including many little white spirals. Since then, Lothíriel had kept a spirula shell in the hidden pockets of her skirts and dresses. In fact, she had many of these shells, often hidden and forgotten in the pockets only to be found the next time she would dig her hand into the little pouch. Whenever she missed her mother or needed the squid’s reminder, she would hold one shell in her hand on her pocket, and trace it with a finger until she found her calm or resolve. 

And so, with time Lothíriel learned how to balance her passion with her newfound patience, intending to be the Swan Princess her father wanted her to be, while still being the spirited girl her mother had adored. 

Any travel as Princess was done with utmost grace, yet the moment she was out of the view of any guard or chaperone, she would run until she was breathless. Or she would jump off a cliff into the waters of Cobas Haven. Or she would steal a Cygnet and explore tiny islands off the coast of the Bay. Most of the time, Amrothos was there with her to look out for her and to encourage her where she needed it. Other times she was alone, discovering lesser-known parts of the castle, or scaling walls and sneaking into the restricted court gardens to pluck flowers, roots and all, that she wanted to grow in her own little garden patch. By the time she was sixteen summers past, she knew precisely how to lull her guardians, even Sir Feruion and her brothers, into safety so she could satisfy the hunger she held for her own interests. 

All she needed was the fragile little shell, a cool comfort in her hand. 

Keep your head up! She would hear her mother say. And that would be all the encouragement she needed to keep going. 

Lothíriel smiled. Éomer could use the same encouragement, so she would send it to him, despite being the least impressive of her collection. And she wrote him a short letter. 

'Dear Éomer King, 

Words cannot do justice to how honoured and humbled I feel upon borrowing Théoden King’s herbarium. I will look after it well and return it to you the next time we meet. 

To hear of your recovery gave me great joy. I wish you would continue to take better care of yourself, as it would grieve me to hear that you are unwell. 

The salty winds from the seas are most invigorating, but alas I cannot bottle them and send them to you. Instead, I will close a few treasures of the sea, in the hope that their sight and feel might inspire you to visit Dol Amroth one day. 

Keeping our promise,

yours most gratefully,

Lothíriel of Dol Amroth'

Then she placed the shells on the back of the letter, traced their outlines, and wrote down their names. 
When she was sure that the ink had dried, she carefully wrapped up the shells and the letter in a sturdy package and set off to find her father. 

It was the middle of October and Lothíriel was attending to her letters that her father had brought along. She was seated in a secluded corner of her father’s study and she immediately had noticed there was no reply from Éomer King.

Willing herself to keep her disappointment hidden, she turned to the first of the letters. It was a lengthy one from Merry in which he waxed lyrical about Rivendell. Amused, she read through it quickly enough and moved on to Faramir’s, which was a short one, with inquiries of well-being and an update on the restoration of Ithilien.

The next one was from Éowyn, she had written out some answers to Lothíriel’s questions about Rohan. About Éomer, she wrote that he was busy with his campaigns alongside the High King Elessar, holding true to the Oath of Éorl. She was about to move on to the next letter when her eye caught the quickly written postscript. 

'P.S.: Éomer told me to write you his thanks and to tell you that he likes the white spiral the most. I suppose you know what that means.'

A flurry of delight swirled in Lothíriel's stomach and she smiled, amazed that he chose the Ram’s horn shell as his favourite.

Maybe one day she would share with him the story behind it. 

“What is amusing you, Lothíriel?”

She looked up at her brothers who had strode in to deliver their reports regarding their Southern neighbours.

“Master Meriadoc knows just what to say to make me laugh,” she replied to Erchirion and allowed him to kiss her head, “the Halflings have such an interesting perspective on the world.”

Amrothos stood next to Erchirion with a grin on his face. “Aye, mine would be too if I stood but three feet from the ground up!”

Lothíriel shook her head, smiling fondly.

Then she returned her attention to the last letter and she gasped out loud. She had received a letter from Queen Arwen! The symbol on the wax seal on top of the first letter was of the Evenstar. 

Lothíriel noticed that Amrothos and Erchirion were also staring at the wax seal. 

“What now, dear brothers? Will you ask me if Queen Arwen is courting me, as well?”

Both of them spoke up at the same time. 

“Don’t be ridiculous –“

“It was not my intention the slightest to imply –“

“ – The Queen must have something to ask of you – “

“ – Nevertheless, I am curious to know what she has written to you if you would be so willing...?” Erchirion trailed off, looking at her expectantly. 

She obliged and very carefully opened the letter without breaking the seal. It was an invitation for Lothíriel to return to the Gondorian court. The queen had written, in fine, loopy penmanship, that she longed for her intellectual company, especially in the King’s absence.

“To be clear, it is your presence that she is asking for?” Amrothos scoffed. 

“Who are you to question the Queen?” thundered the voice of Prince Imrahil from behind his desk. Amrothos flinched and shook his head.

“Not at all, sir, it just took me by surprise.”

“It is not, in fact, a surprise to me.” He had still not looked up from the map he was studying. “The Queen had expressed her desire to me and I encouraged her. After all, our duty to the Queen is as our duty to the King.”

Finally, he raised his head and met his daughter’s gaze. “I took the liberty of ordering a few winter gowns suitable to the autumn weather of Minas Tirith. They should be ready by the time you arrive.”

“I shall be going with her."

“I need you and Erchirion here in Dol Amroth. We will meet representatives from the Haradlands in a fortnight and I need your naval insights. We shall make a stop in Pelargir as well. There is something I want to discuss with the Lord of Lebennin there.”

“What is it?” Erchirion looked up from Queen Arwen’s letter that Lothíriel had given him to read. “Boridhren's is no longer courting Lothíriel, is he?”

Imrahil held his son’s gaze for a moment before he turned his attention back to the map. “You shall know it when we are there.”

The two brothers looked at each other questioningly, but they remained quiet. Whatever Imrahil had in mind, it usually worked out in the way he wanted to. They had learned that by now. 

Thus it came to be that two weeks later, Lothíriel was sitting next to her Queen in her finest silver and azure gown, sipping tea and eating biscuits. 

Every day, the ladies of the Gondorian Houses gathered to attend court with Queen Arwen and their talks were pleasant and light. Even after suffering great loss, the women were pleased to be able to spend time with one another, dressed in the finest clothes they could afford. 

It was particularly Lady Vanyalos of Lossarnach, who enjoyed her time describing in great detail how she had acquired the fabric or how much she had to spend for an Elven wrought necklace. Her husband Lord Forlong had been a brave, beloved leader and warrior who was slain during the Battle of Pelennor Fields. By keeping her attention on her gowns and such, Lady Vanyalos tried to avoid languishing in grief for her lord and husband. 

By the third day of such talks, Lothíriel felt much sympathy for her High Queen, realizing that she had been putting up with these kind but wearisome ladies since her wedding to King Elessar. 

After yet another morning of idle talk, the noble women took their leave from the court, while Arwen and Lothíriel went for a walk at the Pier, which was built on a spur of the stone of Mount Mindolluin. 

“Your Majesty must miss the King a lot.”
Arwen smiled serenely. “I do, but I do not mind, for I know he will always come back to me.”

Lothíriel looked at her Queen in awe. “How lovely that is. To be so secure in love.”

“Is something troubling you, Princess Lothíriel?”

Truthfully, she felt unnerved by her friend the Elven Queen. Lothíriel had heard all the tales and so she could not quite believe that such a legendary being was strolling beside her. But the Queen was kind, pleasant, and patient with everyone around her. 

“There is someone I have come to care about,” she finally spoke up after minutes of silence, “perhaps one could even say that I have come to love them...”

“But you are not sure about how they feel?”

“That is right. I feel like they do care about me, but they are holding themselves back.”

“That must lay heavy on your heart.”

“It does!” Lothíriel frowned. “I may be young still, but I believe that I can be of use to them... If only they let me!”

The Elven Queen nodded thoughtfully. “And have you been waiting for them a long time?”

Lothíriel turned pink with shame. “Your Majesty, how thoughtless of me. Not as long as you had waited, of course, I beg your forgiveness – “

Good-naturedly, Arwen placed a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

“Peace, my dear. I am not offended.”

Lothíriel looked down. It had not even been two seasons since she met Éomer, she reflected. She could wait and she would, but... He had told her not to. 

“It has only been a short while, truthfully, so I may be impatient... But I do not see the benefit in being apart when being together is so much better for the both of us.”

If that meal that they had shared in the herb garden was any indication of how their life together would be, then Lothíriel had all the more reason to cling to the hope that Éomer could be hers. 

“Hmm...” 

They had reached the Watch Point and Arwen gazed in the distance. Then she softly said. “It seems that the wait is over.”

“Milady?”

The Queen turned to her and calmly said:

“Tomorrow morning, King Elessar and Éomer King will return from their campaign - ”

Lothíriel gasped. Had the Queen used her Elven Sight? 

“ – and there are a dozen people hurt, including Éomer King-“

She pressed her hands against her mouth in shock, immediately imagining the worst of scenarios. Éomer barely ever got hurt on the battlefield. Something unexpected or extreme must have occurred. 

“ – therefore we should alert the Warden to ensure that we are prepared to receive the wounded.”

Arwen turned around and walked off.

Lothíriel hastily followed, her heart stricken with anxiety. 

Chapter Text

The following twenty-four hours passed by in a frenzy. The rooms for Éomer King were prepared in the Southern Guesthouses, and the Houses of Healing were reorganized to receive an influx of seriously injured people as well as set up to receive soldiers with minor issues in a different space.

The kitchens were also abuzz making preparations to feed the troops who had not had a proper meal in weeks. The citizens too were frantic, awaiting the return of their beloved fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons.  

Early in the morning, Prince Imrahil set out with men carrying stretchers to meet the incoming host. Lothíriel, wearing her Healer’s robes, awaited the injured alongside the other assistants, in the High Hall of Healing. The Warden stood at the entrance of the Hall, ready to direct and delegate. 

Sounds of scuffling and hushed voices approached and moments later the first injured was carried into the Hall. 

The Warden immediately directed the poor soldier and his minders to the House of Remedies, as he did for the other ten soldiers who were carried on stretchers. Soon after, hundreds of soldiers trudged in and at once all the Healers and their assistants, even Lothíriel herself, were fully engaged in providing care. 

While she was carefully cleaning up the gashes on the arm of a Gondorian soldier, a thought occurred to her. The King of Rohan was also hurt, according to Queen Arwen, but she had not seen him enter the Houses. 

“Could I ask you a question, good sir?”

“Aye, Your Highness, please ask me anything.” The soldier sat up straight, but then winced and slumped. “Beg your pardon.”

“Peace, sir,” Lothíriel smiled at him comfortingly, “no need for protocol here. Tell me, what of the King of Rohan? I have heard that he has gotten hurt, but I did not see him come in.”

“Éomer King, well, he rode in on his steed, leading his men, so I presume that he is not seriously hurt. Let me ask Foltor...” The Gondorian soldier took a deep breath. “Oi, Foltor! FOLTOR!”

The Princess looked in the direction of where the man was shouting. Sure enough, there was a blonde soldier about twenty feet away, getting his leg looked at, who looked up and growled an answer. 

Then the Gondorian asked in rudimentary Rohirric about Éomer. 

What the horse-lord then said, she could not understand, but his calm yet slightly amused expression while he gestured about his head, made her understand that his King was not in serious trouble. 

“Your Highness, there was an incident that resulted in some bruising, but it should be all right.” The Gondorian man replied to her with a grin. 

“That is a relief, indeed,” she sighed and added, “for both Rohan and Gondor. Thank you, sir.”

She watched as he moved to bow, but he winced again, having hurt his shoulder. Gently, she bade him to lie down and he grunted his thanks, only to fall asleep a minute later. Then she finished up her care for him and moved on to the next soldier. She continued to work for three hours before she deemed it calm enough to take a break. 

After washing her hands and retying her hair, Lothíriel informed Ioreth that she would be back in half an hour. Then she set out in search for her father. She went around the High Hall and then to the House of Remedies.

Eventually, she made her way to the House of Rest, but there too was no Prince Imrahil.

It occurred to her that her father would be in council with the Kings. She turned around and made to leave when a familiar voice called out. 

“You there, Princess Herbalist!” It was the Warden, the Chief Healer, and he was beckoning her to him. “I need you to fetch me your best Sorrowfew and see if you can find me some Iâfthalion. It is more precautionary than actually needed. Ioreth should know where it is. Now with haste, young lady, I do not have all day. Meet me in my personal room.”

Before long, Lothíriel briskly walked back to the Main Hall, found both the Sorrowfew and two grapes of Iâfthalion, and strode to the office of the Warden. 

The door was open, and the Warden instantly called her in and shut the door behind her. 

“Excellent!” The old man said. “Now, our young sire has his bruised ribs all bandaged up, but you need to put the Sorrowfew on the rest of his bruises and ensure that he eats the grapes just in case there is any concussion.”

He walked her over to the man sitting on the cot, who was wearing a towel over his head. His waist was bandaged and his upper body was bare. 

“The towel is soaked with a cooling potion; it will help any swelling of the head. He needs to keep it on for another... Fifteen minutes? I will be back after making a round of the Halls.”

Then Warden Bair Nestad paused halfway out the door and held up a hand as if he remembered something. “The cooling potion! For some people, it lowers their inhibitions a bit, so pay no heed to anything silly that comes out of our patient’s mouth. The effect is temporary.”

The door shut once more and Lothíriel set to work immediately, as she wanted to continue looking for her Father. 

“Greetings, sir. I will be applying the Sorrowfew on your bruises. Please let me know if I hurt you.”

The man grunted in acknowledgment, which was all that she required of him. With her nimble fingers, she gently rubbed the salve on his skin, first starting with the lower left side of his back where the bruising was, working her way up from his waist to his left shoulder. 

The room was quiet, the only disturbances being the distant noise of the High Hall and his heavy and slow breathing. 

His skin was fair with a pinkish undertone, she noted absently, so he was from the Northern Regions. The bruises that were visible to her, were a jarring blend of blues, red and purples like a bouquet of dreadful flowers spread out over the left side of his body. However, the colours did mean that he was healing well, and the salve would be of benefit to him. 

Then she moved on to his upper arm which had not been hurt as much. She had massaged the Sorrowfew into his skin up until his neck, which was covered with the towel. Instead of moving the sweet-smelling cloth, she chose to treat his chest first and sat on a stool facing towards him. Here too the bruises bloomed violently, and wondering just how the injury occurred, she stroked the skin thoughtlessly. The man flinched and she stammered an apology. 

“I will now apply the salve on the bruises here.”

The man grunted his assent once more, so Lothíriel continued the delicate application of the salve. First, the upper abdomen was gently treated on the left side of his body, which had fine blonde hair that trailed up his chest. When her eyes fell on the pectoral muscle, her breath hitched in her throat. 

This man had the symbol of the sun of the Riddermark etched on his chest. The four prominent rays extended to the cardinal directions, with smaller rays alternating in line thickness evenly spaced in and outside of the rings. The tattoo stood in sharp contrast against his skin, though less visible because of the marks of injury. 

Once more forcing herself to focus on her task, she finished up quickly, while trying and failing to ignore how pleasing she found the bulky, muscular shoulders. Fie, she scolded herself, do your job, Herbalist.

Lothíriel was able to dispel her inner musings long enough to have done due diligence.

But there was something niggling at the back of her mind. And so she reflected. 

She was in the Chief Healer’s private office tending to someone of very high rank in the Rohirrim Army. 

Only one such person came to mind who fit this man’s appearance. 

Lothíriel pressed her hand against her mouth to suppress her gasp. 

She had been treating Éomer? 

Her whole body heated up in mortification. 

The Princess tried to look at his hands, as to detect the King's signet ring on his little finger, but he had been grasping the towel in his lap with his hands. Alas, she could not see it. 

But the more she thought of it, the more it made sense. 

There was no choice but to confront reality. 

For a wild moment, she considered leaving, but instead, she reached out both of her trembling hands. She took hold of the towel and carefully slid it off, revealing blonde, wavy hair cascading down to his shoulders. 

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet hers, and he seemed not surprised to see her. Indeed, he looked at her with eyebrows raised in amusement, raking his eyes all over her person as she promptly curtsied. 

Éomer King. 

A heavy silence stretched out between them as she desperately tried to calm her frantic mind. Once or twice, she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing useful came out.

Finally, he spoke up.

“Good morning, milady. I had an inkling it was you. You seem to find a way to keep me in your care, Princess.”  

His voice was low and deep. “Nevertheless... I wonder if you were able to recognize me without my clothes on.”

A rush of embarrassment swept through her body, and she looked at him with wide eyes. What reply could she give to such a teasing remark?

No. It was the side-effect of the cooling potion. 

She was his Herbalist.

He was her patient.

Deciding to mind her responsibilities instead of her silly heart, which was thudding loudly in her ears, she took hold of a fresh phial of Sorrowfew.

With great difficulty, she managed to stammer a request. “Your Majesty, allow me to treat your neck and your face.”

“Call me Éomer.”

Lothíriel froze and looked down, the idea of calling him by his name was incredibly intimate in this already scandalous situation. “Sire. Right now, I am a Herbalist applying salve to the King of Rohan.”

“Fine.”

Éomer nodded slightly, closed his eyes, and turned his face towards her. There were a few bruises on the left side of his neck and his face. They had already turned blackish blue, so here too he was healing well. 

Once more, she applied the salve on his skin, but now she was more aware of his being than ever. His neck had a darker tan than his shoulders, and his beard, a rich and dark shade of blonde, needed grooming. With her other hand, she pushed aside his hair, but it fell back immediately. 

“Will you permit me to braid your hair, sire? I would tie it back, but I do not wish to put pressure on your skin.”

“Go ahead, milady.” Éomer kept his eyes closed, which Lothíriel appreciated. The colour of his eyes was especially captivating up close, and her nerves were already shot. 

With great care, she climbed on the cot behind his back and gathered his hair in her hands.

“Please let me know if you experience any pain.”

“Hmm.”

Lothíriel divided the damp locks into three and folded them into a loose braid. Then she secured it with a length of linen bandage taken from the Warden’s desk. Soon enough, she was done and satisfied with her own handiwork.

With a will of their own, her eyes roamed over his broad, muscular back. There was an array of moles and scars scattered across the fair expanse of his skin, accompanied by fine blonde hair sloping downwards from his neck. 

Had she ever thought any person's back to be beautiful? 

Yet here she was, staring mesmerized at his back, with hands itching to run down his spine and explore the firmness of his muscles. 

She was a Herbalist, she reminded herself, and he was a patient. 

She was an utter disgrace to her métier! 

Once more mentally reprimanding herself, Lothíriel gathered her wits about and went back to the stool.

Then she spread the salve over the bruises on his face. Gently she massaged the salve into the bearded skin on his jawline. 

“That should be the last of it,” she mumbled, “are there any bruises I am not aware of?”

At once, he opened his eyes, and she became very aware of how close she was to him. 

“I do not know, Princess. Perhaps you can give me a good look and see for yourself.”

The blasted cooling potion again. 

With a blush, she moved back and studied every inch of his visible skin. If there was any bruising below his waist, she would not know it. She decided against asking him another mortifying question. The Warden must have taken care of any below-the-belt injuries. 

“Everything seems to be in order.” She said, more breathlessly than she wanted, and she turned to the basin to wash her hands with great care. With her back to him, she heard him get up. The creaking of the cot was ear-deafening in the quiet room. 

His heavy footfalls were heard walking towards the window overlooking the encampment of his men. With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall with folded arms and gazed out. 

Lothíriel cast him a glance. That had been an unwise move because the sunlight streaming in emphasized his broad musculature and made his hair and skin look radiant. Even his frown was magnificent. He looked regal and soft and dangerous, like a mountain cat. 

He was so attractive that she resented him for it.

Almost.

Quickly she walked to the table where she had put the bowl with the dark, maroon-coloured grapes of Iâfthalion and picked it up. 

“Your Majesty,” said the Princess to the King, “please have these.”

He looked down at the bowl and scowled. “No, you should save these for someone who actually needs it.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “We have enough for other people. Please do not object, I have my orders from the Warden.”

For some reason, Éomer did not want to cooperate.

“I can give you orders to stand down, Princess. I am a King.”

“In the Houses of Healing, the Warden has the final say, especially when it comes to the health of Kings.”

The horse-lord was feeling uncharacteristically petulant, because he simply replied: “They are overly sweet, I will not have them.”

She was troubled by the entire situation, having spent the past fifteen minutes rubbing his bare body, in such close proximity. Without a chaperone.

Furthermore, his unsettling remarks induced by the vapours of the cooling potion were an assault on her nerves and her heart. 

She really needed to leave before she did something highly untoward. 

Like, run her hands over his torso. 

Or kiss him.

After heaving a deep sigh, she held one of the round, juicy grapes between her thumb and index finger, took two big strides towards him, and pressed the fruit up against his lips. Her action had startled him, because he stopped leaning on the wall and had fully turned to her, with widened eyes. 

“Éomer Éomundson, mighty King of Rohan... Open your mouth or so help me, I will recruit the High King Elessar into force-feeding you!” Her voice cracked but her resolve did not waver, a glare accompanying her stern words. 

To her relief, Éomer parted his lips and nipped the grape from her hand, his lips grazing her fingertips. As he chewed, a look of disgust crossed his face, and he groaned after he swallowed. “You keep feeding me revolting things, milady. I cannot stand it.”

Lothíriel sent him a cheeky grin and proffered him to the second one, causing him to groan out loud.

“Lothíriel. Do not do this to me.”

Though a blush spread on her cheeks because of his informal address, she did not waver. It was the cooling potion after all. “Next time I shall feed you something more pleasant, so please just abide this time.”

“I will hold you to your words, Princess.” Dutifully, he nipped the grape from her fingers once more and chewed and swallowed quickly. 

Satisfied with his obedience, she walked away and started tidying the room. 

“How about tomorrow we sup in the herb garden, like last time?”

Her hands stilled and she looked down at them.

She felt his heavy gaze upon her, and she wondered if he was aware that his request was considered inappropriate in Gondorian society. Still, it would not be their first private rendezvous. Not even their second, in fact. 

Then again, Gondorian society was unnecessarily boring and inflexible, she decided.

“Yes, that would be lovely.” She sent a smile to him.

“I will keep my dinner light and we can have supper at 7.30 PM.”

Pleased with her answer, Éomer reached out for his maroon shirt that was neatly folded on the Wardens desk. The Chief Healer had helped him put on his trousers and sent off a servant with his armour. After two attempts to put the shirt on, he gave up and shot a pleading look at Lothíriel. 

Wordlessly, she helped him slip on his shirt and straightened up his collar and sleeves. When she moved to undo his braid, he covered her hand with his to still its movement. 

“I will keep this for today.”

She nodded in understanding and went back to the cot to refresh it, while Éomer quietly observed her. 

The silence began to unnerve her, so she asked him a question. 

“How did you get hurt, milord?”

Éomer cleared his throat and frowned. “My men and I, we were about done disposing of a troop of Orcs, when another group of these wretched creatures snuck up on us. The horse lost his balance due to the arrows in his flank, he was about to topple onto both of my men, but I was able to push them out of his path – “

“So the horse fell on you instead?"

“Aye, but my men got him off of me quick enough. We lost a good horse that day.”

Lothíriel reached out and rubbed his good shoulder comfortingly. “If the horse was not there when it was, your men would have gotten hurt by those arrows instead.”

He looked down over his shoulder at her and she was struck with just how towering he was. Like her father and her brothers, she herself was tall, but he was still a good half a foot larger. Quickly she pulled her hand back and moved away. 

“We should have not been ambushed in the first place.” Éomer clenched his teeth, his jawline pronounced under his bruises and his beard.

“True. I have heard an increase in reports of the artfulness of Orcs.” Lothíriel said thoughtfully. “Considering that the Orcs bad at hiding and sneaking were detected and decapitated, it makes sense that the surviving Orcs are just so very skilled at keeping themselves concealed. Ada said that he shall discuss the Orc traps that my brothers invented, tomorrow at the High King’s Debate.”

She noticed that he was gaping at her, half a smile on his face. 

“Your Majesty?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “I did not know you were aware of such things.”

“Well, yes. It is not as fascinating as herb-lore, but I do keep an interest in my family's business. If it were not for you, I would have been attacked by such Orcs."

He nodded, obviously recalling the time he came across her in the First Circle.

"To keep my promise to you, I have asked Ada to keep me informed about their traps. I do not wish to be caught unaware again."

"Thank you, milady. For keeping the promise. It is a relief to know that you are safe."

He held her gaze earnestly and she felt her cheeks heat and her nerves fray. So she averted her eyes, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. 

“You and your family are close.” He stated with a small, almost sad smile. 

“Aye.” Lothíriel smiled too and opened her mouth to say something else, but the door swung open to reveal the Warden. 

“Your Majesty, if you are ready to go, your men are asking for you. Princess Herbalist, Healer Ioreth needs you. Come now, hurry up.” 

The Warden ushered them outside and they walked together to the High Hall of Healing. Éomer bowed to Lothíriel and he spoke. “Once more you have my gratitude, Princess Lothíriel.”

After bowing and saying goodbye, they each went to their own obligations. Lothíriel did glance back and she saw him, talking with his loyal men. His eyes flitted to hers and he did a double take when he noticed her attention. Her heart skipped a beat and she looked away with a tiny smile. 

The day passed quickly as Lothíriel supported the Healers in looking after the soldiers who had returned from the campaigns. It was at dinner time when she was able to meet with her Father. She had her meal while sitting next to him as he spoke with many different nobles and representatives.

They were seated near the High King and Queen, with Éomer King next to them. 

Now that her mind was not preoccupied with patient care, it was overwhelmed with the realization that she had spent over fifteen minutes touching Éomer’s fair skin. 

All that skin.

Those broad, firm muscles.

And fascinating blonde body hair.

The only sound in the room was his slow and steady breathing very close to her ear.

In a closed room without a chaperone. 

She felt a flush crawl up her cheeks, and she hastily took a sip from her drink to cool herself down. However, she was careless and promptly went into a coughing fit that turned her father’s attention to her.

Not only his but of many other people at the table. 

Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach, who was sitting next to her, scowled at her and offered begrudgingly his napkin so that she could mop up some of the water she had spilled. By the time she was able to clear her throat, most of the guests had resumed their meals and talks. The Lord next to her, however, had been shifting about plates and clearing items that had been affected by her coughing fit. Lothíriel apologized to him for the inconvenience, but he just scoffed and spoke, “Best you stop daydreaming, Your Highness.”

His attitude was off-putting and if they had not been in polite company, perhaps she would have given him a piece of her mind. Alas, she was a Princess, and she had to be mindful of her behaviour. She promptly finished her meal and excused herself. 

It was difficult to stay aware of her surroundings when she kept thinking back to the time that she spent with Rohirrim King in the private office of the Warden. His broad build and the blonde hair on his arms and chest were so very different from what she had seen of the men of Belfalas.

In more peaceful times, she would observe the training of the esteemed Swan Knights. It had been either Prince Imrahil or Prince Elphir taking charge of keeping the sons of Belfalan nobles in shape.

While exercises were done both in gear and without, the latter happened during summer days. It was in those hot mornings that Lothíriel had watched the Knights train. Like her own family, the Knights were usually wiry, dusky-skinned folk with dark curly hair. Their tall figures were very striking, and when they rode on their horses bedecked in full blue and silver armour, they looked powerful and awe-inspiring. 

Éomer was a different being altogether, mused Lothíriel, as she closed the door of her room and locked it. All that she wished now was to dream of that blonde warrior, without making a scene of herself. Deciding to retire for the night early, she changed into her nightgown and sank down on her bed. Then she stared at her hands, the ones that had touched him so carefully, and reflected. 

His skin had been littered with not only bruises, scars, and body hair, but he also had a tattoo that she was incredibly curious about. It was a Dunlending tradition, perhaps one of the Haradrim as well, but to have a King of Rohan bear a permanent ink etching was... fascinating and thrilling.

For whatever reason it was there, it suited him wonderfully. 

And she had braided his hair, his long, dark blonde hair. A giggle escaped her, and she bit her lip. Even though it had been damp from the cooling potion, it had been a joy to touch those soft waves. 

Lothíriel then recollected how otherworldly he seemed when he had stood in the golden rays of the noon sun. Truly, how beautiful could a man be? Even with bruises and bandages, he was the most attractive man she had ever laid her eyes upon. 

Oh, and his eyes kept finding hers, whenever they were near one another.

How could he expect her to move on when he so obviously enjoyed her presence? 

Not to mention that it was he who wanted to meet with her alone once again. Perhaps he was on the precipice of changing his mind... 

She stopped her thoughts and shook her head.

There was no benefit in fantasizing about anything, solely because he had not changed his mind. 

Oh, but he still could.

Fie, Lothíriel, those are dangerous thoughts! 

She pressed her hands to her face. She was being foolish. He had too much on his plate to take on a naive little princess who had just had her twenty-first summer. If she had been older, wiser, and more accomplished, perhaps he would have not rejected their union. 

Or he was just timid. 

She laughed out loud, the sound ringing in the dark and empty bedroom. She had seen him interact with many kinds of people and timid was not the word to describe him. Grumpy, moody, serious, or angry were more appropriate. Her mind then wandered off, listing traits such as sweet, caring, handsome, and warm. 

She stood up and lit a candle at her desk. Very carefully she took out the Herbarium of Théoden King and worked on it until she was tired. If she could finish copying it in three days, she could return it to him on the fourth day and show him her own herbarium. Eager for the morning to come, she slept early. 

Chapter Text

Before breakfast the next morning, Lothíriel took the time to tend to the herb garden and gathered some ingredients for the medicine that were often in high demand. When she had stored them appropriately, she refreshed herself and joined the High King’s table laden with a wonderful spread. Her heart ached a bit for her Halfling friends, having spent many a meal with those clever beings, and food only tasted half as good as it did when they were around. Ungrateful for her current company she was not, for she was surrounded by nobles and royals.

Most importantly, her father was sitting next to her, and they were having a discussion about when they should return to Dol Amroth. They had settled on departing after a week, at the same time the Rohirrim would start their journey back to Rohan. 

“Your Highness, Princess Lothíriel, do join us for our first Yule in Minas Tirith,” spoke Queen Arwen, who had been listening along attentively, “we shall have a grand celebration. Have your brothers and Crown Prince Elphir’s family attend as well.” 

Lothíriel and her father graciously accepted on their family’s behalf and expressed their enthusiasm. At length, the Queen and the Princess spoke about the planned festivities, until the latter took her leave to see to her duties in the Houses of Healing.

As quiet as ever, Feruion trailed behind her.  

There was more peace in the Houses of Healing than the day before. The soldiers of Gondor had retired to their own houses or the soldiers’ Quarters. Those who required longer aftercare stayed in the House of Rest. Those only requiring check-ups and fresh bandages were welcomed in the High Hall of Healing, where Lothíriel was assigned. With cheer, she greeted her patients and if they were up to it, she tried to make small talk. Over time, the Princess had learned a few words and short phrases in Rohanese that pertained to the healing of the soldiers.  

She would ask “Sārnes?” while pointing at wounds, or she inquired about their rest by asking about their “slæp”. Some of the soldiers would be able to answer using Westron, but most of them got by using body language. The men were of varied ages, yet their main similarities were that they were strong, eager for battle, and very fond of their King.

Those who were able to speak Westron asked her without fail, that the morning after their return, about the King’s health.  

“Our King says he has only bruises, but is that true? Nothing broken?” 

With a smile, she had assured them of the health of their ruler and shared that he would recover well enough to start their journey back to Edoras in about five days. Her words were met with joy and gratitude from the men, and one of them was bold enough to grab her hand and press it to his eyes.  

“Your family,” she said in broken Rohanese to him, “I hope for safe meeting.” 

The man looked up at her with a broad grin and twinkling eyes. He then gestured the cradling of a baby only to spread out his arms. “Boy so big!” 

“Wonderful!” She touched her heart, moved by this man’s willingness to leave his family for the sake of his country. Her reaction encouraged other soldiers to share with her who was waiting for them at home, and thus she spent another hour listening and talking with the soldiers of both Rohan and Gondor, while Feruion ensured that no one crossed any boundaries of the Princess.  

Finally, when luncheon had already passed, she bid adieu to the men and visited the kitchens for a peaceful meal with her loyal knight, sitting at one of the tables not far from where the kitchen staff had started making preparations for dinner. After finishing her meal, she approached one of the women and requested the preparation of a supper for two to be ready by 7.30 P.M.  

“Let us go for a walk,” she suggested to her guard, “I wish to stretch my legs before I take a rest.” 

Still in her Healer’s robes, Lothíriel led them to the Pier. It was a pleasant afternoon, and the wind was blowing from the east, carrying along the salty air of the river Anduin. Both the Princess and the Knight inhaled deeply and were struck by the longing for the sea. It had been too long.  

“Your Highness, may I discuss something with you?” 

Taken aback by the unusual request for speech, Lothíriel looked closely at her companion’s face, and she saw the reason written very clearly. There was a hint of sadness on his brow, and he was not able to look her in the eyes.  

“Dear sir, I feel that I am aware of what you are about to say. You wish to retire, do you not?” 

His head drooped down further. “Aye, Your Highness.” 

A twinge of grief was felt in her chest, and she sighed deeply. “I already know that I will miss you greatly, and your replacement will not be able to hold a candle to you.” 

Feruion shook his head with a little smile. “Your Highness, it has been an honour to look after you. You are the very best of Dol Amroth.” 

“As are you, Sir Feruion. Come, let us walk and talk about your future plans.” 

The two strolled up and down the Pier two times and then she said. “When we are home next week, I shall hold a grand feast on your recognition of service, as my father will be wont to do as well.” 

“Princess Lothíriel, is that you?” 

Upon hearing her name, the young woman turned her head to look at the two people who had approached them from behind and they exchanged greetings.  

“You are wearing Healer’s garbs, Your Highness...” Lady Vanyalos was looking her up and down.  

Accompanying his mother was Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach, who curtly said to her, “Her Highness has been in the duty of the Warden of the Houses of Healing.” 

The old lady looked from her son to the Princess in surprise. “How noble of you, Your Highness, to forgo your position for the sake of our soldiers.” 

“Not at all. I only wish to be of use to our King.” 

“Indeed, Your Highness, well said. I had been wondering all day where you were when we did not see you at court or at luncheon. You will join us for dinner, yes?” Lady Vanyalos smiled encouragingly, but her son only stared at Lothíriel with a stern expression. It unnerved her and Feruion was aware of it immediately.  

“Your Highness,” he murmured, “your presence is required elsewhere.” 

“Thank you for reminding me, Feruion,” Lothíriel smiled and curtsied, “please excuse me, Lady Vanyalos and Lord Forgammon. I shall have to leave now.” 

“But of course!” Lady Vanyalos replied kindly and curtsied as well while her son gave a performative bow.  

Walking briskly, Lothíriel ensured great distance between herself and the pair from Lossarnach before she slowed down and took a deep breath.  

“That man is the about same age as Elphir, but he is nothing like him,” she complained to her companion as they made their way back to the rooms for the Princes of Dol Amroth, “he is the direct opposite of his father, late Lord Forlong. Now that was a man of good humour and appetite!” 

Feruion patiently listened to his protégée, hoping to make the most of his last weeks with the Princess. He had been her personal guard ever since she had seen eleven summers. The leg injury he had received during a patrol meant that he was no longer quick on his feet. Still, he had been strong and skilled both with weapons and without, and thus more than capable of keeping an eye on a Princess. Over time, Feruion had become Lothíriel’s shadow, and part of him was unwilling to retire, as worrying for her wellbeing had become second nature to him.  

Lothíriel bade him to rest until 7.15 PM, which was when she wanted to head out to meet with the King of the Riddermark. A thrill of excitement went through her, which was not the first of that day.

Throughout the day she had thought of her evening plans, and she kept as busy as she could, willing time to go by swiftly. Once in her room, she had the maid prepare her bath and ready her outfit for that evening. After having a good soak, Lothíriel wrapped up her curls in a long cotton fabric towel and got dressed in an off-shoulder dress with silver embroidery at the bodice and at the bottom of her dark blue skirts. Then the maid skilfully wove a crown of braids on the Princess’ head and arranged the rest of the hair to flow down her back like a dark and tumultuous river. She affixed a small circlet of silver and chose to forgo all other jewellery.  

Having not seen Éomer all day, Lothíriel wished to make an impression upon him that would perhaps inspire him to change his mind. Regardless of what she tried to convince herself, her heart still beat faster in anticipation of seeing him. Despite warnings from her brothers and father, she could not move him from her heart. Not when he sought out her company and not when he touched her and looked at her in a way that seemed to set her very soul aflame.  

When she left her rooms, she knocked on the door to her father’s office. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and entered. Her father was sitting at his desk, writing. He looked up with a frown, before looking down again. “Dearest, what brings you here?” 

She approached him and kissed his cheek. “It is time for dinner. If I were not here to remind you, you would stay here until the first light of the morning. You seemed troubled, sir.” 

Prince Imrahil sighed deeply and put his quill down. “The negotiations with the Haradrim are not going as well as I expected. I will have to go with Erchirion to meet with them personally.” 

The Princes of Dol Amroth had been acting as ambassadors for Gondor to establish trade routes through the regions of Haradlands, and while they did not expect speediness, the negotiations had indeed run dry. The Haradrim were not interested in any of the goods from the Southern regions of Gondor, claiming that the Gondorian resources were inutile and inferior to the kinds available in their own realm. Instead, they insisted on trading goods from Arnor and Eriador, but those lands, though claimed, were not fully conquered. While Gondor was not in need of the luxury goods from the far south, the expected era of peace meant there would be an influx in demands for the finer things once people start having disposable income. More security in the trade routes meant fairer pricing and safety for the parties involved. Despite being stricken by the consequences of allying with Sauron as well as the ongoing internal conflict, the chiefs of the tribes remained adamant in their demands.  

“What of readily available goods of the Shire, of Rohan, and of the Dwarven realms? Would that not satisfy them either?” asked Lothíriel, recalling one of the discussions she had with her brother Erchirion about the very same topic.  

Prince Imrahil nodded thoughtfully. “Rohan is not ready for luxury yet, but that is why we want to convince them to look towards the future.” 

“Rohan could supply them with horses once they stabilize. Meanwhile, we could encourage threeway trades between Gondor, Harad, and Shirefolk.” 

“We could, aye.” He stood up and straightened his clothes. “Let us continue our discussion while we dine.” 

Arm in arm, the two joined the other honoured guests in the dining hall. They took a seat near Lady Vanyalos and her son, and the latter took interest in their discussion which had turned to safety protocols for the traders traveling in Haradlands.  

“What we need is someone who is bold enough to demand protection from the chiefs while being comfortable to be in contact with them. We have yet to find a person who is willing and able.” 

“There must be someone near the borders,” said Lord Forgammon, “perhaps a family who have a connection with Haradrim through marriage.” 

“What about someone like Captain Baranor?” 

Both Prince Imrahil and Lord Forgammon stopped eating and stared at Lothíriel, who felt a flush creep up her neck.  

“How do you know of him?” Lord Forgammon demanded with a frown. “It is not common knowledge at all.” 

His tone did not suit her one bit. “Lord Forgammon, you forget that I am not a commoner.” 

The man did not back down in his disbelief. “But how do you know of Former Captain Baranor?” 

“I do not owe you my sources, sir, nor do I doubt their veracity.” She glared at him. “Would you question my brothers in the same manner?” 

Prince Imrahil cleared his throat, sensing the tension, and steered the conversation back. “Captain Baranor would be useful to us, aye, but it is not sure if he is still alive. Last I heard he left for Mordor on a covert mission during the War of the Ring, expecting never to return.” 

Lothíriel took a sip from her wine, still feeling the stare from the Lord from Lossarnach. “I have heard that he is in Osgilliath along with his biological brother –“ 

“I do not believe this,” scoffed Lord Forgammon, “why would he, or anyone around him, not have sent word to Gondor of his return?” 

“You may choose to doubt me, but you shall have to inquire yourself as to his motivations.” She shot him a sharp look and ate the last morsel on her plate, before turning to her father. “Send someone to Osgiliath and do find out, sir. If he is still alive and of the same valiant soul, I am sure he will not be able to refuse such a responsibility.” 

For a moment, her father seemed to struggle to decide if he wanted to reprimand her behaviour or if he wanted to immediately get up and start inquiries about Lord Baranor. Before he could decide, however, she stood up and curtsied in a lacklustre manner before storming off.  

Lothíriel had learned to hold her temper in check very well over the years, having suffered the embarrassing consequences of public displays of anger more than she could count, however, Lord Forgammon had held a consistently undermining and condescending attitude towards her.  

“Odious man!” She exclaimed, balling her hands into fists, while she continued her walk to her room. She felt the urge to let out a string of choice Dol Amrothian expletives but then thought the better of it. The absence of her brothers was felt strongly, as at least one of them would have engaged the Lord of Lossarnach in a discussion away from her.

They were raised to be dependable for one another, whether it was in battle, at court, or in politics, and the siblings never wavered in their loyalty to each other. Lothíriel paused in front of the doors that led to her brothers’ quarters. Elphir was in Dol Amroth, returning soon in his father’s stead at Gondorian Court. Erchirion and Amrothos were en route to Dol Amroth as well, having been unsuccessful without their father’s support. Minas Tirith seemed less cheerful without them.  

Not that it was a completely dispiriting place, of course. Besides being able to practice herb-lore, there was the formidable and charming presence of Éomer King to placate her heart. At the thought of him, she perked up immediately.  

“Feruion, where are you?” She called out into the main sitting room of the Dol Amrothian quarters.  

Immediately, she heard him approach.

Ten minutes later, they entered the kitchens to fetch the supper that Lothíriel had asked the staff to prepare.  

“I beg your pardon?” She said, staring at one of the cooking women, who seemed to be terribly embarrassed. 

“I had put the basket right here milady, I swear to you!” The poor woman pointed at the counter. “When I had my back turned, someone came in and just took it away after saying thanks. I did not know who it was.” 

“Peace, dear lady,” Lothíriel patted her back, “I am sure I will find it myself.” 

Her suspicions were confirmed when she climbed up the stairs to the herb garden, while Feruion remained there standing guard. 

It was not yet 7:30 PM, but she could hear that someone was moving about on the far side of the herb garden. When she attained visual, she smiled. Éomer had taken the food from the kitchen and was currently instructing a servant to adjust the setting of the table and the cushioned cover of the stone bench. A fire was already lit in a brazier that had been placed nearby. Her heart skipped a beat at his thoughtfulness and she wondered if there was anyone else besides her who had seen this side of him. 

He was wearing a leather vest over a brown cotton tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blonde hair was tied up in a bun and he looked less tired than the day before. His beard had been groomed and the bruises that stained his face seemed to look less angry. The Sorrowfew that she had put on it the day before, seemed to be working, she thought with no little satisfaction.  

He turned to look in her direction and his lips lifted into a lopsided smile.  

“Milady, you are early.” 

With his keen senses, he had noticed her approach and he was now looking closely at her appearance. The weight of his gaze made her feel a pleasant kind of nervous, and a slight excitement at his obvious appreciation flipped in the pit of her stomach. She gave him a curtsey and stood in front of him.  

“Indeed, we both are. Thank you for taking care of the arrangements.” 

Éomer gestured for them to sit and she obliged, taking care to sit on his right side so he would not have to strain his bruised ribs to look at her. The servant left them alone after lighting the torches and two candles on the table.  

“To my pleasant surprise, you had already taken care of the meal. I figured I would set the table and make our seating a bit more comfortable.” 

Lothíriel was indeed more comfortable on the cushions and she was grateful for it because she was in no hurry to leave him. He could have gotten chairs instead of the cushions, but that would have meant that they would be seated opposite each other. She suspected that he too was partial to literally rubbing elbows with her instead.  

“Thank you, it is very thoughtful of you, Your Majesty.” She looked up at him with a smile.  

“’Tis nothing.” He broke the eye contact and he almost seemed shy. “You look after everyone else, so I thought I should return the gesture.” 

Her heart squeezed with joy and she let out a giggle. He looked back at her, curious to see what caused her such mirth.  

“Do the people of Rohan know that you are this sweet?” 

He looked at her with widened eyes before throwing his head back in a hearty laugh.  

“I might not have been raised to be a ruler, but I promise you, being called sweet rarely works in favour of a King.” 

“Hmm.” Lothíriel shrugged as she studied the spread of food in front of them. “It might surprise you. My mother used to say ‘Kind words unlock iron doors.’” 

“Something like that proverb of catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?”  

She did not reply. Instead, she opened a small dish, prepared a morsel on a fork, and brought it close to his mouth.  

“What is this?” Éomer asked, looking at the food with distrust.  

Lothíriel suppressed a giggle, amused by his expression. “Salmon with honey.” 

When wariness was replaced by disgust on the man’s face, she laughed softly. She moved closer to him, her thigh pressing against his. With a teasing lilt, she said: “Open your mouth, Éomer King.” 

He reluctantly took the bite and chewed thoughtfully.  

“That is actually...” He swallowed and looked down at her, “... Quite lovely.” 

She held his gaze boldly, their faces mere inches apart. “’Tis my favourite, I put in a special request for it.” 

Éomer looked down and cleared his throat. He moved towards the table and away from her, their thighs no longer touching. He took two plates and prepared a variety of foods just like she did last time. 

Lothíriel gladly accepted a plate for him, humbled by the thought that this great man sought her out in private and now was giving her supper. She watched as he took another bite of salmon and gestured for her to start eating as well.  

“Do not make me eat alone, Princess. I have not eaten since breakfast. Were you not the one insisting that I take better care of myself?”  

He followed her movements with his eyes as she took a bite. Satisfied, he continued his own meal. 

“Why did you not have luncheon, sir?” 

Éomer shook his head. “It is served during meetings. How can I feed myself while speaking of the dire straits of people stricken by war?” 

"But you rarely attend dinner in Merethrond as well."

"Even then I tend to be surrounded by people who are intent on continuing discussions best left for councils and meetings."

His words made great sense to her and it was perhaps also the reason why he preferred eating in the herb garden.  

He emptied a cup of water and put some more food on his own plate. Then he did the same for her plate, earning another smile from her.  

“At least while I am here with - I mean, in this garden, I do not have to be a King,” he paused his words to look her deeply in the eyes, “so I request you, Lothíriel, to call me by my name and not by my title when we meet like this.” 

Such privilege! To call him by his name, to be fed by him, and to have him prefer her company to that of nobles and kings. There was no doubt to her now that he held her in a special regard. She rested a hand on his knee for a moment before she took it away.  

“I shall call you Éomer if that is what gives you peace.” 

He gave her a grateful look. “Thank you, Lothíriel.” 

She would never tire of hearing him say her name. A pleasant silence settled between them while they supped until he broke it.  

“How has your day been, Lothíriel?” 

She needed a moment to collect herself, as she had been waxing lyrical internally about her companion’s features.   “It has been an eventful day, with highs and lows. This morning my father and I decided on when to return home, which is the same day you and your men leave for Rohan.” 

“No doubt, you have been missing your home.” 

“Aye, though I feel happy wherever I can be of use. Queen Arwen has invited me back to Minas Tirith for Yule, with my family. Will you join us?” 

She glanced at him, his features were heavily contrasted by the candlelight.  

“Éowyn will have her last Yule with me at Edoras before she is wed. All of our people are looking forward to it, so it will be twelve days of feasting and gratitude like in the days of Éorl the Young.” 

“That sounds marvellous.” Said Lothíriel and she filled both of their cups with wine.  

“Next year you should join me.” 

Lothíriel looked at him in wonder.  

He hastily added: “Join us! With your family, I mean. I know it shall not be as elegant an affair as in Gondor, as my people are content with less elaborate – “ 

“I would love nothing more than to attend the Yule Days of Rohan. It would be a great honour.” Lothíriel smiled up at him, thrilled to be invited. “I have always wanted to go there, but the journey is so long and perilous from Dol Amroth, that I have never even bothered asking my father to go.” 

Éomer had emptied his cup of wine and poured himself another. “If your father loves me as much as you claim, perhaps he will be open to the suggestion now.” 

Lothíriel looked down at her cup. If she were to ask her father to go to Edoras, he would definitely think that she and Éomer were courting. Which was not true, right?  

She stole a glance at him. He was examining the berries in the fruit basket.  

They had been meeting in private, speaking informally, exchanging gifts and letters, and he had even touched her in ways that were considered intimate by Gondorian standards.  

But what if, by Rohirric standards, this was just friendship?  

“If the invitation comes from you directly, I do not think Father shall refuse you.” She finally said, willing herself away from the spiraling thoughts of insecurity.  

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. “Then, if it pleases you, I shall write a formal invitation to your father when it is appropriate.” 

“It does please me, Éomer.” Lothíriel was thrilled. She would be in Edoras next winter! To stop herself from daydreaming about how magnificent he would look in his own surroundings, she took a few large sips of the wine.  

“Good, good. I hope to have made progress in restoring Rohan to its former glory by then.” 

“Oh, I do not think that will happen.” And as she said that, she felt his eyes on her, his bewilderment tangible. “What I mean to say, dear Éomer, with you as their King, with the Oaths renewed, and with the support of all those who love you, I know that Rohan shall be more glorious than ever.” 

Setting her cup down, she turned to him, her knees brushing his thigh, and grabbed hold of his broad hand. “Do not look so doubtful, it does not suit you.” 

She looked down at their hands. His was scarred and calloused, with fine blonde hair on the back of his hand and on his knuckles. He was wearing the ring with the seal of Rohan on his little finger. Her hands were smaller, of a darker shade and though they had callouses too, they were smoother than his. Tentatively, she traced the lines in his palm. “Like I have told you before, it is exactly because you are who you are, that you will be the King your people need the most right now. I wish you were more lenient to yourself.” 

She looked up at his face to see that he was staring at her with an intense gaze under his frown. Rendered speechless, she felt a blush spread over her face and neck. Gently, he pulled his hand away from his and broke his gaze. He picked up his cup once more and emptied it. Setting the cup down, he cleared his throat and said gruffly. “You are too kind, Lothíriel, one of these days I may end up believing what you say.” 

Lothíriel turned to her plate, feeling light-headed. “Nothing else would make me happier.” 

She felt another glance at her, but she kept her eyes on her food. If he had not moved away when he did, she might have reached out and kissed him. If he truly considered her a friend, then whatever they had would have been ruined by her impulse.  

“So,” Éomer cleared his throat again, “how were things at the Houses of Healing?” 

The Princess could not help but smile. He was being talkative and she enjoyed it immensely. In detail, she told him about her labours and her chatting with the soldiers from both Gondor and Rohan. When she told him how all his men insisted upon her informing them about their King’s health, he shook his head in happiness and disbelief. Then he asked: “Does your father not mind you being surrounded by soldiers?” 

“Feruion is always there, looking out for me. One time a soldier did try to touch me with less honourable intentions, but Feruion was quick to put him in his place. After his example, no one dares to bother me.” Lothíriel replied, and she put her plate down, having had enough.  

“I am not sure what will happen after he retires.” She sighed and leaned back on her hands.  

“Your Knight is retiring?” asked Éomer and he sent a cursory look towards the stairs where he knew Feruion was standing guard.  

“He told me today, but I had been expecting it for a while already.” A sombre feeling crept into her heart. “It has been almost ten years since he was first assigned to me and he has always been my truest friend and confidante.” 

“This must lay heavy on your heart.” 

Lothíriel nodded and bit her lip. “He has a family, so it does not do for me to be selfish.” 

“Are you not his family too?” 

She smiled. “Yes. And I have promised him that if he does not visit me regularly, then he can expect me to come knocking on his door at his earliest inconvenience.” 

Éomer chuckled and encouraged her to share more about her time with Feruion, which she happily obliged. When her tales had been exhausted, she told him. “I still have him by my side for another few days and I am grateful for it. Today, he saved me from that awful Lord of Lossarnach. I hope whoever his successor is, is able to stand up to him.” 

“Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach?” Éomer asked. 

“Aye, that is him.” 

“Does he court you against your wishes?” 

At once, Lothiriel laughed. “Good heavens, no!” 

Éomer looked on, confused as she struggled to contain her amusement.  

“No, no,” she said as she gasped for air, “his disdain for me is so grand, that all of Dol Amroth knows of it.” 

She set her wine aside and drank water instead, feeling a touch light-headed. “I have known him for years. His cousin sister is married to Elphir and he is an advisor to my father. His presence is nigh inescapable, I am afraid.” 

“But why does he dislike you? And why do you need protection from him?”  

Lothíriel sighed. “Honestly, Éomer, I cannot think of a reason why. He is always looking at me with a scowl and if I even make the slightest mistake, he will be the first to scold me, even before Elphir or Father can think to speak up. Oh, and if there is any discussion, whether it is politics or trade logistics, and I say anything, he looks at me like I am the biggest fool to ever exist.” 

“I am sorry to hear that,” he replied with a serious expression, “does no one intervene on your behalf?” 

“They do, thankfully. My brothers ensure a great physical distance between us and they also engage him in a discussion completely unrelated to what I am saying. My father does not stop him, because he has told me that I need to be able to manage him by myself.” 

“Well, he is not wrong.” 

“Aye, so you love him as much as he loves you,” protested Lothíriel with an indulgent look, “for you to take his side only moments before being on mine.” 

Once more, Éomer King laughed heartily because of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. 

“Then I promise you, whenever Lord Forgammon is burdening you with his presence, and I am there to witness it, I shall steal you away from him.” 

“And I shall expect nothing less from you, Éomer Éomundson.” 

That night Lothíriel had returned to her room, a bit drunk on wine, but mostly intoxicated by the time she spent with Éomer. How she wished she would never have to leave his side, not even to sleep.  

He too seemed to seek out her person with the intention of spending a scandalous amount of time alone with her. Foolish or naive he was not. Surely he understood what he was doing to her when he spent time with her so intimately. Furthermore, before leaving her, he insisted that she would sup with him every night before their departure.  

And the more she spent time with him, the more she was convinced that he was the sweetest, most charming man ever to exist. Before sleep took her, she spent every second of her waking, hoping that he would come to see his own feelings for her. And that she would be deemed worthy by him to be allowed by his side.  

The following morning, she woke up with much vigor and got ready for an early breakfast. Moments after she sat down at the table, Prince Imrahil greeted her affectionately and joined her. 

“Well met, dear daughter, I did not expect you this early. You... retired late last night.” His gaze was sharp and his implication was clear.  

Lothíriel blushed. “I am well, Father, there is no cause for concern.” 

Her father raised his chin in a thoughtful expression. “Do you remember our agreement about informing me in the event of any change?” 

“Aye, sir. Nothing has changed.” 

“I see. Will you be late tonight as well?”  

“Yes, I expect to be returning late from supper, sir.” She knew he was only looking out for her as her parent, but she felt embarrassed. She was crossing the boundaries of propriety and Imrahil was aware enough because of Feruion’s duty to inform.  

At that moment, Lord Forgammon sat down opposite Prince Imrahil. As was his habit, his greeting of her was more a glare than a nod. She nodded just as curtly and turned to her father once more.  

“I shall be late and that might persist every night until our departure.” She spoke in a lower voice, hoping that the Lord would not feel invited to partake in the conversation. She was wrong, though.  

“Princess Lothíriel, it is highly improper for ladies of your standing to stay out after sunset.” 

He did not even bother looking her in the eye. Instead, he continued to cut his food into bite-sized pieces with a stern expression.  

“I thank you for your advice, Lord Forgammon. It is very kind of you to look out for me.” 

“I doubt that you will heed my words, Your Highness.” 

Lothíriel shot her father an incredulous look, but he refused to engage.  

“I am wise enough to gauge the safety risks of my comings and goings, I assure you.” Lothíriel struggled to put a smile on her face.  

The man did not bother with any form of kindness. He looked up and fixed his dark eyes upon her face. “And how many summers have you seen, Your Highness? Nineteen?” 

She laughed a very fake laugh and once again sought eye contact with her father, in vain. She was in trouble. If her father did not distract him very soon, she would end up saying some very unladylike things to the uptight lord Forgammon.  

“Twenty-one, Lord Forgammon, I have seen twenty-one summers. If you do recall, I am eleven summers older than your twin sons.” 

He took a bite from his breakfast. “Eleven summers, that is all?” 

Before she was able to resort to foul language, a large figure sank down next to the Lord of Lossarnach and slapped him hard on his back.  

“Here you are, Lord Forgammon!” Éomer King looked over at the opposite side of the table. “Well met, Prince Imrahil, Princess Lothíriel. I was looking for you, Forgammon, do you know of Morwen of Lossarnach?” 

Lothíriel hid a small smile behind her napkin as she wiped her face.

Éomer had saved her from losing her composure, as per his promise. Prince Imrahil cleared his throat and shared an amused look with her. Forgammon was completely overwhelmed by the Rohirrim King’s questions about his ancestor who had once resided in Lossarnach.  

Éomer was wearing a fitted surcoat with a high collar over a tunic, and a long cape, all a lovely shade of green with golden embroidered details along the hems. The bruises on his face were almost completely faded and he wore his hair in a neat braid.  

For a few minutes, Lothiriel observed him quietly while she finished her meal. Every once in a while his eyes flitted to her and a hint of a smile came and went from his face. Finally, she stood up and curtsied, as it was time for her to tend to her duties in the Houses of Healing. Her father too stood up and offered to take her.  

“I shall need to stop by the kitchens before I go. Shall I see you at dinner, sir?” 

He patted her shoulder and turned left into the hallway towards the King’s offices. Lothíriel looked back into the dining hall. The bright eyes of Éomer King met hers and she smiled, looking forward to seeing him in the evening.  

In the kitchens, she made her request for supper and then she asked. “Does the High King not have luncheon?” 

“No, Your Highness, he usually dines early and retires early as well.” Replied the head chef.  

“I see. Could I bother you to provide sandwiches after the midday meetings? It has come to my attention that some of the attendees forgo their luncheon that is served during the midday meetings.” 

“How about I run it past Queen Arwen? Perhaps she will be able to guide me further.”  

“An excellent plan, ma'am. Have a good day.” 

Lothíriel went on to the Houses of Healing with renewed energy, hoping to have the day pass rapidly.  

The Houses, however, were less than half full. Very few soldiers needed tending and those who did need attention had already been seen by the Healers.  

“Princess Herbalist, you are early today.” The tall Warden approached her with twinkling eyes. “You will be pleased to know that your help is no longer needed!” 

Lothíriel stared at him in surprise and then lost her good spirits. Today would be a very slow day for her.  

Lothíriel was not a patient woman. She had tried to become one, truly. All her maids and teachers tried their best and she had made great progress. She could wait for plants to grow. She could wait for the tide to turn. She could wait for her brothers and father to return from the battlefields. She could wait for the tea leaves to steep long enough to get the flavour exactly as she wanted.

However, waiting for supper seemed ridiculous when it was just past luncheon.  

After her dismissal from the Houses of Healing, where she did not even need to make any brews, salves, or antidotes, she changed into a bright blue gown with full-length sleeves. Her maid plaited her hair into a single braid and pinned white flowers at the crown of her head. Then she joined Queen Arwen’s court, followed by a walk at the Pier, worked on the Herbarium until her hand cramped and now she was on her way to the High Stables for her mare Ferieth. Feruion had been dismissed by her, as she wanted him to have luncheon, so she told him that she would meet him an hour later in the Main Hall. With a little reluctance, he took a promise from her not to go riding and he left after ordering the guards at the High Stables to keep an eye on her.  

Lothíriel watched him leave. She felt useless and anxious, and she hoped that grooming Ferieth would help ease her nerves. Ferieth was a young mare who was made available to her by her cousin Faramir. Her journeys to and from Minas Tirith were by horseback or by boat, depending on her father’s plans. This time she had journeyed to the White City by boat and she would return to Dol Amroth in the same manner. While she was here, she made do with Ferieth, who was docile enough. The black and white mare stood between a great grey steed and a brown mare. 

“There now, Ferieth, pretty lady,” She said as she approached her horse and stroked her neck, “I brought you something.” 

The horse neighed softly, smelling the apples in Lothíriel’s bag. With a laugh, the Princess took one out and it was gladly accepted. Then Lothíriel took her time grooming the horse and humming softly. When she was done, she offered Ferieth another apple and stroked the horse’s neck before she left.  

As she made her way past the other horses, she heard a shout and a commotion.

When she turned around she saw a large horse looming, his head hovering over hers.  

Lothíriel froze in place, unsure what to do. A chomping noise she then heard, followed by some movement and pulling on her hair. 

Was this horse eating her hair?   She wondered incredulously.  

“Whoa, Firefoot! Whoa, halt!” A deep and clear voice rang out and a second later, the great grey warhorse was pulled aside.  

Lothíriel had been holding her breath and she released it gasping while touching the back of her head for missing hair. It was all there, but she could not quite understand what had happened.  

She looked at Firefoot, who was currently rolling his eyes in impatience and sniffing loudly. The person who was keeping him in check was none other than his owner, Éomer King.  

When their gazes met, Lothíriel saw that his jaw was set and his nostrils were flared, not unlike his own horse.  

“Princess Lothíriel, why were there flowers in your hair?” 

A second passed before she gasped again, the meaning of his words dawning on her. Her maid had put flowers in her hair this morning and she had forgotten to take them out after court. Firefoot had smelled the flowers and made a snack out of them. 

Lothíriel hid her face in her hands, embarrassment washing over her while her previous fear had yet to wear off.  

She heard Firefoot being secured in his stall before she heard the horse-lord approach her. With great reluctance, she brought down her hands and looked up at Éomer.  

He was still breathing heavily through his nose and his lips were pressed thin. Still widened, his keen eyes were affixed upon her face. Then he folded his arms and looked her up and down as the corners of his mouth twitched a few times.  

The mortification that she felt now made room for confusion.  

Éomer hid the lower half of his pinked face in one hand and he let out a half-suppressed laugh. Then he gave up on keeping himself in check and he gave a deep and hearty laugh that did not seem to end. He even ended up taking the support of a wooden beam nearby as he doubled over in his amusement.  

Lothíriel noted coolly that his ribs seemed to have recovered because he was laughing.  

Laughing at her!  

The realization caused anger and embarrassment to surge through her veins, and Lothíriel took a few steps back towards the exit of the High Stables, wishing to leave.  

“Stop, Lothíriel!” Éomer extended a hand towards her, and he gasped and cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I –“ 

His smile wobbled and a chuckle escaped his mouth.  

Lothíriel turned around, hoping to bring an end to the ongoing humiliation.  

“Wait, stop. Lothíriel.”  

She did not listen and continued her brisk walk.  

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist, and she was pulled back.  

“Release me, Your Majesty!”  

“Just wait for a moment, Lothíriel!” He pulled her to himself and forced her to look up at him with his other hand. She had little choice but to stay still and meet his eyes, pressed against him so dangerously close.  

“What?” Lothíriel did not have the capacity to speak politely.  

The hand under her chin moved to the top of her head. He brought it back down and showed her a half-eaten flower.  

Her eyes widened in shock, just as his shoulders began to shake with laughter again. 

“You wretched man!” She pushed him hard against his chest and he took a few steps back in surprise.  

Lothíriel spun around, picked up her skirts, and dashed out of the High Stables, ignoring his pleas to stop.  

She reached her room and slammed the door, breathing heavily. The embarrassment was so heavy that she felt like she could never show her face to him again.  

A groan escaped her mouth, and she kicked a nearby chair.  

Éomer King was infuriating!   

She sank down on her bed, willing her breathing to even out, but moments later, a knocking sound came from the door.  

“’Tis I, Feruion. I have a message for you.” 

She received it and quickly closed the door.  

It was a folded piece of paper. It held only two lines of familiar handwriting.  

'Lothíriel, I am sorry. Please come at 6 PM.   E. E.'

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 

Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was a proud woman. She could not abide being mocked, not even by a King. He might not have known it, but Éomer King was fortunate that she cared for him very deeply.

She would forgive him, of course, but she would take her time in doing so.

In his message to her, he had told her he wanted to meet her at dinnertime, therefore she had Feruion inform her father of her absence.

Then she got refreshed and chose to wear a lavender grey gown with a white cloak decorated with delicate silver embroidery.  

“What time is it?” She asked the maid who was creating an elaborately braided bun. The maid left to enquire and returned, looking troubled. “It is almost 6.00 PM, Your Highness. Please forgive me, I have taken too much time with your hair.” 

“Worry not,” Lothíriel smiled up at her, “in fact, take as much time as you need.” 

It was 6.15 PM when Lothíriel finally made her way up the stairs to her faithful herb garden. The sun was about to set and bathed the White City in its warm yellow rays.  

Éomer was sitting at a stone bench near the stairway and he was looking at the sunset, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers knit together. When he heard her steps, he stood up fast and looked at her eagerly.  

“Lothíriel.” He said gruffly. “You came after all.” 

He had a light frown and his eyes were full of concern as they regarded her from head to toe, assessing not only her wellbeing but also her state of mind.

That was all it took for her. Promptly, Lothíriel let go of her pride and her resolve to delay her forgiveness. Even if she wanted to, she could not prolong any kind of unhappiness he felt because of her. Indeed, why would she waste her time on such petty matters?

She curtsied and smiled up at him. “I apologize for making you wait. I wanted the maid to finish my hair properly.” 

He tore his eyes away from her face for a second to give it a glance. “Aye, it is nice.” 

He did not have the gift of flattery like the men of Gondor did, but it was enough to please Lothíriel, even as he shifted in place, still quite uncomfortable.

Deciding to give him a chance to compose himself, she deftly walked around him and focused on the plants growing in the patches behind him. Quietly she studied them and took a few steps to the next patch to repeat her actions.

He followed her wordlessly, staying only a step or two behind her.  

The chicory root would be ready for harvest after the first cold snap, she noted with approval. The nettle was not doing so well, however. She would have to discuss it with the Royal Gardener.

“Lothíriel!” 

She looked up at him, coyly. “Éomer?” 

He looked exasperated. “Lothíriel, I am trying to apologize, but you do not stop flitting about.” 

A smile fought to bloom on her face and she turned back towards the shrub in front of her.

“You do not need to apologize, Éomer,” she replied gently, and she crouched down to snap off a few twigs of sage, “I admit that I was mortified and infuriated – “ 

He made a strange noise, like a suppressed groan.  

“But if I had not forgotten to take the flowers out from my hair, the whole situation would have been avoided altogether. I see no blame on you.” 

She walked up to him and peered at his face; her eyebrows slightly raised. “Are we good?” 

Éomer did not seem to be comforted. He folded and unfolded his arms as he shook his head, still frowning. “But I laughed at you, and I made you feel even worse when I was aware of your embarrassment.” 

She pressed her lips together, enjoying his agitation. “Aye, you did.” 

“And I had noticed the flowers in your hair the moment you entered the stables, so I should have warned you about Firefoot’s propensity to chomp at any kind of flower.” 

He looked down at her, troubled. Their faces were mere inches apart and Lothíriel could see the worry wrinkle around his eyes.  

“You were there when I entered the stables? In Firefoot’s stable?” 

“I was hiding when I heard your voice, so I peered over to look at – “ 

“Why were you hiding?” 

Éomer’s expression turned sheepish. “I was invited to join some of the older Gondorian ladies for a walk. I made the excuse of a meeting when their husbands said that they would join me. So, I told them it was outside of the Citadel. And I hid with Firefoot.” 

Now it was Lothíriel turn to laugh. “I cannot believe I am hearing this!” 

“It is true.” He said with a small grin, watching her hide her laugh behind her hand.  

“The magnificent Éomer King, afraid of Gondorian biddies!”  Lothíriel giggled, shaking with amusement.  

“They all had the gall of poking and prodding me like I am a piece of meat,” he complained but his smile did not lessen, “then when they were assured that I was healthy enough, they tried to set me up with their offspring with no regard for propriety. One of them offered the hand of her eldest daughter, who was sitting next to her, just as wrinkly and shrunken as herself.” 

“How awful of you to say that!” gasped Lothíriel and she weakly hit his chest with the back of her hand.  

He ducked his head to look at her face. “Awful of me? Do you wish to be set up with their balding sons instead?” 

“By Ulmo, no!” She wiped at her eyes and gave him a brilliant smile. “They have been trying ever since I was fourteen summers old. I am not going to change my mind now.” 

Éomer's smile slipped. “Fourteen, you say. You Gondorians marry off your children with such haste.” 

“Long engagements are the norm.” Lothíriel took hold of his hand and gently pulled him towards where their dinner was set. “Come, let us sit.” 

Éomer allowed himself to be led to their stone bench.  

“I do feel guilty for laughing at you, it was very improper of me.” 

“Yes, it was improper, but... It could not be helped. Do not blame yourself.” She patted his hand but did not take hers away.  

“How about you ask something of me, as a way of repentance.” He said and when she opened her mouth to protest, he added. “Do not refuse me, I will feel better if I make it up to you.” 

She sent him an indulgent look. “If you insist, then I will think about It. Shall we eat?” 

They gratefully filled their plates and offered one another interesting pairings of food.  

“My mother used to wear flowers in her hair,” said Lothíriel after a while, “and Father ensured that there were flowers blooming in our gardens throughout the year so that she never had to go without.” 

The King of the Mark, still clad in green and gold but without his long cape, had paused eating and was now looking at her quite attentively.  

“When I was born, a daughter after three sons, Father was so pleased that he named me in her honour.” 

“Flower-garlanded maiden.” 

“Aye. My mother and I used to put flowers in each other's hair for as long as I can remember.” 

“That is a lovely memory... What happened to her?” 

Lothíriel sighed and leaned back on her arms, closing her eyes and allowing the last of the sunset to caress her skin. “One day, when I was eleven, she went to sleep early because of a headache. And then she never woke up.” 

He lightly grazed her back with his hand before pulling it back. “I am sorry to hear that.” 

A dull sadness bloomed in her heart, as it usually did when she thought too long of her mother.  

“After she died, my father did not have the heart to mind the flowers and they all withered away. It was when I was thirteen and Sir Feruion had been with me for about two years, that I started spending time in the gardens again. The flowers began to bloom again under my care. Sir Feruion encouraged me to try and grow other plants as well. My brothers and father, noticing my interest, started bringing me herbariums and seeds. And that is how I fell in love with herb-lore.” 

They were silent for a while and Lothíriel had lost her appetite, thinking of her kind-hearted mother.  

“Your mother would be very proud to see the wo- person you have become.” Éomer’s voice was soft and gruff.  

She smiled.  “You are sweet, Éomer Éomundson.” 

She regarded him openly with admiration as he scoffed and shook his head.  

“Have you decided what you will ask of me?” 

Lothíriel’s smile became impish. “I can ask anything of you?” 

“Within the bounds of propriety, aye.” He made a face as if he was already regretting what he said. 

With twinkling grey eyes, she turned to face him completely, forcing him to look at her.  

“Then, I wish to ride Firefoot!” 

Even if she could not see his face at this moment, it was very clear to her, that he was troubled and exasperated.  

Last night when she had told him her wish to ride upon his warhorse, he had spent two hours trying to convince her to change her mind. After many negotiations and failed bribes, Éomer had set a single condition.  

Prince Imrahil had to agree to it.  

Princess Lothíriel had sent the warrior king a knowing look and had accepted his term. That should have been enough for him to understand that he would not win this battle. Yet, as they had met up with the Prince and his agreement was readily given, Éomer could only look at his friend with great astonishment.  

The following morning, Lothíriel, Éomer, and Feruion rode their horses out to a quiet part of the Pelennor Fields.  

Once there, Lothíriel climbed off Ferieth and adjusted her riding skirts. The Swan Knight followed suit and tied both their horses to a tree. Then he walked to the other side of the tree and stood straight up, looking out over the Fields.  

Éomer observed the knight in mild interest as he gracefully leapt off Firefoot.  

“Sir Feruion knows what his orders are.” 

He fixed her with a glare. “Do you know what your orders are, Princess?” 

Lothíriel bit her lip, feeling somewhat anxious under his irritated look. “Aye, sir.” 

Éomer grunted his annoyance at being called sir, making Lothíriel giggle despite herself.  

Clearing her throat, she recited: “No unexpected or sudden movements, no commandeering the steed, stay clear from his rear, and no discomfort for Firefoot. Failure to obey means a swift return to the Citadel.” 

“Good.” Éomer was wearing half of his armour, without his plumed helm and his gloves, and he was, without a doubt, grumpy. He then beckoned her to come closer to Firefoot.  

Lothíriel opened her saddle bag and took out a linen bag before walking up to the Northman, immediately earning a side-eye from him. Firefoot was rolling his head around and moving impatiently, eager to run again. She held out a hand and stood next to Éomer, who was holding the horse by his reins. She gently patted his shoulder and greeted him the way Éomer had taught her. Firefoot reared his great head closer to her, sniffing loudly.  

Lothíriel quickly took out an apple and offered it to him, which he immediately ate. Then she took out two carrots and he sniffed at them before eating those too.  

Éomer murmured something under his breath in Rohirric and Firefoot bristled in response. He made some adjustments to accommodate Lothíriel. Then the Princess spent some time caressing his grey dappled coat and speaking to him softly, hoping to be in the warhorse’s good graces.  

“Enough of that,” the King finally said, “time to see if he will let you ride.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Another glare and another suppressed giggle. Lothíriel suspected that the man did not enjoy being called anything but his name by her. She attempted to climb up but failed because the horse was simply too tall. Before she could ask for assistance, she felt two large hands wrap around her waist and she was lifted onto the saddle. His hands were as large and strong as she remembered.

“Thank you, sir.” She met his gaze and he still looked unhappy, so she looked down and adjusted her riding skirts around the saddle and her legs. 

Mere moments later, Firefoot stomped and flattened his ears. 

“Oh, he is displeased.” She observed. “I wonder why, my weight is less than yours.” 

“He does not like your riding skirts grazing his flanks.” Éomer gestured for her to come down.  

She obliged and he held her by her waist and placed her gently on the ground.  

“Get on your own horse, we are returning to the Citadel.” 

Lothíriel did not move, however. “Firefoot objects to my riding skirts?” 

“Aye, Princess, so we are done here.” 

She did not reply, but instead focussed on undoing ties and buttons around her waist. 

“What the devil are you doing, Lothiriel!”  

Smoothly, she stepped out of the skirts, revealing a knee-length skirt and breeches.

With a face more innocent than she actually felt, she looked back up at him and blushed something fierce.

His mouth was slightly open and his eyes were so wide that they threatened to fall out of his head. 

“He does not like my riding skirts so I took them off.” She folded her skirts neatly and tucked it into Firefoot’s saddlebag. Without waiting for his help, Lothíriel climbed onto Firefoot, and as she was not encumbered by her voluminous skirts, she managed it with only a little difficulty. She grabbed hold of the reins and slipped her feet in the stirrups.  

She took a couple of deep breaths, awaiting the horse’s reaction. Firefoot sniffed and neighed, but he did not seem upset.  

Triumphantly, she glanced at Éomer, who was still looking at her navy cotton-clad legs. His reaction was utterly amusing to her, seeing such a sturdy and magnificent man unnerved by the general shape of her legs. She wanted to tease him or make some provocative remarks, but she had never actually done that to a man intentionally, so she would not know what to say. Instead, she rubbed Firefoot’s neck and murmured her thanks to him.  

“Does your father know you remove your riding skirts?” He had finally snapped out of his stupor. He gently guided his horse into movement with a few clicking sounds.  

Lothíriel adjusted herself on the saddle, which was bigger than the ones that she was used to and adapted to the horse’s stride.  

“It depends, milord. Are you going to tell him?”  

“I cannot phantom the words that I would use to describe... Well, that.” Éomer nodded his head towards her leg which was not far from him, but he kept his eyes to the sky. “I am going to let him go. Make a turn around that tree and come back around to me.” 

Obediently, Lothíriel did just as he ordered, using the signals she had learned in Rohirric to coax Firefoot. The horse had no issue with making a few loops around nearby obstacles. In this manner, more than half an hour had passed. And she was elated. The grey steed was willing to put up with her, though she sensed that he wanted to gallop and she deigned that she might not be able to handle him in such a fervorous speed.  

“Let us return to your master.”  

Firefoot did not show any outward response, but he did make his way towards Éomer. Firefoot was a spirited, energetic animal who was strongly attached to his owner, and she could appreciate that.  

Lothíriel did not like horses when she was young, much to the consternation of her father. As a child, their powerful and proud figures struck fear in her heart. While she could handle being held by Elphir or Imrahil when astride, it was when sitting alone on even the most docile of fillies that made her nervous. And her nerves made the horses anxious too, so their rolling eyes and stamping hooves accelerated her spiral of dislike. One day, though, her father had had enough of her. He had ordered his wife to busy herself with her sons and the household because he himself would be training Lothíriel until she would be able to ride her horse in a calm manner befitting her station.  

“It is your duty as a Princess of Dol Amroth to be able to travel wherever is needed on horseback.” The Prince had crouched in front of his youngest child and looked her very sternly in her wide and tearful eyes. “Boats and carriages are not swift enough in calamitous circumstances. Your family and your guards will give you no perfect guarantee of safety. Your fear could be your undoing, or worse, the cause of suffering for others. Do you wish to make others suffer because of you?” 

The little Princess had shaken her head fiercely, letting a sob escape, as the idea of anyone being hurt because of her was more frightening than any intimidating animal.  

It had taken her two months of daily training to overcome her fear. Prince Imrahil had first taught her the equine anatomy, and the equestrian commands personally. Then she learned how to approach and groom with no trepidation all of the horses ridden by her family members, from her own filly to the stallions that Prince Imrahil and Prince Elphir rode, paying close attention to equine body language.  

“When disaster strikes, Lothíriel, you will not have the luxury to choose which horse you will ride to safety. You should be able to handle every kind of horse because your options might be very limited.” 

The hardest part of her training had been actually grooming and riding the biggest horses. Despite all knowledge and skills, Lothíriel had struggled to contain her fear when she came face to face with the sheer force of the steeds of the eldest Princes. All her father’s guidance left her precious little head when she had stood in front of Belegroc, Elphir’s brown steed. She had started hyperventilating and walking backward when her father had ordered her to groom and then ride Belegroc.  

“If you walk away now, you will never be able fulfil your duty to your father. Your duty to keep yourself safe.” Imrahil’s face had been hard and his glare unforgiving. 

She had replied in a stuttering gasp. “How can I be safe near such a giant animal? He can kill me with one strike of his hoof!” 

“Do not give him reason to fear you, daughter, the best of people and animals return only what you bestow upon them!” 

“How do I know if someone is good enough to keep me safe?” Her eyes had observed the muscles under the shiny brown coat, teeming with potential speed and danger.  

“You compel them to it, that is the only thing you can do.” 

“But how can I do so?” 

“By giving them what they need and keeping the unwavering hope that they return the gesture.” 

For a few minutes, Lothíriel had mulled over her father’s words, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She had realized that she had very little choice but to obey. Her father doted upon her as much as he expected her to follow his every instruction. And her father had always been right in his guidance. Never had he led her astray or caused her harm.  

Horses did not like stress, just like Lothíriel herself. She would have to treat Belegroc the way she had been treated by her environment.  

After a last deep breath, Lothíriel had taken resolute steps and reached out her little hand towards the horse’s head. The horse had turned to her, curious about the little creature that smelled somewhat like his master. Lothíriel had flinched but she had bravely patted his head and then his neck. To her surprise, the horse had nuzzled her face and hand, neighing softly. A weak smile had then appeared on her face and she had offered the horse his preferred vegetable, a turnip. Belegroc had snorted his happy approval and had taken it with more gentleness than she had expected. It was as if he had been very aware of her delicate being and Lothíriel had felt a pang of affection for the large animal.  

Under her father’s gaze, she had then groomed the horse and readied him for a ride. When she had climbed into the saddle, she had held the reins and caressed the black manes and brown coat of his head before whispering her gratitude.  

Lothíriel and Belegroc had then left the Royal Stables, first walking, then trotting which turned into a canter, and finally galloping along the shoreline of Cobas Haven. The horse held a power that she had not experienced before, but she had trusted the animal to stay aware of her and to not bring her any harm for as long as she would treat him the respect that he deserved. Prince Imrahil had followed them closely upon Loborros, his own stallion. Upon reaching the designated place, they had switched horses. Loborros too had been befriended by Lothíriel, who had spoken to him and offered him an apple. When they had returned to the stables and the horses had been taken care of appropriately, the father had brought his daughter to her rooms.  

There he had swept her in a long embrace, shedding tears of happiness and pride, and kissing her hands, cheeks, and forehead.  

“Lothíriel.” He had said after clearing his voice and once more crouched in front of her. “Never again let fear stand in your way of doing what is best for yourself.” 

Through tears of her own, the Princess had smiled and nodded, still overwhelmed by the events of the day. It had been enough for Imrahil, who had arranged a feast to celebrate Lothíriel’s victory the following day.  

Years later, when the Princess had come to face Firefoot for the first time, the largest and most fearsome warhorse she had ever laid eyes upon, she had flinched. The old fear had reared its head in an unfriendly manner, and the Princess had immediately remembered her father's guidance. Unfortunately, the disposition of both the horse and its owner meant that they would not be willing to indulge her, so she had decided to establish a good rapport with Firefoot whenever they would meet again.  

The opportunity to actually ride the warhorse was a fortuity, and Éomer had felt indebted to her enough to begrudgingly allow her the wish. The faith she held in her father’s guidance could not be waylaid by his admittedly strong arguments.  

Now as she sat astride the magnificent steed, her eyes were fixed upon Éomer, who stood watching them with arms folded. Even from a distance, his form was impressive and regal, and a shiver of desire went through her.  

“I am very fond of your master, Firefoot. I hope he feels the same about me.”  

The horse did not give her response and she felt a little silly talking about her feelings to a horse that had crushed many an Orc beneath his hooves. She patted his neck as an apology.  

Then there was a commotion to her left.

From the City Walls, trumpets of alarms were heard. There was trouble afoot. Lothíriel looked back to the King of Rohan and his body language was tense. She heard him whistle and shout something in Rohirric at Firefoot, who at once started galloping towards his master.  

Sir Feruion had unfastened the two other horses and was now speaking to Éomer.  

“ – no time. Go ahead and we are just behind you.” Lothíriel heard from Éomer, now close enough that she could see his face was grim. 

He ran a few steps toward her and ordered Firefoot to stop. Then he adjusted the stirrups.  

Lothíriel noticed that Sir Feruion had left with her horse and when she looked back at Firefoot’s master, he was staring at something far away, with a deep frown and eyes alert.  

“We have to return now. Move forward in the saddle.” His voice belied an urgency that allowed no time for questions.

To her amazement, a broad hand appeared in front of her and gripped the saddle. A second later, his large figure leapt on behind her and at once she felt it press against her back and thighs. She shifted a bit forward, trying to accommodate him while attempting to keep her wits about. 

How could she think straight when Éomer was in the saddle behind her?

His legs were flush against her thighs and her body was closed in by his front and his arms. She felt the heat radiate through her clothes and she could hear his heavy breathing coming from just above her head, his beard tickling her temple. Before she had time to process their situation, Éomer had already ordered Firefoot to gallop.  

Then he swore in his own tongue, a harsh rolling sound. He held the reins with one hand and used the other to hastily drape her riding skirts over both their legs, tucking one end of the skirts under his right thigh and the other under his left.  

“Hide your face with your hood, Lothíriel.” 

She hastily pulled the hood of her riding dress over her head. He grunted near her ear. “Now no sudden movements.” 

That too she obeyed, most willingly. She was completely enveloped by his body, and even the skirts added to the intimacy of their circumstance. Firefoot’s gallop made them move in sync, keeping Lothíriel aware of how solid Éomer and how incredibly safe she felt. More than feeling safe she felt that the desire, which had been a mere wave before, had now turned to an overwhelming storm of yearning. The friction between their legs was unlike anything she had felt before and she could not help but let her mind wander further. And if it were not that friction that appealed to her imagination, it was definitely the awareness that her backside was firmly against him that made her throat run dry. Of course, his breathing near her ear and the pressure of his arms on her upper arms also did nothing to abate the fire that was lit deep in her belly. 

She inhaled deeply, willing herself to calm down, but a masculine scent of hay and musk assaulted her senses, and she gasped as the foreign feeling of yearning increased. Gently she leaned against his chest, burying herself further into him, drunk on the impressions of Éomer Éomundson enveloping her. 

Too soon they passed the City Gate. Éomer continued to steer the grey-coated steed along the cobblestoned roads as fast as the surroundings allowed them. A few curious people stared at them, wondering who was hidden away in the arms of the King of Rohan, but most of them were busy giving way to them hastily to avoid bodily harm. The further up they got, the fewer people crossed their path and Firefoot managed to catch up to Sir Feruion who still held on to the reins of Ferieth. Lothíriel expected Éomer to stop and tell her to ride her own horse. Instead, they continued on to the Sixth Circle, where he turned left towards the main entrance of the Houses of Healing. After a moment of observing the surroundings, he stopped behind a few trees so that they were hidden from any onlookers. He tore the skirts off and jumped down. Once more he held her by her waist and helped her down.  

“Put these on.” He pushed the skirts in her hands and turned his back towards her, his body tense.  

Lothíriel made quick work of putting her skirts back on, then she walked up to him and briefly rested a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look over at her.  

“Thank you for letting me ride Firefoot, and for keeping me safe.” 

He grunted in acknowledgment. “I regret that I had to put you in such discomfort.” 

“Not at all, Éomer, I felt perfectly at ease in your arms.” The bold words had slipped out of her mouth before she could reconsider and she felt her cheeks redden, feeling foolish. She could sense his stare, but by the time she had gathered her courage to look up, he was walking back to Firefoot. 

From behind her, she could hear footsteps with a slight limp, which meant Sir Feruion was approaching them. He was carrying the remainder of Éomer’s gear. She watched as the King completed his armour.  

“Wait!” She exclaimed when he was about to mount Firefoot. “Where are you going?” 

He glanced at her for a second and then sat in his saddle. “There are Orcs begging for decapitation.” 

Firefoot neighed loudly, indicating his eagerness.  

Lothíriel nodded and curtsied.  

“Remember your promise, Lothíriel.” He inclined his head and stormed off. She watched him go, feeling oddly bereft and awash with longing. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

“I am afraid that you are pushing him, dear.” 

Lothíriel looked up from her desk where she was working on her copy of the Herbarium. Her father was standing in the doorway to her room, a stern expression on his face.  

Clearly, Feruion had briefed him on yesterday’s events. She was not surprised. There was a reason why no one was bothering Éomer and her while they were alone, for hours on end. It was because of Prince Imrahil's influence on the guards and staff of the Houses of Healing. She was grateful for his protection, even if it meant that she could not hide anything from him. 

“Perhaps, Ada.” Lothíriel stood up and kissed her father’s cheek before following him into the sitting area of her room. “But I also know that the next time we will meet, it will be the end of spring again. If I cannot change his mind, at the very least I want him to think of me when we are apart.” 

“He is a grown man bearing the responsibility of a ruined kingdom on his shoulders. If you put too much pressure on him, he might not react the way you want him to.” 

He guided her to sit on the seat adjacent to his own.  

“You may think I am a fool, Ada, but...” Lothíriel trailed off, attempting to find the right words to express how well she and Éomer fit together. “The way he seeks out my company and my goodwill, I do not think I am imagining things.” 

Imrahil’s face was thoughtful. “I understand how you feel, but the amount of time you are spending alone with him... Lothíriel, people are starting to ask questions. There is only so much protection I can give you."

She looked down at her hands, embarrassed.  

“Perhaps it is better if you give him some space.” 

Lothíriel really wished to obey her father, however, the thought of not meeting Éomer felt like a vice restricting her heart.  

“Perhaps.” Echoed the Princess, not meeting her father’s gaze. Imrahil understood that she was not ready to take his advice.  

“Are you having supper with him tonight as well?” 

“Yes, Father. The arrangements shall be ready upon his return.” 

The man sighed deeply. “Remember your duty as a Princess of Dol Amroth.” 

Lothíriel regarded her father for a moment, pondering his serious features and his straight black hair scattered with grey hair. “Yes, Ada. My duty is to marry for the sake –”  

“Nay, daughter. Your duty to me.” Her father interrupted her and shook his head in exasperation. “Your duty is to protect yourself in the first place. Yet your choices are increasingly putting you in harm’s way. Lothíriel, I cannot abide by that. ” 

Lothíriel bit her lip in frustration. “Éomer King is very mindful of my safety - "

“That is not his responsibility, it is your own. Hear now, Lothiriel,” he reached out and held her hand as he gently spoke, his gaze entreating, “I understand you care for him a lot. I understand you also feel that you would be a good Queen to him – and I agree with you...  But you are not his Queen now. If you do not give him the space, you will get hurt.” 

His words were spoken softly, but the meaning of them stung. Lothíriel stood up and turned her back to him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Her father had never refused her anything that was within his power.

Right now, however, he was discouraging her from something - someone she desired as she had never done before. How could she be at peace with it? 

She clenched her fists at her side, yet she did not turn to look at him. 

“I am meeting him tonight and tomorrow and the day after as well. For as long as he wants me with him.” Her voice cracked, but she held firm.  

Imrahil stood up too and shook his head in defeat. “As you wish, dear. As you wish.” He gently kissed the top of her head and left, closing the door behind him.  

Lothíriel sank down and buried her face in her hands. The disagreement with her father cut deep and guilt gnawed at the wound. Her father was a wise man, but he had not seen the side of Éomer that only she had seen. No other person had received the amount of attention and care from him like she had. That had to hold weight.  

Thunder struck as she peered out of the window. The sky was heavy with thick purple clouds. It would rain soon.  

Lothíriel watched the torches flicker in the rain from the window in the apothecary room she used to stay in during the war. The weather had been foulest in the afternoon, but the worst of the storm had passed and only a light but persistent drizzle remained.  

She glanced at the minute candle. It had been twenty minutes since she had the servants set up their supper table in the stillroom. Éomer was late. He had returned from the two-day sortie almost two hours ago, or at least that is what she had been told. It was reasonable to suppose that he had gone into council, and then afterwards gotten out of the soaked armour that he had spent nearly two days in. 

Lothíriel sank down on the makeshift sofa she had made out of rugs, blankets and pillows. The early November chill had been stalled by uncharacteristically sunny weather before, but now the cold had definitely started creeping in. It was dark outside and she felt uneasy despite the pleasant heat and ambience created by the fireplace.  

She wondered if she should leave. It seemed that Éomer had become preoccupied with something else. Or perhaps he had forgotten about her.

Lothíriel’s stomach pinched painfully.

He was, after all, a King and she had been taking up a lot of his time.

No, that made no sense. He had sent word to her to meet him in this stillroom. He knew she was waiting for him. 

If only there was more security in what was going on between them. They were not courting, but it was definitely more than a simple friendship. She did not want to meet like this with anybody else except him. Did he not feel the same about her?  

If he was not able to come today, he still had committed two more of his evenings to her. After that, they would each return to their respective homes, not to meet until the wedding of Faramir and Éowyn in June.

She wanted him to miss her like she missed him.  

She stretched out her arms and her back, and stood up to look out of the window again. Another ten minutes had passed and she decided she would ask Sir Feruion to enquire after Éomer, so she would know where she stood.  

When she opened the door, she bumped into something hard and she winced, holding her aching nose.  

“Lothíriel!” Éomer King was looking down at her with concern. He placed his gloved hands on her shoulders and tried unsuccessfully to look at her nose. Gently, he pushed her back into the stillroom and sat her down on a chair.  

“Does it hurt?” He kneeled in front of her, took off his gloves and tilted her head upwards to have a closer look.  

“Only a little bit,” Lothíriel replied quietly, moved by his agitation for her sake, and she observed him silently.  

He was still in his armour, sans the helmet. The armour was stained with dirt and, what she guessed, Orc blood. His hair was damp and messy, as was his beard. His hazel-green eyes glinted brilliantly in the flickering light of the fireplace. His face was close to hers and his hand beneath her chin was warm. With a single finger, he caressed her nose.  

His eyes then rested on hers. “I do not see anything amiss.” 

She smiled. “Thank you, I am fine now.” 

The man nodded slightly and stood up, his imposing figure immediately filling up the small room. He glanced around the room before looking at her again. “I beg your forgiveness, it seems I made you wait almost an hour.” 

His expression showed sincere remorse as did his body language. Lothíriel suppressed a sigh of longing. Even battle-worn and drenched, he showed her such care.  

She stood up and opened the small wooden wardrobe near the door. “Yes, but now that you are finally here, Éomer,” she said, as she took out a towel and put it over his head, “I do not mind. What I do worry about is your state. Did you not return around 5 PM?” 

Éomer grunted from under the towel and squeezed the water out of his hair. After rubbing his beard dry, he sank down on the chair she had vacated. “Ah, Béma above. Those bloody Orcs had made a tunnel to the inside of one of the roadside warehouses used for transitional storage. They have been siphoning off supplies for who knows how long...” 

He trailed off to look at what she was doing. Taking the towel from him, she had been wiping off most of the dirt and blood from his breastplate.  

“Lothíriel,” he said in a low voice, “Do not do this.” 

“Do you not want me to?” She looked at him through her dark eyelashes, watching for his reaction.  

“I – I will take my armour off, someone else will clean it.” He placed his hand over hers and then extracted the towel from it to drop it on the floor. “I do not want to dirty your hands.” 

Lothíriel shook her head, but she obliged and instead offered to help him take off his armour.  

“You insist on helping me.” 

“Truthfully, all I want is for you to hurry up and sit down for our supper with me.” Lothíriel lightly grazed the skin of his neck before reaching for the nearest buckle.

A soft chuckle was heard and she smiled too, revelling in his proximity. “You mentioned something about the Orcs?” 

“Aye, apparently they had built a whole network of tunnels underground along every main store. We destroyed it, but as you mentioned before, these Orcs are covert in their cunning. Who knows what else they have thought of.” 

Éomer had taken all his hard armour off, and he was left in his breeches and tunic. With Lothíriel’s help, he scrubbed his face, neck and hands clean at the basin. While the musty smell of two days spent on horseback persisted, it had diminished to a whiff. Sir Feruion was called and he took away the armour.  

The Rohanese King sighed in relief as he finally sank down on the pillows, feeling completely at ease. He watched as Lothíriel stirred something that was affixed above the fireplace, his body relaxed and his eyes drooped slightly due to the pleasant heat and scents filling the room. The crackle of the fire combined with the sounds of stirring were soothing for the weary warrior. 

“So that is why the meetings ran long in the Hall of the King?” She looked over her shoulder at him to see him nod. “Did no one give you the chance to freshen up? Did you have something to eat?” 

“Peace, Lothíriel. I had a few cups of mead, which served me well in both warming me up and refreshing me mentally.” Though she could hear that he was tired, he seemed to be in good spirits. 

“You are too careless with your health. Should I tell Sir Feruion to fetch you dry clothes? Yours are still damp."

"Do not bother the poor man. I am fine."

"But I am afraid you might catch a chill. ” Lothíriel ladled a hot, spiced liquid in two mugs and then offered one to him. “Here. I prepared this for you.” 

He sat up and received it with interest. “Mulled wine! I usually only have this around Yule.” 

“Which is a pity, because it is just the thing for stormy days like today.”  

Éomer wordlessly held her mug while she sat down next to him, and returned it to her when she was settled. Both of them took a sip and savoured the flavours and the warmth.  

“This is delicious.” He muttered before he took a few large gulps and grunted in satisfaction. 

“I know.” Éowyn had mentioned it to her once. 

The lopsided smile that he then sent her was more intoxicating than any wine. She hummed happily as she poured half of the content of her mug into his. Overindulgence never did her any good and having Éomer next to her was just enough for her. 

With raised eyebrows, he observed her behaviour but made no move to stop her. "Why -" 

"I am not good with wine, you should enjoy it for me."

Éomer frowned good-naturedly before he poured her a glass of fruit water, which she accepted with a soft smile. 

The food was placed on a low table, giving them easy access from where they sat. While they talked, they enjoyed a supper of their favourites. A stew with plums, chicken vegetable soup, roasted potatoes, candied beets, and different kinds of fruit, cheeses and breads.  

“I have been curious about what the room of the Veiled Lady looked like,” he said as he studied the room between bites, “this is where you stayed during the war?” 

“The majority of my days were spent here or in the herb garden. It felt oppressively small at times, but now it feels like another home. Up until yesterday, I had set up my workspace here as well. The Warden released me from my duties. Apparently, they do not need me anymore.” Lothíriel scoffed and took another bite of her bread. "Not even today!" 

Éomer chuckled lightly. “You hate not being needed, do you not, Lothíriel?” 

She glared playfully at him. “Aye. Just as you hate not decapitating Orcs when you know they are close by.” 

“True.” Éomer grinned. “It makes me feel useful. And it is a great way to relieve stress.” 

“Is that so?” She leaned back, resting on her hands and looked up at him thoughtfully. “Take me with you next time, I would like to try it as well.” 

Éomer choked on his mulled wine and he began coughing loudly.

Privately enjoying his upset, Lothíriel firmly patted him on his broad back, her hand still lingering when it was no longer needed.

He cleared his throat before looking at her with a shocked expression. From the side of her eye, she peered at him before bursting out in laughter.  

“Do not look so scandalized, Éomer!” She jostled him gently by pushing on his shoulder. “Firefoot can carry us both, remember?” 

A strangling noise escaped from his throat and he sat up stiffly. The panic on his bearded face caused another spell of mirth from her. Indeed, she made no effort to restrain herself, doubling over and leaning momentarily on his tensed shoulder.  

When she finally caught her breath again, she rested a hand on his knee. “Not to worry, my dear Éomer. It was only in jest.” 

He tilted his head back in relief and sank back down in the cushions. “You had me believe it, Lothíriel. Especially after the whole riding skirts antics you pulled this yesterday morning, I feel like you are unrelenting in having your way.” 

She giggled. “By Ulmo, it was such a sight, seeing the mighty King of Rohan beside himself.” 

He covered his face with his hand, feeling embarrassed at the mere memory. “You caught me by surprise, taking your skirts off so boldly and showing the world your... Your – “ 

“Legs,” supplied Lothíriel helpfully, “women have legs too, you know that very well. I have heard the tales from your men.” 

A look of consternation crossed his face and she failed at suppressing another fit of amusement at his expense.  

“Heavens above! I am terribly sorry. You see now I am no good with wine.” Lothíriel wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat before taking a few large breaths.

“No, you see, all my riding skirts are easy to take off because when I go horseback riding at the beaches of Belfalas. They tend to get heavy and scratchy when soaked with the salty water. Horses usually do not like that, so my father has given me leave to have my skirts adjusted for the sake of safety and convenience.” 

“That makes sense,” he said in a low voice and he released his brow to take another sip of the hot drink, “do you enjoy horseback riding? Do the people of Dol Amroth not prefer boats?” 

“I used to dislike horses, but I have learned to appreciate them. Ada ensured it, actually.” 

“Is that so?” 

Thus she relayed to him the training her father had given her when she was a child. Éomer listened attentively, visibly impressed by the methods that she described. 

“Prince Imrahil is a formidable man, in all aspects,” there was grave reverence in his voice, "not just as a leader, but as a father as well."

“Aye,” Lothíriel nodded and a twist in her stomach was felt as she was reminded of the disagreement she had with him this morning, “he only wants what is best for all of us.” 

“If I could be even an ounce of a leader he is, I would not worry about Rohan as much.” His voice now was grim and soft as he gazed unseeingly at the fireplace. 

With a tilt of her head, Lothíriel observed the man who was sitting beside her. How quickly he became downcast with his own insecurities. He had been in high spirits only moments before. She wondered if this meant that his self-doubt was always hidden away just under the surface of his subconscious. Had no one in his surroundings talked to him about what a wonderful King he was? Did no one praise him? Or was it because he thought himself unworthy of any praise in the first place? 

Nay, the least she could do, was make an effort to comfort him by providing some perspective.

“My father has been in his position for nearly a decade, and he had been my grandfather’s right hand for twenty years before that. Years of experience have made him into who he is. It will be the same for you.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Why do you doubt yourself so much?” 

He was leaning back on his elbows as he peered at her, his bright eyes darkened with contemplation.

“Lothíriel, I spent my childhood and my adolescence admiring my cousin Théodred and Uncle Théoden. Striving to live up to their expectations, living for their praise and appreciation,” Éomer spoke with a voice deep and heavy with pain and sadness. “Now I am supposed to continue without them? I feel lost. I feel afraid that I will undo all of their efforts.” 

Lothíriel shifted to sit closer to him and gently pushed a lock of his hair behind his ear, hoping to give him some solace from the dark thoughts in his mind. 

“You are not the first to be afraid of failure and not the last either. But fear is not a bad thing, Éomer.” She spoke to him in a soft but insistent voice. “And failure is an opportunity to learn to be better – “ 

“Even when lives are lost because of my failure?” 

“People die even in victory, even in mundane situations! Falling down the stairs, choking on food, childbirth. Do we live in fear of that also?” 

“It is not the same, Lothíriel, I bear the responsibility of all lives.” 

“It is not the same,” She conceded, “but you are allowed to share your burden with your council, your friends and your family."

She reached out and held his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers as she absently observed how pleasing it looked.

"And I may not have known your honourable Uncle or Cousin, but I know that they do not want you to wallow in fear of failure. Instead, they would want you to make fear your friend and your advisor.” 

Éomer did not look her in the eye and he remained unconvinced of her words. Lothíriel was not discouraged, however, and she tried again with a different approach.

“I suppose I understand how you feel, as I also failed.”  

That caught his attention and he turned to her with a frown. “You? How?” 

“I have told you before that stayed in Minas Tirith to help the stricken as a Healer’s assistant, but I was unable to stomach the sights. I failed.” 

Éomer sat up and shook his head, upset at her words. “No, Lothíriel, you did not fail. You succeeded as the Princess Herbalist.” 

Lothíriel smiled slightly at the mention of the nickname she received from the Warden. “But I did fail as a Healer’s assistant. I was not able to provide any acute wound care, nor was I able to comfort the dying.” 

Again he shook his head, his frown deepening. “That matters not, you did your part by doing what you know well. You made medicine and you provided care and pain relief. You need only focus on what you are able to do instead of what you cannot.” 

His words were what she had hoped. Moved by his effort to forgo his own misgivings to make her feel better about herself, she placed a hand on his bearded cheek. Noting that he did not pull away and instead continued to stare at her, she gently caressed his skin.

"Well, then, Éomer," She said, her voice tender and brimming with her adoration for him, “if I am a Herbalist and not a Healer, then you are Éomer King and not Théoden King. And you, noble man of the North, are deserving of the same grace that you so freely bestow upon me.” 

He stared at her wide-eyed and slackjawed, evidently startled at how she was able to turn his words back around on him.

She pressed her lips together in delight, happy that she was able to make him understand. Satisfied with the result of her little speech, she lifted her hand from his face. She was about to move away when his arm wrapped around her waist and held her in place.

His eyes flickered down to her mouth, and in the next moment Éomer was kissing her roughly, his beard tickling her skin, his breathing heavy and his touch insistent.

The surprise wore off soon enough and Lothíriel let her eyes fall shut in bliss. She had only just begun to enjoy the feel of his lips and his warm hands when she felt herself being pushed back. The loss of his nearness was jarring and now it was her turn to stare in bewilderment.  

Éomer had leapt up from the cushions and he stood near the fireplace with his back to her.  

“Éomer?” She whispered. “What is wrong?” 

He could only look at her for a split second before he turned away. “I...” 

A void opened up in the pit of her stomach, a strange pain radiating from it.  

“What is it?” Her voice was strained and she tried not to listen to the warning sounds going off in her head.  

“Please forgive me, I... I did not intend to take advantage of you like that. My emotions got the best of me.” He still refused to look at her.  

Lothíriel stood up and approached him with a shaky smile. “I assure you, Éomer, I was quite willing and –“ 

“No, no, it is highly inappropriate and I assure you, it shall never happen again.” 

She could not accept his blatant rejection of her. Surely, there was some mistake. Some misunderstanding. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his shoulder, but he moved away.

The void in her stomach widened and her mind filled up with confusion and despair.  

“I do not comprehend, Éomer,” she said with a quivering voice, “I thought we were coming to an understanding about us.” 

"No." He shook his head roughly. “No, that cannot be. We are... Merely friends.” 

Lothíriel gasped in disbelief. Anger joined the yawning ache in her body. “Friends? Pray tell me, have you kissed my father like this? My brothers?” 

He shot a dark look at her and walked a few steps further from her. “Do not be ridiculous, Lothíriel!” 

“I know not how you befriend others, Éomer Éomundson, but I am not in the habit of kissing any of my friends.” Her voice was shrill, ringing through the eerie silence of the stillroom, but she cared not. “Nor do I meet with them so often at late hours in private.” 

She took a few steps towards him, but he again moved back, shaking his head. His continued refusal of her only inflamed her grief and her ire, making her body jerk with frustration. He had always been so caring of her, so gentle, so sincere. The image she had of him slowly began to disintegrate, unable to rhyme with the harshness of reality. 

“I have never let any other man, friend or not, touch me as freely as you have done today and so many other times. Éomer, look at me.”  

He did not and she despaired, seeing that whatever existed between the two of them was falling apart. “You were the one who sought me out, Éomer. So many times! Why did you?” 

He groaned and rubbed his face in frustration, still unable to meet her eye. “I have told you this before, Lothíriel, I cannot marry you! I was very clear with my words.” 

"Oh, your words! Yes!" A laugh escaped from her mouth, humourless and frustrated. “ Where were those words when you kissed my hand, my wrist, my lips? When you used every opportunity to touch me?” 

“That was – that was nothing, you are imagining things," he replied, in a stern but quiet voice. 

He was taking her for a fool and she could not stand it. She knew what she felt and she knew how he made her feel. “You can lie to yourself, but not to me, Éomer."

Éomer refused to answer and instead, he stared out of the window.  

Lothíriel sank down on the chair by the door, overwhelmed by a barrage of emotions and defeated by his adamancy. 

They were in the same small room, but the distance between them had become a canyon of loneliness. Her father had been accurate in his predictions. Éomer had been pushed too far by her and now whatever was between them had been snapped in two. Éomer was not ready to have her as a permanent fixture in his life, and, per his own words, perhaps he would never be ready for her.

Another wave of anger rose up in her. She felt not just slighted and rejected. She felt used. To him, she had been a means to escape from his responsibilities, from the realities of being a King. It was likely, in fact, that he thought little more of her than a pretty way to pass his time peacefully. 

No more.

She would never allow herself to be alone with him again. The boundaries that he had established, she would enforce them from now on.

What a foolish little girl had she been, all along! Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut in humiliation. Deep down, she had been convinced that she would be able to freely confess her love for him one day and that he would accept it.

There was no chance for that now.

For her own sake though, there remained one thing she had to say. Just so she could tell herself that she left no stone unturned.

Lothíriel took a deep breath to clear her mind. She sat up straight, adjusted her skirts and wiped away the moisture that had gathered at the corner of her eyes. Having strengthened her resolve, she spoke up.

“The first time I saw you, I was not aware of who you were." 

Hearing her break the heavy silence, Éomer's head turned very slightly towards her and she knew that he was paying attention.

She allowed the words to spill from her mouth, breathlessly and urgently, afraid that if she were to pause she would lose her composure. “All I knew was that you were grieving openly and unabashed. I - I was touched by your authenticity. By the time we actually met, I was aware of... everything. And I thought myself to be so fortunate to have a political match with you. Of course, you did not reciprocate, as was your right."

Lothíriel scoffed, pressing her lips together to regain her concentration. “And still you were courteous and kind.” 

He was still paying quiet attention to her, his eyes fixed on the fireplace while sitting on the table near the window.  

“By the time we made that promise, I was already in love with you. Everything else that happened between us, be it friendship or strangers comforting each other, only made my feelings for you stronger. And I fooled myself into thinking..." Her words failed her then, and she took a deep breath to ease the ache that gaped in the pit of her being.

With his arms folded, the young man was fully regarding, though silent and unmoving still. As if her words made no impact on him.  

“For your sake and my own, we cannot meet like this anymore.” Her voice trembled and she clenched her teeth to keep herself in check for a little longer. “I cannot be friends with you, Éomer King, not when I genuinely wish for more. It would be most unkind to us both."

No more could she speak. All she wanted to do was leave him and her broken heart behind. And she finally gave herself leave to do so.

With all the pride she could muster, she stood up, startling him into movement as well. With an unwavering gaze, her posture straight and regal, and her chin aloft. He met her scrutiny with an unreadable expression, clenched fists held at his sides.  

Then she curtsied deeply, elegantly spreading her skirts in an effort to show the newly established formality between them. “Farewell, Éomer, King of the Riddermark.” 

Without sparing another second for his response, she turned and left the stillroom, slamming the door behind her.

Down the stairs towards the herb garden she went, and Sir Feruion, who was awaiting her at the entrance of the apothecary wing, followed her through the herb garden and down towards the Southern Guesthouses, silently matching her brisk walk.  

When Lothíriel reached her room, she took out a box from her cupboard and examined its contents briefly. Théoden King’s herbarium, her own copy of it, the papers and letters from Éomer King and the undamaged wax seals of a horse running under the sun. She closed the wooden box and pushed it into Sir Feruion’s arms, who had been looking at her with concern from the doorway.  

“This box and its contents belong to Éomer King. Please take great care in returning them.” 

At once he bowed. “Aye, milady.” 

She did not watch him leave. Instead, she knocked on the door of her father’s rooms, and he opened up.

Without waiting to be invited in, she stormed in and stood in the middle of the room, breathing erratically.  

“Lothíriel, what is the matter?” Imrahil asked, alarmed by her unexpected visit.  

“I had promised you that I would inform you of any changes in my friendship with... The King of Rohan.” Her voice cracked at the last word.

“Go on, daughter.” 

She took a deep shaky breath. “We are no longer friends. There is nothing between us now. And I wish to go home as soon as possible.” 

Imrahil sighed and he rubbed his temple, before pulling her into an embrace.  

“You were right, Ada, you always are,” Lothíriel sobbed, her voice muffled. But he heard her clearly and he kissed the top of her head.  

“I shall make the arrangements. We leave at dawn.” 

Chapter Text

Roughly two months after her abrupt departure from Minas Tirith, Lothíriel once more gazed upon the White Mountains. They were mere hours away from their arrival at Harlond as she stood on the main deck of the swan ship carrying her and her kin. Queen Arwen had invited them to join the Yule festivities at Minas Tirith, and so, the entire Dol Amrothian household, save Aunt Ivriniel, was aboard the Alphroval.

The mountains of Ephel Duath loomed at a distance to her right in the east, from whence a cold wind blew. She gathered her cloak tighter around herself and turned away.  

Alphros ran past her, shrieking with delight as his uncle Amrothos chased him. Lothíriel fondly observed them as they played their games. The two-year-old future heir of Dol Amroth was going to Minas Tirith for the first time and both Erchirion and Amrothos had planned many activities for him in the White City. Lothíriel did not commit to join all of them, but she had promised that she would try.  

Truthfully, she would have preferred to stay in Dol Amroth, rather than return to the stone-cold structures in which she had fallen in love and had her heart broken. For the sake of her family, though, she had gathered her resolve and bravely set out to make the necessary arrangements for their trip to the Capital of Gondor. Her brothers and father had been working tirelessly as ambassadors with the Haradrim since the summer and she did her best to support them in their labours. However, very little progress had been made and Prince Imrahil was frustrated and irritable, affecting the mood of the household. Even now he was in his cabin in meeting with Elphir and two of his Dol Amrothian advisors.  

Lothíriel cast another glance towards the northwest before she entered the quarterdeck, where the wife of Elphir, Lady Siloril, was resting with her feet up.  

“How are you feeling, dear sister?” asked Lothíriel.  

Siloril smiled warily. “I feel glad that the journey is almost over.” 

“Shall I get you something to eat?” 

“Only if you eat with me, Lothíriel.” 

Lothíriel fetched a tray with a variety of snacks that suited Siloril’s disposition. She was four months along in her pregnancy and while she did not experience any sickness, she had a limited appetite. Instead of taking three meals, she preferred to have many small ones. If it were not for the meagre quantities that she consumed, Lothíriel would have likened her to a Hobbit.

Siloril was eight years older than her and she had a calm and cool nature, which meant she got along well with everyone. Observant she was too because despite her pregnancy and an unruly toddler to look after, she had noticed that Lothíriel had lost her appetite. It was why she insisted on her little sister to join her whenever she ate something. 

The two of them had an easy friendship that allowed for distance and silence. Siloril’s favourite plants were growing in a pleasant corner of the Dol Amroth herb and floral garden, where she enjoyed sitting there in the mornings, watching her son play and Lothíriel work in her herb garden. Now that it was winter, they had moved their morning routine inside, where the only difference was that Lothíriel worked on her plant journal or wrote her correspondence with her friends.  

Contrary to her father’s expectations, Lothiriel did not consider the black-haired woman to be a replacement for her mother. It had been nine summers since Elphir and Siloril had wed, merely a year after their mother’s passing. They had been engaged for a year before Prince Imrahil insisted on the marriage taking place because he worried that Lothíriel would be negatively impacted by the absence of feminine presence. Siloril never held up the illusion that she would be able to make up for the lack of a mother and she had frankly spoken with young Lothíriel about it.  

“I am not here as your mother. I can be your sister, your friend, or both, but that is entirely in your hands.” Siloril had spoken kindly to her, kneeling in front of the twelve-year-old girl. And she had remained true to her own words, despite objections from Elphir and Imrahil. Lothíriel had come to truly love her on her own, and that had been because of Siloril's own hidden strength.

At that time Lothíriel had not been aware of it, since she had been shielded from their troubles, but her sister-in-law had been unhappy in her marriage. Not only had she been rushed into marriage at too young an age, but she had noticed that her husband gave her no attention or importance. Prince Elphir, who was the heir and shadow to his father, had been too wrapped up in his duties to the fiefdom, and what little time he had to spare he chose to spend alone or with his closest companion, Sir Nemir, the son of a lesser noble family.

It was only when Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, Siloril's Uncle and father to Lord Forgammon, had noticed the lack of heirs and had threatened to take his niece back in his care that Imrahil was forced to remind his son of his duties to his family. Even then, there had been barely any warmth between the young lady and her spouse, until the event of Alphros' birth which finally shook Elphir out of his apathy for Siloril, and upended his world.

Indeed, he had been standing at her bed when she nearly lost her life in her duty to provide Dol Amroth with its next heir. It was not just the horror of the delivery itself, but the realization that Siloril would possibly die in service to him when he himself had made no effort to be a husband to her. 

Lothíriel had been eighteen summers old as she had stood at her sister's sickbed, two days after her traumatic delivery when Siloril had finally regained consciousness. At once, Elphir had been called in to see her, and he had entered her room in an unkempt state of distress, looking nothing like the well-groomed stoic that he had been his entire life. In quiet shock, Lothíriel had watched how her brother had burst out in tears, voicing with great difficulty his regrets in his behaviour towards Siloril. 

Even greater had been her consternation when the young mother, pale and tired, had laughed lightly at Elphir's remorse. With a quiet, hoarse voice, she had uttered: "How cruel you are, milord. Do I need to nearly die for you to show me an ounce of care?"

Elphir had gaped at her wordlessly, completely taken aback by her cold and abrasive words. But Siloril had ignored him and instead had asked Lothíriel to show her child to him. It had taken the Princess a moment to snap out of her stupor, but then she had carefully walked around her brother and brought her nephew to his mother. 

"Well met, Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth. Thank you for making a mother," Siloril had whispered, kissing her baby's hand, softness finally colouring her cheeks and brightening her eyes, "I have been waiting for you."

Initially, Lothíriel had been upset that Siloril had been harsh to Elphir, as she had never seen him this upset, not even when their mother died.  But after seeing Siloril smile at her son, she had understood that her sister-in-law had only spoken in her own defence. She had been right.  Why did she need to be at Death's door just so her husband would see her value, her importance to him? Why indeed should a woman have to suffer before she was deemed worth caring for?

That day, Siloril had taught Lothíriel how to champion herself in the face of carelessness and indifference, and she had henceforth demanded respect from kin, peers, and nobles, and from kings as well. 

"Lothíriel, is something the matter?"

Kind eyes were looking at her from the other side of the table, rousing the young woman from her thoughts. A part of her wished to share her heartbreak with Siloril, but as her eyes fell onto the modest bump visible under her sister's silver and blue gown, she decided otherwise.

No, she could not share her grief with her. While their marriage had vastly improved, even now there was still a lot left to repair, and Lothíriel did not want to add to their burden.

Time had cooled her anger. It would soon heal her heart, too, and she would move on from him as well. 

"I am feeling a little under the weather," replied she, knowing that the lady would not accept false assurances, "I shall visit Warden Bair soon enough to see if he has something for me, aside from tall tales and vague stories."

They shared a smile and then a meal, before Lothíriel went back to the main deck. On either side she could see land, moving rapidly. To the left was Lossarnach, while the area on the right was Ithilien. In less than an hour, perhaps not even half of it, they would enter the ports of Harlond, where Faramir would be awaiting their arrival.  

Dear Faramir, who was the Steward of Gondor as well as the Prince of Ithilien, was a beloved cousin of the Dol Amroth siblings. For Lothíriel, he was the main bright spot of her trip to Minas Tirith. She had not seen him since spring and she longed to see his kind face. They had had some correspondence, and he had always been too eager to sing Éowyn’s praises, but Lothíriel was always willing to hear more. At least he would not have a broken heart and she could glean a bit of joy from his happiness.  

Lothíriel joined Erchirion on the forecastle deck and tucked her hand in his arm. He acknowledged her with a slight press of his cheek against her head.  

“Are you looking forward to the Yule dances?” She asked after a few minutes a companionable silence.  

Erchirion laughed softly, a derisive undertone. “Aye, my two left feet are looking forward to making a grand spectacle of themselves, while trampling over some poor noblewoman’s shoes.” 

Lothíriel laughed too, and consoled him. “No, I am sure you will be fine.” 

He glanced at her in disbelief and she smiled impishly. “I will keep a phial of Sorrowfew at hand for the victims of your hazardous hooves.” 

His mouth fell open in shock, but he soon joined his little sister in her laughter.

Lothíriel and Erchirion could count on each other for comfort and support. Returning to Dol Amroth she had no idea how to cope with her broken heart.

Never had she felt as strongly as she did for Éomer. It was not an infatuation. He had been the first with whom she could imagine having a future with. How does one move on from that?

Erchirion was the first to notice her melancholy, despite her efforts to keep hidden her aching heart. The difference with her other brothers was that Erchirion did not ask too many questions. He merely sought her out more, involved her in his job and took naps in the greenhouse where she tended to her flowers. It did not take long for her to figure out what he was doing. And she loved him for it.

What he did not take into account, was that, due to their time spent together, she had become aware of something. Lothíriel now knew that he, more often than not, was drunk.

It was unfortunate habit of his when he was unhappy, but he thought that no one was aware of it, because he was quite functional when he was in his cups. Erchirion had the ability to hit the dead centre of his targets if he were to practise his archery while inebriated. He could walk straight and think straight enough to fool the average observer. But Lothíriel could detect the hint of slurring in his speech and the slight slack in his jaw.

Only once had she asked him if he was willing to share his troubles with her. He had laughed wryly and spoken cryptically. "You are aware, yes, of the saying, 'you do not know what you have until it leaves you,' Lothíriel?"

"Yes, I have heard several versions of it."

"Do they have a saying for when you never had it in a first place?"

She had paused her harvesting of the rose hips om the Rosa Rugosa, that morning during the early winter days, and she had stared unseeingly at the ground. His question had resonated with her.

She never truly had Éomer in the first place, either.

That was the most he had ever uttered about his own worries. Since then they had kept the unspoken agreement that they would only share what they wished to share unprompted.

Lothíriel appreciated that. She did not want to talk about Éomer. In fact, she did not even want to think or dream of him, but she had little choice there. So she slept late, woke up early, avoided all discussions of Rohan and kept herself busy with her family, the household and her vocation. 

Returning to Minas Tirith was bound to happen, considering the fact that she was a Gondorian Princess. At least she could count on her family to keep her busy if the Houses of Healing or the Queen’s court could not occupy her mind well enough. If not the others, then she could always turn to Erchirion. 

The two of them spent their time talking about their expectations for Yule and meeting up with old friends. Steadily, the ports of Harlond came into view and ten minutes later, the Dol Amroth family disembarked the Alphroval. 

Soon enough, Alphros wiggled out of Amrothos’ arms and ran up to Lord Forgammon, who was awaiting their arrival alongside Faramir. The Lord Forgammon gave his nephew a rare smile and embraced him gently.  

“Well met, cousin Forgammon!” Siloril followed her son suit and approached the lord, glad to see her beloved cousin brother once more. 

Amrothos scoffed as he observed them, feeling the loss of Alphros’ attention. “How can he prefer that sour-faced uppity grump over me?” he muttered to his sister as they walked down the ramp.  

“It is because Lord Forgammon graces us with his dulcet presence in Dol Amroth often enough to make a lasting impression on Alphros.” 

“’Tis my fist which is itching to make a lasting impression – “ 

“My dear Faramir!” Lothíriel exclaimed, drowning out her brother’s choice words, and she allowed him to kiss her brow and hold her hands. “Heavens above, you look happier and healthier than ever!” 

“It is the Rohirrim lifestyle, Lothíriel, it suits me well.” 

“Aye, the food and the physical activities have done you wonders!” interjected Amrothos while he embraced the young Steward.  

Faramir patted him on the back, harder than Amrothos expected as he winced in pain. “Amrothos, you are the same as ever.” 

Erchirion, Elphir, and Imrahil greeted their kin too, while Lothíriel walked towards her awaiting horse, Ferieth.  

As she stroked the horse’s neck and whispered her greetings, she heard someone approach her.  

“Well met, Princess Lothíriel.” 

She did not want to turn around and greet Lord Forgammon, but court etiquette dictated that she must.  

“Lord Forgammon,” she said very politely and she curtsied, “How kind of you to receive us.” 

“Yes, well...” he looked at her and then looked back to his own horse, “Are you not taking the carriage with Lady Siloril, milady?” 

Lothíriel sighed softly, not surprised by his patronizing tone. “I prefer to ride Ferieth, milord.” 

“Is that so?” He had not averted his gaze and he took a few steps towards her. “Do you need help getting on your horse?” 

In place of a reply, she mounted her horse with as much grace as she could muster and shot him a look. “I am quite capable, milord, thank you.” 

After a miniscule bow towards him, she clicked her tongue and led her mare away.  

Minas Tirith was less than an hour’s ride away from Harlond. The crisp wind was biting her skin, but Lothíriel felt invigorated. The lands on either side were covered with frost and the snow-covered White Mountains did justice to their name.

Amrothos, Elphir, and Erchirion appeared on either side of her, their large horses snorting and steaming their sweat off. Elphir tilted his head towards Minas Tirith meaningfully. “Ready?” 

Lothíriel gasped in excitement. It had been years since she had been given leave to race her brothers!

With a loud shout of her command, she spurred Ferieth on to gallop, getting a small head start on her brothers, who playfully shouted their objections. The rest of their party was left behind quickly and the formidable structure of Minas Tirith came ever closer.  

Lothíriel laughed out loud, though her eyes watered and stung from the cold. She felt warm because she was grateful for her brothers, grateful for the privileges she enjoyed because of her father, and grateful that her heartbreak was nothing compared to the love she got in return from her family and friends.

The void in her stomach would perhaps never go away, but it was drowned out by the happiness of being able to live as she pleased. It was enough for her, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, proud daughter of the Line of Imrâzor.  

A sharp, stabbing pain occurred in her side and she doubled over, gasping.  

Lothíriel had been dancing for the past hour with Amrothos and Faramir, both of her kin taking turns. While she was healthy and young, there was no doubt that her brothers had better stamina for such matters.  

“A drink, I need a drink.” She fanned herself with her hand and stumbled over to the refreshment table. Foregoing the wine and mead, she poured herself a cup of honey and lemon water instead.  

“A very wise decision, milady, you cannot handle anything stronger.” 

Lothíriel slowly turned to look at the source of the remark, though she did not need it to know who it was.  

Lord Forgammon emptied his own goblet of wine before inclining his head and walking away.  

“What a corrosive man, he is!” said another voice, one that was unfamiliar to her. Lothíriel glanced at his face and while she had seen it before, she could not recall his name.

Unsure how to give a polite response to the uncomfortable truth, she curtsied and smiled lightly. It was enough encouragement for the man because the next moment he asked her for a dance.  

Lothíriel showed her cup. “Do forgive me, I am parched. I have been dancing incessantly.” 

The young noble nodded in understanding. “Shall I wait for you to recover, Your Highness?” 

With a critical eye, she looked at him. He was not much older than her, dressed in shades of black and grey. Lothíriel finished her water and set her cup down. Because he was agreeable enough and was not afraid to show that he was interested in her, she acquiesced.  

The familiar stranger was a talented dancer and he was skilled enough to make clever little quips while spinning her around and moving along the dance steps with ease. It had been the first time in ages that she danced with someone outside of her family, and she felt that she had been missing out. The music, the exhilaration, and the collective elation of the people on the dance floor made for a nigh spiritual experience. When the dance ended, she sighed out loud and looked at the young man appreciatively.  

“Thank you for a wonderful dance, milord,” She said, breathing rapidly still as they walked to the edge of the dance floor with him, “but it is terribly rude of me that I do not know your name.” 

He gave a rather rueful smile. “We have been introduced twice since spring, but I do not seem to make a lasting impression on you.” 

If she had not been already pink from exertion, she would have had a noticeable flush come up to her face. Apparently, she had been too preoccupied with the Rohirrim King to remember anyone besides him.  

Sensing her embarrassment, he shook his head and smiled widely. “I do apologize for making you feel embarrassed, it is not my intention. I am Húrdil, second son to Lord Húrin, the Warden of the Keys.” 

Her eyes widened in recognition. “Sir Húrdil, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth – “ 

“The Veiled Lady and the Princess Herbalist,” Húrdil interjected with a broad smile. “Your Highness, you are quite famous, I assure you.” 

They returned to the refreshment table, but they were not able to speak much further. Her father approached them and he asked her for a dance. She immediately obliged and took her leave from Sir Húrdil, who only smiled and watched her as she returned to the dancing crowd on her father’s arm. The young nobleman's scrutiny of her was as unwavering as it was validating. 

“How are you, Lothíriel?” Imrahil asked his daughter. “I have not been able to give you much time, but I see you are doing better than... Before.” 

She pursed her lips together, aware that he was concerned for her heart. “I am well, Ada. Blessed is my life, for I have you and my brothers. As long as you are on my side, I shall never falter.” 

At once, his worried expression made way for one that was full of relief and joy. “Good. I cannot bear to see you downcast. You and your brothers are the reason I live and breathe. I wish you unending happiness, not just for your sake, but for my own as well.” 

Lothíriel’s eyes stung and she gave her father a brilliant smile, unable to find the words that could express how loved and blessed she felt. Instead, she pressed a kiss on his hand, before turning away from him in her dance and then twirling back to him.  

After her dance with Sir Húrdil and her father, it seemed that a line of dancing partners had formed for her. First came Erchirion, who managed to step on her feet only once. Then came one of her father’s advisors from Dol Amroth, two nobles and finally, even Lord Forgammon wished for a turn. Seeing his extended hand, she cast her father a pleading look, but he raised his eyebrows to indicate that she should oblige. Begrudgingly, she danced a single dance with the Lord from Lossarnach, who thankfully did not make any of his usual disparaging remarks and merely glowered at her whenever they stood face to face.  

By the time the celebration of Mettarë, the last day of the year, had ended, Lothíriel had aches all over her body. She fell fast asleep once she hit the bed and for the first time in months, she did not dream of Éomer.  

The morning that followed came with a lavish breakfast for the noble guests and the court of High King Elessar and Queen Arwen. When Lothíriel joined the table, very few people were there. None of her family members were present, except for her sister-in-law and her nephew Alphros.  

“Hello, Nánig!” The toddler smiled sweetly up at his aunt and continued to inhale his food.  

The sisters greeted each other and Lothíriel sat down at Alphros’ other side.  

“How rare,” mused she playfully in Sindarin, “this little boy remembers his aunt!” 

Alphros shrugged as he broke a small cake into pieces. “Nánig so busy and busy. Boring! Adatheg Amros play, and Adatheg ‘Gammon play.” 

“Aye, you prefer your uncles to me, I know.” Lothíriel ruffled his hair, but he pushed her hand away with a glare similar to his grandfather’s. 

“No, Nánig is boring! Adatheg ‘Chiri boring and Nánig boring!” 

She sighed. “I am sorry, Alphros. I will play with you more from now on.” 

“And dance too!” He bit off a piece of bread and mumbled around it. “Nánig so much dancing, me too want dance!” 

“Sounds like today is going to be a repeat of yesterday,” Siloril said to Lothíriel, “the first man who wants to dance with you has already made his intentions clear. And breakfast is not yet over!” 

Lothíriel laughed nervously. Her body still ached from last night and she wondered if she should fetch some potions for herself, perhaps some Sorrowfew for her feet.

While the men of her family were naturally courteous, the other men had either been clumsy or had hands that very purposefully sought the boundaries of what was appropriate. Inversely, Lord Forgammon had behaved like she was riddled with contagious diseases, but she had preferred that to being groped. There should be no need to dance with a partner so closely in the first place. 

Then a brilliant thought occurred to her and she had a quick breakfast before taking leave. Alphros gave it most unwillingly, complaining that his aunt was too busy for him. However his complaints were cut short when his Uncle Forgammon appeared, who was quick to engage the child.  

After luncheon the festivities of Yestarë began with a speech of hope, blessings, and gratitude from High King Elessar. Yestarë was a more subdued event compared to Mettarë, with less dancing and more dining. The guests were thankful for it, because most of them were still feeling the effects of the celebrations of the night before.  

When it was time to start the dances, Lothíriel lined up elegantly, holding Alphros' his small hand. As she had expected, a few men immediately approached her, only to receive a scowl from the princeling. The music began and Lothíriel happily modified the dance steps to accommodate her nephew. He looked adorable in his silver and blue velvet tunic, his curly hair bobbing along with his movements.  

The enthusiasm from him was endearing and soon other noble women asked to dance with him. Fickle as he was, Alphros happily changed dancing partners halfway through his second dance with her, leaving his aunt behind as she smiled indulgently. 

“Princess Lothíriel, allow me to step in where Alphros left you.” 

Before she could reply, Lord Forgammon took hold of her hand and bowed. She allowed it, as both Siloril and Alphros were inexplicably fond of him and she did not wish to slight them. She placed a hand on his shoulder while he placed one on her back and immediately guided her into the next turn in the dance.  

Despite his abrasive demeanour, the Lord was a good uncle and, from what she had heard, a good father to his twin sons. Through her eyelashes, Lothíriel observed the man. He had short curly brown hair and a beard that he kept meticulously short as well, as he was a very rigid and organized person by nature. He and Prince Imrahil had a good relationship, one that had its emergence when Prince Imrahil had sought Siloril’s hand in marriage for Elphir. Siloril had no male relatives except for the now late Lord Forlong and his son.

Lossarnach was a significant fiefdom of Gondor and the match was considered to be a great boon to both parties. Lord Forlong had encouraged his son to visit his cousin sister in Dol Amroth often and to learn from Prince Imrahil the Fair. With time, the young noble had become a trusted advisor of the Prince. It was a shame that he never got along with the Dol Amroth siblings, least of all Lothíriel.  

She averted her eyes from his face as memories of his disdain came to mind. Regardless of where they were or in whose company they were, he always had critique ready for her. He thought very little of her and the reason he chose to dance with her was probably to keep her father’s favour. Lothíriel wished she was allowed to scowl openly like Alphros was. The music changed and she pulled her hand out of his grasp. A short curtsey was her goodbye as she made her way to her family.  

“Your son is a popular dance partner, Siloril,” she told her with a fond expression, “did you see how he abandoned me for others?” 

“Aye, but Forgammon came to your rescue, did he not?” She replied, not unkind. “I could ask him to dance a few more with you if you wish to dance with only your nearest and dearest.” 

“’Tis no matter,” Lothíriel sighed, with half a mind to say that Lord Forgammon was neither near nor dear to her, “I am my own rescuer. Just one more dance and you shall see for yourself.” 

Sir Húrdil asked her for the next dance and like the day before, he amused her with clever quips and sharp observations during their dance. He was quite talkative and, if she were honest with herself, pleasing to look at. He had bright blue eyes and black hair and his cheeks were always a rosy pink. When the dance ended, she allowed him to bring her to the refreshment table, where they ate and drank and talked about their daily life. Light conversation was the most she could handle, even from him.  

The musicians took a break and Queen Arwen stood up and addressed the attendees, thanking them for their presence and praising the staff of Minas Tirith for excellent arrangements. At the end, she added: “To honour the upcoming nuptials of our noble Steward, Prince Faramir of Ithillien, Lord of Emyn Arnen, to his Lady Éowyn of the Shield-Arm, I invite you all to join me and Princess Lothíriel in the traditional dances of Rohan. I request your participation so that we will all be able to celebrate their wedding in June with glad hearts and nimble feet.” 

The guests murmured their surprise at the announcement, some happier than others. Lothíriel smiled broadly at her Queen and stood up when the music started. Compared to Gondorian music, Rohirric music had a more lively beat and instead of couples, the dancers were in groups of four or more. Faramir appeared at Lothíriel’s side and kissed her hand.  

“You are precious, my little cousin sister.” He said simply.  

Sir Húrdil and Queen Arwen approached them to join their group. Faramir and Lothíriel demonstrated the easy steps to the other two, who followed suit and very soon, the four of them were moving merrily on the fast-paced tunes of the musicians. Within two turns, more people joined, including the Princes of Dol Amroth and High King Elessar. Lothíriel looked around, satisfied with the amount of people willing to take part.  

She twirled and clapped her hands to the beat, while her place was next Sir Húrdil, who time and again sought eye contact with her. His attention had been flattering and she had basked in it, allowing him to seek her out not just during the festivities, but before them as well. And there was no reason to refuse him or any other suitor her attention. Éomer King would not marry her, and she would not pine for him. She had been in love with him for only half a year or so, surely she would be able to move on eventually. Someone like Sir Húrdil would be useful for that.  

Despite her heartache, she was still a Princess of Dol Amroth, born with the duty to serve her lord and her king. Having a purpose suited her and she would strive to be competent in whatever role would be given to her. The only hurdle to overcome was the upcoming wedding when her path would surely cross that of the King of the Riddermark.  

Her stomach twisted painfully even as she spun herself around, pressing her palm against that of the young noble opposite her. She would have to fortify herself so that she would survive the wedding celebrations without falling further in love or in despair.  

Reinforcement was offered to her two days after the Mettarë celebrations had ended. She had been finishing up her packing when she was called into her father’s office in the Dol Amrothian quarters. When she entered, her brothers and Faramir were already present. Amrothos looked tense, bouncing his knee up and down, while Erchirion had a solemn expression on his face as he looked out of the window. Elphir was standing near their father’s desk, his hands clasped behind his back and his face devoid of any emotions. Faramir nodded lightly as she entered, before returning his gaze to Prince Imrahil, who sat behind his desk, his hands steepled under his chin.

Instantly, Lothíriel felt uncomfortable.  

“You called for me, Ada?” 

“Yes, my dear. Please take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and she swiftly complied.  

“In the wake of the Yule celebrations,” Imrahil spoke slowly, as was his habit when matters were serious, “a number of requests came to me. Requests for courtship within the tradition of Gondorian court.” 

“Sir?” The Princess was taken aback.  

“I have taken the liberty to select the one that suits our interests, your interest, the best. And I have given him leave to court you, to see if you and him can come to an agreement to marry. Like I have said before, I shall not pressure you into an unhappy marriage, but it would be remiss of us not to use your capabilities to the fullest of your potential.” 

Amrothos scoffed but spoke not.  

“I have informed your brothers of their duties to chaperone you, though I trust you and your suitor to remain within the boundaries of good behaviour.” 

He offered her an envelope. “Here is his request. You can read it and see for yourself his motivations. Then you can let me know if you have any objections.” 

She received the letter and opened it. When she saw the name signed, her eyes snapped to her father. “Him?” 

Imrahil nodded in understanding and sat back in his chair. “There is no harm in considering it, nevertheless.” 

Lothíriel held his gaze for a minute before looking back to the letter and reading it once again. Then she finally spoke. “Will I have a say in ending the courtship if it is not to my liking?” 

“Aye.” 

“I see... Well, if you approve of this, Sir, then I have no objections.” She decided after some cool consideration.  "You may accept on my behalf."

To her left, Amrothos leapt up, his entire being radiating anger and disbelief. He looked at her face, then at that of their father. Then he let out a long string of curse words, kicked the door open, and stormed out.

Chapter Text

Eowyn’s Interlude 

 
A knock was heard from the door to the private chambers of the King of the Riddermark, one morning in early February.  

“Enter!” called out Éowyn.  

A courier appeared, holding a stack of letters. “Your Majesty, your correspondence.” 

Éomer grunted and gestured towards his desk with his head. He was sharpening Gúthwinë and did not pause his task. 

The young man placed a large pile of thick envelopes onto the desktop and then proffered two letters to Éowyn who gladly took them and gave the courier his leave.  

“A letter from Merry with news from the Shire and one from dear Faramir!”. Éowyn was delighted to hear from the both of them and she opened Merry’s letter first.  

“Shall I read the letters out loud?” She asked her brother. 

“A summary will suffice. I do not wish to hear about the forty different puddings Merry had for Yule. Nor do I wish to hear a minutes-long exultation of your left earlobe by Faramir.” Éomer raised his eyebrows slightly and a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips.  

It was the most humor she had gotten out of her older brother ever since his return from the joint campaigns with King Aragorn. She was glad for it, thinking the Yule festivities had heartened him after months of toiling both in his office and during his travels within and outside the borders of Rohan.

For another moment she watched his hypnotic movement of honing his blade, making consistently a light ringing sound.  

Then she read through Merry’s letter with a smile. “Our dear Hobbits had had a surprisingly abundant Yule after the Battle of Bywater. They discovered the stores of the Ruffians in Michel Delving.” 

Éomer shook his head, cursing Saruman and Grima, and spit on the ground.  

His sister did not react to him, instead, she continued with her summarization. “They have also made good progress with restoring the Shire, and Merry and his friends intend to join us in Minas Tirith for my wedding! Such wonderful news from Merry, may the Valar bless them all.” 

She opened Faramir’s letter, which consisted of three pages front and back. With an indulgent smile, she read through his extensive intimations of how much he longed for her and how much he was looking forward to their wedding. Éowyn shivered with anticipation and desire, her heart aching sweetly for her beloved Prince Steward. She would meet him again not until June, which was a wait of almost five months.  

Perhaps she would convince him to visit her in spring, so that they could go horseriding over the flowering hills of Edoras and visit the newborn foals in the Royal Stables. Or they could simply sneak off to Aldburg and spend some time alone undisturbed by court duties. 

He would read her poetry while she would braid his hair. She would show him her favourite spots in Rohan and then discover new ones underneath his clothes. And he would show her his finest swordsmanship before allowing himself to study her - 

Éomer scoffed loudly, pulling his sister from her daydream. 

Right. She would have to write Faramir, very soon. 
She cleared her throat and continued reading the next paragraphs, only to halt and reread them.

When she was done with his letter, she stared at it with a puzzled expression.  “Oh. Hmm.” 
She felt her brother glance at her.

“What news from Ithilien?” 

Eowyn sighed sharply. “News is from both Minas Tirith and Ithilien actually. The restoration of Emyn Arnen has been going well. It has slowed down now because of the weather. Faramir went to Minas Tirith for Yule, it seems.” 

Éomer lifted up his sword and studied its edges closely, before flipping to the other side and continuing the honing.  

“The celebrations were a blend of the traditions of Númenor and of Rivendell, so there was something for everyone to enjoy. Rohan was also represented during the festivities. Faramir’s cousin, Princess Lothíriel, had the whole court participate in Rohirric dances in preparation for our wedding.” Éowyn smiled broadly at her brother. “Is that not so thoughtful of her? Her intention was that the Gondorians would be able to keep up with the Rohirrim during wedding festivities."

He did not look up from his task and just gave a non-committal grunt as an answer. 

“Faramir considers her his little sister and he writes his concern for her. He says she is being courted by someone and he is not sure if the lord is suitable for her. Prince Imrahil does not see any issues though.” 

The honing sound continued with a light grinding at the beginning of each movement.  

Éowyn frowned and glanced at her brother. “You have been there at the same time she was, perhaps you know the man yourself.” 

He raised his head to meet her gaze, undoubtedly curious. 

“A certain Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach. Do you know of him?” 

The look of consternation that passed in her brother’s eyes made Éowyn’s breath catch in her throat. His movements had halted and his jaw was set.  

“You know of him.” She stood up and approached him. “Tell me why you look so upset.” 

He stood up and turned away from her. “I am not upset. Prince Imrahil knows what he is doing.” 

His behaviour was unsettling. Unnatural. 

“Have you met Forgammon?”

"Aye, but - "

"So, is Faramir right? Is he unsuitable for Lothíriel?" Éowyn asked, eager to find out more about the match and her brother's feelings about it.

"I do not know."

"But you are upset! You must tell me - "
“Éowyn, enough!” He growled over his shoulder. “Do not doubt the Prince of Dol Amroth, he is wiser than all of the Gondorian council put together.” 

He pushed Gúthwinë into the sheath at his left flank. Then he stalked to his desk and began checking the sender’s name for each of the letters he had received.  

Éowyn observed her brother’s hulking figure from behind. He was breathing heavily and his movements were irregular. She watched as he roughly opened a single letter, read through it at lightning speed, and then threw it down at the desk. He did not bother with the other letters and instead stood staring at the opened missive. She noted how he kept clenching and unclenching his hands.  

“Éomer?” She said, after a long moment of restless silence. 

He jumped slightly and turned to look at her. “Why are you still here? Do you not have a letter to write to Faramir?” 

“Aye, but...” 

Her reply was interrupted by a frantic knock. A messenger came in, breathing heavily. At once, Éomer turned around and stood with his head aloft and his hands behind his back.  

“Go on.” 

“Your Majesty, a band of Orcs have been sighted in the White Mountains near Dunharrow.” 

“How many?” 

“Perhaps two hundred of them.” 

Éowyn watched the King bare his teeth, and the flash of bloodlust in his eyes told her that he was rearing to go on an Orc hunt.  

“Prepare the King’s Éored. We leave in an hour.” 

“Yes, milord.” 

Éomer began putting on his armour and Éowyn assisted him.  

“Be not reckless, Éomer. Remember that you are King now.” She said softly as she pulled the final buckle shut. 

He grunted in irritation, causing her to roll her eyes.  
“Brute.” She tugged his hair affectionately, causing him to give her an impatient side-eye.  

“May I use your desk to write the letters? Mine is full of – “ 

“Go ahead.” Éomer interrupted her and she knew that his mind was already halfway en route to Dunharrow.  

She held the tray of his breakfast in front of him. “You barely ate, Éomer, have something before you leave.” 

Éomer frowned in annoyance. “I am not hungry. Do not fuss over me, sister, I am not a child.” 

“You will regret those words in a few months when I will be leagues away from you and you will be alone.” 

The emotional blackmail was effective because he took a few large bites before he put on his helmet.  
He bent forward to kiss her brow, only to scatter crumbs on her face.  

“Ugh, you are such a barbarian!”  

She brushed her face clean before giving him a cup of mead. He took a sip obediently and she did the same.  

“By Béma's graces, may your return be in victory.” 

After she sent him off, she returned to the King’s office and sank down in his chair. In the silence of the winter morning, she reflected on her brother’s behaviour. 

Something was wrong. 

Éowyn knew Éomer was struggling. Not just with his new life, but also with himself. From the moment he was named King, he began to doubt if he would able to do right by his country. Though she often spoke encouragingly to him and tried to force him to relax in moments of peace, there was an underlying, tense sort of melancholy brewing just underneath the surface of his Kingly persona. 

In unguarded moments - and very few there had been, he would mutter under his breath. She could not actually hear the words, but she was almost sure they were unpleasant and directed at himself. 
Éowyn and Éomer had lost their parents when they were young. Éomund, their father, had been killed during an Orc ambush. Not long after that, their mother Théodwyn had succumbed to grief, leaving their children behind in the care of Théoden and his son Théodred. Losing them too had been devastating to the siblings.

While their deaths might have been honourable, Éowyn suspected that Éomer could not move on from them wholeheartedly. More than once he had expressed to her that it felt that he was trying to steer a lame horse home under a starless sky. He had been made heir for mere weeks before he was named King. What did he know of ruling a country, he asked her, when he spent his entire life patrolling lands and slaying Orcs. He knew nothing of rebuilding and restoration. How would he know how to manage a Kingdom? The support he had from his sister Éowyn would end at the time of her wedding. And then he would be alone, at the helm of an entire nation. 

Seeking counsel from Faramir, Éowyn had managed to strengthen his resolve, but his self-doubt was a persistent monster that no sword could behead and no spear could pierce.

Despite his misgivings, he had been working ceaselessly to improve the circumstances of Rohan, whether it was relocating his people, commemorating the fallen, negotiating agreements with allies and neighbours, rebuilding infrastructure, houses and businesses.Whenever there was a threat to the borders, he would never stay behind and send soldiers to take care of the matter. Nay, Éomer King could always be found at the helm of every host, at the head of every council meeting and at the centre of any building project.  

Her brother was going beyond any other man’s capability, and stretching himself thin when doing so. It was only when Meriadoc took charge of his health that he was able to find a balance between care for himself and for the kingdom.  

Fulfilling the Oath of Éorl meant that he also had to join the campaigns with King Elessar and he was always eager to go. Despite being a densely populated rock, Éomer never once complained about going to Minas Tirith.

When she asked him why he liked the White City, he had explained to her that King Elessar and Prince Imrahil were his mentors that had given him the means to somewhat capable as a King and that the advice that they gave him was always sound and achievable. Then he had shown her the large pile of letters he had received from them over a relatively short period, Éowyn had understood that he had found the noble men he needed to look up to keep himself motivated. The passing of Théodred and Théoden had left large holes in his heart, and the King and the Prince managed to somewhat fill them. 

But not enough for him to move on. Not enough for him to stop blaming himself for everything that was wrong. 

Regardless of his successes, his growth, his progress and the love that the people of Rohan held for their young King, Éomer held very little regard for himself. 

If only there was a mirror that would show him how competent he actually was. A talking mirror that would ceaselessly praise him and also scold him whenever he spoke ill of himself. 

He needed help and she felt ill-equipped for it. 
But she had to try. That is what she owed him, as she would leave him alone in the lonely Hall of Meduseld in a few months' time. 

Éowyn glanced at the letter Éomer had opened and thrown on the desktop. She picked it up and skimmed through it. It was from Prince Imrahil and it was filled with guidance, advice and words of encouragement and affirmation.  

The other letters were from the Marshals and Aragorn and she wondered why her brother had chosen to read through only the Prince’s letter and not the King’s. Nothing of urgency or note had been written by him. 

Perhaps she would find an explanation in one of the previous letters.  

The White Lady pulled open the drawers in search of the stack of correspondence that Éomer kept, the one he had shown to her before. She found it in one of the lower shelves in his dresser. When she pulled it out, her finger touched burlap and her hand stilled.

Why was there burlap in the King’s desk?  

Putting the stack aside, she pulled the rough cloth and out came the sack containing something solid and square. It was a box of polished wood, meticulously engraved with swans and boats.  

The box was from Prince Imrahil?  

Something niggled at her mind to open the container. Something was amiss with Éomer and the Prince of Dol Amroth had something to do with it.  

She locked the door of the office, desiring no intrusion. Then she unlatch the lid and opened the petite chest. Seashells, letters, slips of paper and a book.  

She took hold of a paper slip and read it.  

“Lothíriel, I am sorry. Please come at 6pm.  E. E.”  

Éowyn gasped out loud and her mind reeled with the information she received with just nine words.  

“Béma above!"

He was on first name basis with Princess Lothíriel. He wrote slips of paper that were probably handed to her in secrecy. He met her alone. He had done something that was worth apologizing for.  

Éomer was courting Lothíriel!

Or at least, he did in the past, because now she was being courted by someone else.

 
Éowyn’s heart thudded loudly in her ears and she picked up the book.  

ROHANESE FLORA by Théoden Thengelson - Translated and supplemented by Lothíriel Dol Amroth  

Her breath caught in her throat. Lothíriel had had the herbarium of Uncle Théoden in her possession long enough to copy it, translate it and expand upon it. This meant that they had been involved for months at least.  

She opened the book and admired the schematic drawings and the fine penmanship of the text written in Sindarin and Westron. Éowyn noted that there was space left below the text intentionally, and she speculated that it was meant for the Rohanese translations. The effort and care Lothíriel had put in it, moved Éowyn.

Why would the Princess have gone to such lengths? Perhaps she intended to make a contribution to the legacy of Théoden King. Or maybe she wanted to show her appreciation to Éomer by giving him something he could safely share with his kin without damaging the original herbarium.  

A quarter of an hour was spent by her pouring over the pages and reading the additional remarks the young woman from the South had made. Then she set the book aside and turned her attention to the contents of the box.  

Another slip.  

‘Princess, meet me in the herb garden after your meal. Éomer.’  

Éowyn frowned as she stared at the paper. 
Their paths had crossed in the Houses of Healing, and both Lothíriel and Éomer had taken a liking to dwelling in the herb garden. It made sense, as it was hidden away on the backside of the Houses of Healing and there were no direct paths leading to it.

No doubt, it was the prime location for their burgeoning romance. 

She looked at the letters once more. For some reason Éomer had both letters addressed to himself and to her. After some reflection, Éowyn arrived at the conclusion that Lothíriel had given everything she had that was connected to Éomer back to him. 

Her stomach twisted with concern. That meant that Lothíriel had ended their courtship and it was not done on an amiable note.  

Éowyn read through the letters, her heart growing ever more aggrieved. It had been Lothíriel instructing Merry how to take care of Éomer and sending him supplements for his health. There was genuine affection between the King and the Princess hidden between the written lines, but things had fallen apart.  

Lothíriel had been in Minas Tirith when Éomer went there, if not every time then definitely the last time when he finished up joint campaigns with King Aragorn. That is when Éomer had received the box and returned to Edoras. And it was the reason why he was in an exceptionally foul mood all the time since his homecoming.  

Éowyn sat back in her chair feeling devastated. “Oh, foolish brother,” She said out loud, “what did you do!?” 
 

That night, the King returned with his blood lust sated. At least for a few hours he would be in high spirits. 

That was the reason why, after Éomer had bathed and eaten, Éowyn entered his bedroom, carrying the burlap sack with the wooden box. She locked the door from the inside for good measure.  

He was lying down with his arm over his eyes, and stayed put, recognizing his sister’s stomping.  

“What troubles you that you come here barging in like a wild horse?” 

“This is what troubles me, Éomer King.” And she put the burlap sack in his lap.  

Immediately, he sat up. From his expression she could see that he knew what was in the burlap.  

“Why do you have this?” He growled, glaring at her.  

“You were courting Princess Lothíriel!” 

“Did you see what is in there? Why were you snooping around in my desk?” He narrowed his eyes and put the bag gently on his bed before standing up.  

“Do not change the subject. You were courting Lothíriel, why did you keep that from me?” 

“I did not court her, Éowyn! Stop saying that.”  

She shook her head and then spoke in an emphatic tone. “You were meeting her unchaperoned, addressing her informally and you exchanged gifts. That is what courting is.” 

“We were friends. Friends spend time together and give each other things.” 

“You have never had female friends, Éomer. Except for that one widow in Aldburg with whom you had an understanding."

He looked at her, appalled, while she scoffed.

“Wormtongue knew. And he told me just to see my reaction." Then she shook her head. "The point is, you only know how to bed women, and not how to befriend them."

Éomer began pacing the room and she followed his every step with her gaze.

He was agitated. 

“Explain to me what you two did as friends in the herb garden.” 

He shot her a glare, which she returned. 

“How did you meet her, can you tell me that?” 

Éomer continued his silent pacing about the room, wearing thin his sister’s patience.  

“Éomer, please. She is to be my cousin. She is the one in charge of my wedding, I have to know what happened so I know how to behave with her.” 

He stopped and sank down on his bed, cradling his head. Éowyn sat down next to him, worried.  

For a few minutes, he stayed quiet and then he sat up straighter, looking at her with a frown. “It was after you were healed by the King and you went back to sleep. I blindly followed a passage in search for a peaceful place. And I came out into the garden of the Houses of Remedies. It was the first time I had the moment to myself and I was overcome.” 

She gripped her brother’s hand in hers to encourage him to continue.  

“Loth - The Princess, from her workspace... she saw me and sent her brother Elphir with food and water to refresh me.” 

“So you knew already who she was?” 

“I thought she was a Healer from Dol Amroth."

"That makes sense. So you stayed in the garden?"

"Aye. The garden became a place of respite. She never approached me, and kept herself veiled. I did not think much of it, as I was glad enough to be left alone."

"When did you actually meet her?"

"It was the night before the coronation. I was alone in the herb garden, when she rushed past me in a great hurry. The next moment she tripped and swore so loud.” 

He paused, shaking his head. “It was a string of curses in Sindarin said with such conviction, Éowyn, I could swear it was as if Amrothos had put on a Healer's robes. My amusement betrayed my presence and I helped her up."

"At what point did you realize who she was?"
Éomer seemed to be willing to talk. 

"I suspected something, but it took some time. We started talking and her eyes - they are exactly like her father’s. She was anxious to leave, yet I kept talking to her, hoping to figure it out. It was when she mentioned that she baked bread with nuts and fruit in it -“ 

“The ones she gave to me, but then went missing from my saddle bag?” 

“I do not know what you mean,” he quickly deflected, “the same one she had her brother give me. That is when I realized that she was the Princess of Dol Amroth, the very same Imrahil had spoken of.” 

His sister stared at him in amazement. He never spoke about anything so animatedly. The most enthusiastic he had ever been was when he had told her that he had finally broken in Firefoot, many years ago.  

“The following day at the coronation, were you able to recognize her?”

“Yes, she was with her family. She had a scratch on her hand from when she fell, the evening before.” 

“I see, what did you think of her?” 

He frowned, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “She... looked like a princess from Dol Amroth, I suppose.” 

There was reticence in his voice. He was holding back, and she had to ask the right questions or he would stop sharing. “When did you become friends then? I never saw you talk.” 

When he fell quiet, Éowyn cursed internally her inability to say the right thing. As she scrambled for words, he spoke up again in a grave voice.  

“Prince Imrahil suggested to me the union with Princess Lothíriel...” 

Her light eyes widened, taken aback by the implication of his words and she pressed a hand against her brow. 

“... But I told him I was not going to marry any time soon –“ 

“What?” 

“And that he should not keep her waiting for me.” 

With a sigh, his sister let her head drop forward. “Oh, Éomer.” 

He chuckled ruefully. “Do not be like this, Éowyn. Not you. You know me. Even now I have not been a ruler for a full year. You cannot expect me to become a husband and a father when I am trying to glue back together a kingdom that is still suffering from the damage done by Saruman.” 

He cursed and spit again.  

“A long engagement is not a bad thing. People have the time to get to know each other and to sort out matters...” Her voice trailed off, not sure if she believed her own words. The very same scripts she had been telling herself to make the long wait to her own wedding more bearable.  

Éomer did not buy those words either. “Sister, I would not tie her down to me for years just so she would become the Queen of a broken nation!” 

She raised her hands in defeat. He was not wrong.

“I am sure that Prince Imrahil understood.” 

“He did. But the Princess seemed hurt by my refusal, so I approached her and I apologized... And then we became friends.”  

Éowyn wondered if he was hearing himself talk.

Éomer was not - never the one to care for a woman's feelings. In fact, she could scarcely remember him ever apologizing to her for hurting her. And she was his own sister. 

Maybe he had done so to keep her father's favour, but Imrahil did not seem to be a petty fellow.  

Then a thought occurred to her. Lothíriel had given her the travel bread when the Dol Amroth party and the Rohan party were about to go their separate ways. After greeting her, Lothíriel had gone up to Éomer, but their interaction had been hidden due to Firefoot’s large frame.

Éowyn had absently noted how her brother had led Lothíriel’s horse to her. And then he had lifted her up and placed the Princess on the saddle. What had seemed insignificant at the time, had actually been a very private way of her brother to say goodbye to the young lady from Dol Amroth.  

But Éomer had always been careful not to single out any woman of a noble standing with his attentions, not wanting to create any misconceptions. 

And he had made an exception for Lothíriel. 

“So when did you meet her again?” 

“That was when I returned to Minas Tirith for the funeral procession. We met in the herb garden and had a meal together.” 

He was hiding crucial information, sensed Éowyn, because why would the Princess go out of her way to have a private meal with a man who had refused her? 

Something had to have happened to give the Princess the motivation to be alone with him. 
Éomer would not tell his sister what it was.

"Why did she do that?" 

"What?"

"You had refused her hand in marriage. Why would she break Gondorian etiquette to meet with you?"

She watched him think, and she could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to come up with an explanation that would reveal to her only what he wanted her to know. 

"I do not know," was his reply, a frown ever present on his forehead. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, before rubbing his beard roughly. 

Huh, interesting.

However, Éowyn's curiosity was not yet satisfied. 

“Right. So, what did you talk about?” She asked, carefully observing his face.  

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Uncle Théoden.” 

It was obvious that Uncle Théoden had not been the only topic of discussion. 

But Éowyn nodded and then she asked in a light-hearted tone, “The Princess is great company when your morale is low. Do you not think so?” 

“Aye,” he replied, “she was very kind to me that night. She gave me the courage I needed for the next day...” 

His voice trailed off and he seemed deep in thought, his mood still sombre. 

Éowyn stayed silent to let her brother reflect, thinking over the meetings with Lothíriel. With a little bit of luck, he might come to realize his own feelings.  

“Did she bid you farewell the next morning?” 

“Aye.” 

Unsure of how to proceed, she took hold of the box and opened it. Éomer gave her a look, but he did not stop her. Éowyn took out the letters, looking for a specific one.  

“As it turns out, it was Lothíriel who sent you the tea that Merry was constantly making you drink... That was very thoughtful of her.” 

Éomer glanced at the letter that his sister was holding, but he gave no reply.  

“I do recall I was quite surprised when I saw Merry chasing after you with a some sort of bottled liquid. It was a strange sight, seeing the King hide from a Halfling.” 

“The Princess had insisted that I would drink it if I had trouble falling asleep.” 

“No doubt a great motivation to actually try and sleep.” 

“I never learned of the effectivity of the tonic, the thought of having to drink it a second time was enough to force myself to sleep.” 

They both laughed softly, before she put the letter back and took hold of the plant journal.  

“But you were grateful enough that you sent her Uncle Théoden’s Herbarium.” 

He did not reply, choosing instead to fidget with the signet ring on his little finger. 

She opened the copy that the Princess had made.

“Did you look inside it?” 

“I did not.” 

“Why not? She must have spent weeks on this.” 

He shook his head and refused to meet her eye.  

“Look, she left space for Rohirric text, and she added drawings of plants similar to the ones in Rohan.” 

He grunted and let himself fall back on the bed.  

Éowyn had half a mind to give the book for the court’s scribe to work on, but there was an unspoken boundary that she did not wish to cross. She put the book back in the box and took out the letter Lothíriel had written in thanks, as well as the shells that had been sent along with it. She placed each on its designated place on the paper.  

“These shells are lovely. I have never seen anything like it.” 

A glance at her brother’s face told her that even though his eyes were closed, he was wide awake.  
“I remember you telling me to write to her that you liked the white spiral. Was it this one?” 

He opened one eye to see her hold up the delicate white seashell. He gruffly agreed and then closed his eye.  

Éowyn traced the shell thoughtfully. “I shall visit Dol Amroth some day. It is not far from Ithilien and I could go by ship if I wished to.” 

“But you would not wish to.” 

“True."

There was a lull in their conversation, until Éowyn pushed through the silence, still wanting to find out how their friendship had ended.  

“So you met again when you returned to Minas Tirith at the end of the joint campaign.” 

“Aye, she was there because Queen Arwen Undomiel had wished her presence at court.” 

“The Queen must appreciate her as well.” 

“Aye.” 

Éowyn recalled yet another thing. “And our men think highly of her too. They told me that she took great care of them when they were in the Houses of Healing.” 

“Aye, there is no doubt that she is very dedicated to her duties.” 

“Did you also receive care from her upon your return to Minas Tirith?” 

She saw his shoulders stiffen.  

“What?” 

“Your men spoke of some bruising on your left. Did she tend to you?” 

His eyes were squeezed shut and the corner of his mouth twitched. “The Warden was the one who tended to me, considering that I am the King of Rohan.” 

She narrowed her green eyes at him. That was a lie. By now she knew him well enough to recognize his tells. 

If he was lying, then it meant that Lothíriel did tend to Éomer. And the fact that he was withholding that information from his sister, meant that it had affected him. 

"How bad was the bruising? Your entire left arm?"

He took a deep, exasperated sigh. "Aye, and the left part of my upper body and face."

That was a lot of surface area for the Princess to tend to, inferred Éowyn, and perhaps that was why he had not shared it with her. The situation could have easily been misconstrued. 

She decided that she would leave the bruising be, for the sake of Lothíriel. Instead she changed the topic. “Then did you meet with her in the evenings then as well?” 

“Aye.” 

“Yet during your stay in Minas Tirith, your friendship with her ended.” It was not a question, but an observation. An astute one, as she noticed him clenching his teeth and flexing his hands.  

“You will have to tell me what happened, Éomer, or I will write to her myself demanding an explanation.” 

"No!" He sprang to his feet as if he had been electrified. “You shall not trouble her!”

His whole body was tensed and his glaring eyes were full of fury. But Éowyn was immune to his methods of intimidation. 

“Then tell me everything, brother.” She replied firmly, meeting his indignance with her own.  

He deflated almost immediately and turned around to walk up to a tray with a pitcher, where he downed a cup of water.  

“We met each other in the Houses of Healing." He said after clearing his throat." We agreed to meet the next day for supper, and also for as long we were in Minas Tirith.” 

For a grumpy and uncouth barbarian, he sure was able to keep the young Gondorian Princess captive with his charms, mused Éowyn, if she so readily had committed her evenings to him. 

As he, in kind, had done for her sake. 

“I see, and did you?” 

“Aye, the following two evenings we met in the herb garden. We supped and talked.” 

“What did you talk about?” 

He cast his eyes to the ground and the corner of his mouth twitched again. “About Dol Amroth and horses, things like that.” 

“Béma above, I hope you were more forthcoming with Lothíriel," sighed his sister, once more aware of his untruthfulness. "Or did you chase her away with your paltry conversational skills?" 

The glare that he gave her would have shaken another person to the core, but Éowyn laughed it away. 

“The evening following that, was that more of the same?” 

“Not quite.” He scratched his beard and walked over to the fireplace to add another log.  

Éowyn returned to the box, looking for a specific item in it.  

“There is one paper that I cannot place, ah, here it is. It says ‘ Lothíriel, I am sorry. Please come at 6pm’.  At this point you are still friends, because you call her by her name and you want to meet her at dinner time and not supper time.” 

“That was from the evening before. I went too far in my jokes and hurt her feelings.” 

Éowyn pinched her nose bridge in disbelief. “You made fun of her?"

He made a face. "I did not intend to, but yes."

“How did you do that?”

Éomer shook his head as he shifted the log with a long metal fire poker. “I rather not say.”

So he would not embarrass her in her absence either. Éomer was that soft-hearted for the Princess, but… not enough to entertain a union with her. 

“I can understand that,” she glanced at the slip of paper in her hand, “so then you sent her this note?”

“She was quite upset with me, so I wished to meet her sooner to apologize.” 

Éowyn regarded him for a moment and then sought clarification. “You made fun of her so you insisted on meeting her earlier, just so you could apologize?”

“Aye...” He slowly replied, looking over his shoulder, “that is what I just said.” 

“She forgave you.” 

“Well, yes."

"Immediately?"

"Aye, upon meeting me that evening.” 

Was he even hearing himself talk? Éowyn wondered.

Éomer never teased any woman, nor did he ever apologize for his mischief or rude conduct unless politics forced his hand at it. And apparently Lothíriel had been upset enough to warrant an apology, but then… she had been swift in her forgiveness as well. 

Was it because she did not want to waste precious time being at odds with the Rohanese King?

“But what was different the following evening?” 

“No, that evening I was still near Pelargir, laying waste to an underground orc tunnel network. The evening after that I had returned and I was later than I had relayed to her.” 

“But she was quick to forgive you for it, I imagine.” 

He did not reply.  

“Or is that when she did not and thus returned all your items to you?” 

“When I met up with her, she was fine.”

“Fine?” 

“Yes, she was quick to ensure my comfort. She had made arrangements in that work space of hers, because of the storm.” 

“That must have been cosy in that little room, far away from everyone.” 

He frowned, looking down at his feet. “We ate and we talked...” 

He fell silent again, deep in thought. Éowyn could sense that whatever he was about to say, lay heavy on his heart. 

“Then what happened, Éomer?” 

“I...” He struggled to find his words. “I had had a lot of mead before I came to her, but I was not drunk yet... “ 

Éowyn felt an uneasy feeling stir in the pit of her stomach. His words did not sit well with her.

“Yes…?”

“But I was tired and hungry. We had food. Mulled wine, too.” The young King stood near his bed, his hands clenched into fists tightly. “The Princess saw to my every need. Said some things to set my heart at ease as well… I… Éowyn, I let my guard down... and I kissed her.” 

Éowyn managed to stifle her gasp, but her mind was reeling from shock and the need to know more. 

“And this offended her?” 

He pressed a hand against his forehead and hid his eyes, obviously feeling unwell at reliving his past.

“No. Not at all. She responded enthusiastically...

And then I moved away from her.” 

“Oh.” 

Éomer sank back on his bed, holding his head in both his hands. “She then said that she thought we had an understanding, which I denied.” 

Lo, there it was. The moment Éomer broke Lothíriel’s heart. 

And how it broke Eowyn’s own, listening to his recollection of it. She could not even imagine how Lothíriel had felt. Or perhaps she could, considering the fact that she had gone through the same kind of rejection with Aragorn.

“I assume that she did not take it well.”

“Aye... She did not.” He rubbed his face roughly with his hands. “She said that she could not accept mere friendship and left. Her Swan Knight gave me that box. By dawn, she was gone.” 

Éowyn sat down next to him, needing to digest his words. Should she comfort him or should she yell at him? No, she still needed to understand him better. 

After a stretch of silence, she asked.  “Did you do anything during your time together that would make her think you… had started to her in a different light?” 

Éomer refused to answer, still hiding his face.  

She groaned in exasperation and then reached out to shake his shoulder. “Éomer. I can tell that you are leaving out something crucial. You cannot tell me - You sought out a beautiful and vivacious young woman for significant amounts of time! And you say you kissed her just because you were drunk?”

He scowled for a second, but then a helpless look came into his eyes. “I – I do not know, I mean, yes.” 

“You do not believe yourself.”

Her words were sharp and they stung him. 

“I have been so selfish, Éowyn, I – “ Shaking his head, he looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Being there in the herb garden gave me an escape from my duties and worries as a King. Lothiriel was – even if we talked about Rohan, she never put any kind of pressure on me. With her, I felt relief and I thought… “

His voice trailed off, but the White Lady understood. “You saw no harm in seeking out the solace she provided, seeing that she was always willing to spend time with you. Right?”

“Aye.”

“And then you got too comfortable around her.”

“Aye.”

“And then you lied and told her that whatever she felt between the two of you was nothing but friendship.”

He could not muster a reply. Instead he said, “Lothíriel, she said the same thing before she ended our… whatever it was. And she was right, I was using her as an escape.”

“But how did you even justify it to yourself in the first place?”

“A sister. I thought, I could treat her like a sister. She has a lot in common with you – “

Éowyn laughed out loud. “And you hurt her in the process. No, Éomer. You were fooling yourself.”

“Maybe, I do not understand it myself. With her, things were natural and unassuming. Just… easy.”

She smiled wearily. He was describing how she felt with Faramir. 

“Tell me this, Éomer. In all your comfort and peace with her, did you touch her?”

His back stiffened and he stared with serious eyes, but he did not reply. And she knew what he meant. 

“You did. Many times, in fact. Am I right?”

Before he spoke, he was silent for a spell. “I have touched her, yes, but never in a disrespectful way. Never with the wrong intentions.” 

“And did she do the same?” Asked Éowyn, soft with her words, but her gaze was hard as she observed his face closely. 

And then she saw it again. The twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“Aye, just light-hearted touches between friends.” 
Friends? No. It was obvious that both of them had feelings beyond mere friendship. 

Anger was beginning to boil in her veins. Was he truly that blind to his own feelings? Why was he in such denial? What was the reason that he was denying himself the love of person who was perfect for him?

The sudden urge to punch him into understanding himself welled up in Éowyn, but she resisted. Instead, she chose another route. 

“To summarize your interactions with Lothíriel…” Éowyn nudged him to look her in the eyes, “you spent time together, shared meals, exchanged gifts and innocently touched each other?” 

“Aye.” He dropped his gaze immediately. 

“Like an old married couple.” 

His body was now even more tense than before.

“What? No.” 

But Éowyn laughed derisively. “You were doing everything a husband does with his wife, except bedding her.” 

“Do not be crass, Éowyn!” There was warning in his voice. “We were just friends.” 

“Éomer, please. You kissed her, Éomer! Friends are not supposed to do that.” 

“I told you, it was a moment of weakness!” 

“You wanted to, Éomer! She gives you peace and comfort. She makes you laugh and she is clever and ambitious! But you are too cowardly to act on your feelings for her.” 

He sprang to his feet again and he glared at her, with his jaw set and his fingers curled into fists, shaking with anger. 

“You are out of line, sister!”

She raised her voice to meet his shouting. “And you are lying to yourself. ”

“So what if I am? It does not change the fact that I am not marrying her.”  

“For Béma’s sake! Why not? What does she lack?” 

“I am the one who is lacking!” ground out Éomer. “Do you not realize it? How I treated her is a fine example of my self-centered incompetence. Just like how I was unable to stop that son of a bitch Wormtongue from succeeding in his plot to kill Théodred. I was the one unable to stop him from robbing empty our Treasury too. I could not keep you safe from him, either. And what of the devastation he caused to Rohan by incapacitating Uncle? I should have run my sword through him the first time I suspected him of leechcraft, years ago!”

Éomer felt responsible even for things that were never his to control in the first place, matters that no person could manage by himself. Not as a Marshall during war time. Not even as a King. Éowyn had often tried to convince her brother not to be this unreasonably hard on himself, and on the surface he eventually always agreed with her. But deep down in his heart, the self-flagellation never ceased. 

And the matter of Lothíriel bore down just as heavily on him, as well.

“Éomer, please. You have to stop blaming yourself!” 

He shook his head wearily. “What I did to her… how I hurt her? It is proof that I do not deserve her.”

Éowyn stared helplessly as her brother stood, stiff with intensity of his emotions. What could she do to convince him not to punish himself? 

“Oh, Éomer. That is not true. Do not let the shadow of Grima Wormtongue doubt yourself.” She stood next to him and wrapped her arms around his broad frame “You are a formidable person and you have always done the utmost for Rohan, for me. For Uncle, too. You would be a good husband - ” 

“No!” Éomer shrugged off her arms and stood up, once again fleeing from her words. “Lothíriel is better off married to some Gondorian noble, living the life she is accustomed to. If she were to live in Rohan, she would have none of the luxuries she enjoys now. She would be far away from her family and the sea and everything else she loves.”  

“You do not know that, she has proven herself to be highly adaptive – “ 

“She would do it for the sake of duty, not by her own wish. Do you not know? She took a liking to me, because her father suggested it! She is that obedient to him.”

His handsome face was scrunched into a deep scowl, a mere reflection of the pain he was feeling.  
“Do you not think she was interested in you, because of you?” She asked him, incredulously. Did he not listen to himself at all? The young woman so obviously longed to be by his side. Anyone paying attention could see it. 

Anyone, except for her older brother. 

“Éowyn, for Béma’s sake! Did we not establish just now that I am unworthy of her?” 

“You can make amends, Éomer – “

“I might hurt her again later on, so that is useless advice.”

“You have to forgive yourself for your mistakes!”

“How can I do that? Forgive myself? When I hurt her, while she had done nothing to deserve such abuse – “

“I know you can do better for her sake – “

“She should not have to suffer because of me.”

“The Princess is not a child, Éomer! She knows you better than you think - ” 

“Stop it, Éowyn.” 

But she persisted. “No, I will not! She loves you and – “ 

“Do not say that!” He snarled at her and turned away from her.  

“She spent all her free time with you, caring for you, because she sees you for who you are – “ 

“Go away!” Anger was now rolling off the King of Rohan in hot waves and he began pacing the room.  
“Beg for forgiveness and win her back! You shall be a great King, Éomer, especially with someone like her by your side!” Éowyn was desperate to make him understand, but he was unyielding.

“I do not wish to hear a single word more!”

Infuriated, he kicked aside a chair.  

Even leagues apart, Lothíriel’s influence on Éomer was significant and if she were his Queen, he would be a happy King to a happy Rohan.
 

“You love her, Éomer, you have been suffering ever since your return - “ 

He swore loudly and sank back down on the bed, gripping his head.  

“And if you do not act upon your feelings, she will marry someone else soon - “ 

“Shut up!” 

“ – And you will have one more item added to your list of lifelong regrets.” 

With a growl, Éomer grabbed the thing nearest to him and smote it at the wall. It was only when he noticed the fragments, that he realized what he had done. 

Lothíriel’s box. 

Éowyn looked at her brother with cool anger, but he could only stare at what remained of Lothíriel’s belongings, grief marring his face. He swore under his breath and crouched down at what used to be the box. He took out the book and the papers, shook off the debris and examined them. Then he set them aside gently and sifted through the wood for the shells. One by one he looked at them closely. Only one or two were chipped slightly, but the last one he found had a large crack. It was the white common spiral.  

He heaved a great sigh, and held the cracked shell in his hand. “Please leave me be, Éowyn. I cannot do what you want me to do. I will not sacrifice her happiness for my own.” 

His sister shook her head in defeat, tears brimming in her eyes. She could not convince him of the injustice he was inflicting upon himself. 

Was there was anyone at all in Middle-Earth that could? 

End of Éowyn’s Interlude

Chapter Text

A week before the anniversary of the fall of Sauron, Lothíriel returned to Minas Tirith. She was not eager to come back, knowing that Éomer King would be attending the celebration.  

He and King Elessar would return from their campaign to Eriador, where their primary objective was reconnaissance and laying the foundation of dependable representation of the High King’s reign over the lands. The hosts had left for their return from Edoras, where they had taken rest for a week. The majority of the Rohirrim army would retire until their King’s return when he would set out for campaigns within the borders of Rohan until the wedding procession was set to leave for Minas Tirith.  

Lothíriel’s father had been mindful of her emotional state and thus he had informed her about the whereabouts of the King, so she would not be caught unaware. Imrahil valued his daughter’s happiness, but now he needed her to be strong. He was confident that she would do be able to handle a visit to Minas Tirith. She had been doing well in Dol Amroth after all, dividing her time between her family and her ambitions. Of course, there was also Lord Forgammon to consider, her unexpected suitor. He would be present in the White City as well.  

It had been strange, reading Forgammon's missive on why he thought that she should accept his suit. Never had she considered him anything other than her father’s irksome advisor and her nephew’s moody uncle. In fact, she still could not believe that he would earnestly be interested in her as a husband. From the letter he had given her father, his motivations were indeed anything but romantic.  

His grandest motivation was that his sons would become eligible to partake in the Swan Knight training through his marriage with Lothíriel, and they would thus attain strength and glory. The power he would gain by their alliance would mean greater significance for him in all of Gondor. Of course, there were benefits for her as well, or so he wrote.  

The lands of Lossarnach were mountainous and wet, and therefore abundant with a vast variety of plant life. According to other herbalists, there was a lot of potential for new medicines to be created for the people of Lossarnach – and beyond. Lothíriel would be, if she were willing, in charge of building that venture from the ground up. Lord Forgammon would facilitate her travels and she would be free to go and stay as she wished. As for offspring, he had already two sons, so it was her choice to have children and how many. Furthermore, he had promised her that she would not have to compromise in terms of freedom and luxury.  

It was more than the other suitors could give her. 

Except for perhaps a throne to a kingdom, but that was neither here nor there.  

They had met about five times since the Yule celebrations, while his mother or Erchirion chaperoned them. Amrothos had also been tasked with this, but he had laughed wryly before walking out on Imrahil, his intentions clear.  

Lothíriel did not lay any fault at his feet. Sir Forgammon had been unpleasant to them for the past decade and Amrothos had the tendency to hold grudges.  

And Lothíriel knew that if she wanted this suit to succeed – though she was not sure yet – then Lord Forgammon needed to make an effort to compensate for his behaviour for the past decade.  

Therefore, it was at their second chaperoned meeting, that the Princess had looked Lord Forgammon in the eye and spoken to him, firmly. “Milord, considering that you wish to marry me, you owe me an explanation about your behaviour.” 

“Whatever do you mean, milady?” 

“You are very quick to criticize me. Why is that?” 

His open-mouthed gape had been amusing to her, but she also had been a touch irritated. How could he be so obtuse?  

“Could you give me an example of my unbecoming behaviour?” 

What had followed were many examples and a surprisingly in-depth discussion as to why things were said and why the offense was taken. Lady Vanyalos had also listened attentively to their debate. Finally, they had reached the conclusion that he would choose his words more carefully and that she would try and move on from the past.  

The consecutive meetings had been better, but he still had the tendency to look at her with disdain. Lothíriel had not minded, as she had determined that she preferred his disdain over his fondness. The marriage, should she choose to accept his suit, would be a business transaction, rather than the joining of two hearts.  

And it was just as well, she thought as she allowed her hand to rest on Lord Forgammon’s arm, two days after her arrival at Minas Tirith. She did not have the capacity for any more romantic feelings, after what she had been through mere months ago.  

The void persisted in her belly, quiet and dark.  

“Shall we take a walk around the herb garden of the Houses of Remedies? Perhaps you could tell me about your latest acquisitions.” 

She looked at the brown-haired man in mild surprise, not used to him taking an active interest in her personal pursuits. “As you wish, milord.” 

Instead of taking the path from the back of the Houses of Healing, Lothíriel led him and his mother there via the side entrance. The garden had just started to come alive with spring aspirations and the scents of the herbs and flowers were but gentle and sparse.  

“Do you recognize these, Lady Vanyalos?” They paused near the Rosa Rugosa that she had planted last year. A few flowers had already bloomed, while the rest remained coyly in their buds.  

“Aye, Your Highness, I recall these grow in abundance in the dunes of Cobas Haven.” 

The Princess smiled in appreciation, “That is right, milady. As you can see there is a lot of sand mixed into the patch. To my delight, the plant has survived the winter.” 

“These flowers have medicinal value, have they not, milady?” Forgammon stared at the roses with his usual stern expression. “Pray, what is their effect?” 

“They are anti-inflammatory and reduce pain temporarily. They also help if you have a cough.” 

“Would these thrive in mountains?” 

Lothíriel thought for a moment. “Considering that they grow in sandy soil, I think that even if they survive, the beneficial properties might decrease over time due to a less than favourable environment.” 

She met his gaze. “It is better that you find a plant with similar properties that is more suited to the mountain air and soil, rather than force the beach rose to turn against its very own nature.” 

“How clever of you, Princess Lothíriel, you are so wise in herb lore!” Lady Vanyalos praised her earnestly.  

“I only wish to be of use, milady.” Replied she, smiling warmly at the old woman.  

“How about this one, I have seen this plant flowering near our home.” Lord Forgammon was now standing near a plant with numerous tiny white flowers. “What is their use?” 

It seemed that the man was only interested in the practical side of herb lore, and Lothíriel wondered if he was already planning on having a similar herb garden built to start their venture into herbal medicine.  

She stood next to him and kept her gaze on the plant. “That is yarrow, which comes in a variety of colours. It is good for women’s ailments, but only as prescribed by a Healer.” 

“Heavens, that is what our Healer also says, “ exclaimed Lady Vanyalos, who pressed her way between them from behind, “that women must use it only as instructed when and how he prescribed it. Herb lore is not without its dangers.” 

“Indeed, Naneth.” The man, who was clad in a simple black velvet outfit, took his extravagantly dressed mother by her arm and walked her over to a stone bench a little ways off. “I see that you are tiring yourself out, dear Naneth. You should sit down for a spell.” 

The old lady looked at her son in confusion before understanding flashed in her eyes. “Aye, I shall take a rest. Thank you, dear.” 

Subtle the pair were not, the Princess thought with mild amusement, and she was curious to find out why Forgammon required privacy. Unbidden, her mind recalled the other times that a gentleman sought to be alone with her in this very area. Her eyes strayed to the Apothecary wing on the opposite side of the garden.  

“Shall we?” The lord offered her his arm and she took it. They strolled for a good ten minutes while passing remarks and questions about the flora until he halted near the tall Iâfthalion grape trellises.  

“Princess Lothíriel.” 

His voice was terse mixed with something else that she could not place. She tore her eyes away from their examination of the vines, to look at him. He was standing in close proximity to her, making her feel a bit unsettled. He had always kept himself an arm's length away from her, even during their courtship. 

Questioningly, she tilted her head to indicate that he had her attention. He was looking at her quite intensely and he stepped a bit closer. Then he reached out and took hold of her hand, pulling her closer still.  

“It has been almost three months since you accepted my courtship,” he said with an uncharacteristically gentle voice, “and I was hoping that I would be allowed a kiss from you.” 

For a moment Lothíriel thought that she was dreaming. It was not quite a nightmare, but more of an unsettling dream. Not once had she wished for a kiss from him, but he, in turn, had asked outright for one. She stared at him in shock and he actually smiled, quite ruefully.  

“Milady, I am courting you after all, it should not be a surprise that I long for a kiss. In fact, I have held myself back, because... You do not think of me in that way.” 

For a moment she considered politely denying her reticence, but then she chose honesty instead. “That is true, milord. It is hard to shake the impression that has been formed over a decade.” 

“I concur, my perception of you changed only recently, too. I cannot fault you for being consistent in your convictions.” 

“What changed for you?” She wondered, genuinely curious.  

The brown-haired man smiled again, being unnaturally cheerful in her company. “It was after the Battle of Pelennor Fields when I saw how you used your influence and skills for the sake of our soldiers.” 

He looked down at their enjoined hands, his skin a few shades darker than hers. “It was then that I realized that the Princess was now a formidable noblewoman, one who was able to fulfil her duties with her proud head held high, veil or no veil.” 

Lothíriel started. While she had been busy watching Éomer, Forgammon’s eyes had been trained on her, observant and stern. And it was especially during that time that she did her utmost to fade away into the background.

A master of disguise she was not, apparently.  

His hand released hers, only to skim her wrist and go up the length of her arm, coming to rest in the curve of her neck. She allowed him to bring his face near her, but he did not complete the distance.  

“May I?” He whispered, his breath caressing her cheek, his half-lidded eyes gazing into her widened ones.  

Lothíriel did not expect to be intrigued by him, yet she felt her eyes close involuntarily. A moment later, she felt his lips press against hers, his beard prickling the skin around her mouth. His hand slid up into her curls and he added a bit of pressure, only to have his lips graze very lightly before moving back, dropping his hand at his side.  

When Lothíriel opened her eyes, he was looking down with pinked ears partially hidden beneath his short brown curls. Clearly, the kiss has affected him, in any case, more than it had affected her.  

And It had been a pleasant kiss, far better than the ones stolen by stable boys in her early teens or the ones curiously given to a young Swan Knight. Yet it lacked something, and she knew that her foolish heart was comparing it to the single abrupt kiss she had received in the Apothecary stillroom.  

It lacked Éomer.  

Still, it was not Éomer courting her. It was Lord Forgammon who saw a future with her, one in which she would be valued as a leader and as an herbalist.  

It was the lord from Lossarnach who was now looking at her in admiration and desire.  

She allowed herself to give him a small smile, which he heartily returned.  

“Thank you, Princess Lothíriel. May I kiss you some other time as well?” 

His question was a bold one, but at least he was aware of what he wanted and held no fear in acting upon it. She nodded her assent and took a few steps toward where his mother sat.  

“Shall we?” 

That night, Lothíriel reflected upon all the kisses she had received in life, now having enough experience as an adult to make cognizant comparisons. 

 Lothíriel had learned to be cautious in her approach to men, and boys, in the same way she had done so for education, court politics, and other areas of personal development. Matters were never straightforward, especially for a young noblewoman of Gondor.  

Nevertheless, she was a woman, and before that, she was an adolescent curious about why boys were boys. First, she had asked a few questions here and there to friends, maids, and Healers. Then she had stolen the book on the anatomy of Men from the office of the Chief Healer from Dol Amroth.  

This had been followed by routine observations of the training that took place at the Swan Knight Academy. After that had followed choosing the young man that she liked best and then stealing looks at him. Her looks then would become more bold and pointed, even as she made eyes at him from where she had stood behind her brothers. Eventually, when she knew that he had enjoyed her attentions and his graduation at the Academy was nigh, she would happen to come across him at a secluded spot, one that she would have chosen over time based on her observations, and she would feign surprise at meeting him. Finally, if she saw that he was willing, she would congratulate him on his Knighthood and award him with a sweet and simple kiss on the lips.  

She had done this three times, with each of the ‘flirtationship’ taking up an entire year. It had been only once that her kiss had been refused, though with profuse apologies from the young knight. It had been the last one when she was seventeen summers old. The Knight had told her that he had a sweetheart waiting for him, but that he was flattered and he hoped that she would not be upset with him. Indeed, she had been quite upset, but she had schooled her expression and laughed lightly, saying that she wished him and his sweetheart the best. Upon reflection, she had known that she had been envious. She longed for something more substantial than looks and a single kiss. The kind of connection that the Swan Knight had with his sweetheart. But it would not happen to Lothíriel, she had learned that by now.  

That was the last of her flirtatious amusement with any young Swan Knight.  

Still, that had not been her only kind of youthful experience though. Over the years, she would join Prince Imrahil on his visits to Minas Tirith and during those times she had befriended a stable hand called Nelion. Their paths would cross whenever she had to go for a ride or when she had to take care of her horse. Soon, their friendship had evolved to something more, though both had known it would never be worth naming. Nelion had been a muscular young man thanks to his labours in the High Stables, and he had been a head shorter than the Princess, with a lopsided grin that would always make her heart skip a beat. 

What started with smiles and furtive looks, grew into stolen touches and short conversations until the spring before she turned eighteen, when they both had the confidence to meet behind the stables. He had been an endearing boy, with light brown hair and blue eyes, who had made sure he was washed up before he met Lothíriel, yet continued to smell of horse and hay. She had not minded it, he had been a stable hand after all. After daring to hold hands, he had pressed a feather-light kiss on her lips, one that she returned in kind. 

 Their years-long acquaintance had given a deeper dimension to the brush of their lips and it had sent a small thrill up her spine. After that day, they met three more times, during which they would do nothing more except hold holds and share light yet deep kisses. On the last day of Lothíriel’s visit to Minas Tirith, she had found him in the High Stables again, but at once she had seen that something had changed. He would be sent to Osgiliath, where Orcs had been wreaking havoc and strong men were needed to defend the strategic location of the old capital. They had cried together, still only holding hands and sharing a final kiss before he had departed. She had never heard of him again, not even after her many attempts to enquire after him. His disappearance discouraged her from forming any more light-hearted attachments because it had affected her more than she had expected. Erchirion had taken note of her downcast moods and he had comforted her without asking questions.  

After that, she kept her distance from all boys and men, not just from men of the court. No kiss would be worth the heartache.  

Lothíriel remained distant from men from then onwards. Or at least, she did until that fated day in the herb gardens of the Houses of Healing. Éomer’s appearance had heralded the deterioration of all the sensibilities that she had gained over the years.  

He had awakened in her a strange kind of hunger, something deeper and more potent than the wish for a companion that would look upon her with admiration. That hunger seemed dormant, yet it deceptively reared its head in unguarded moments and dreams. It refused to let her forget the touch of Éomer’s lips and the warmth of his hand.  

And then there was Lord Forgammon and his kiss that spoke of prowess and potential.  

Without a doubt, his kiss had been the most skilful of all. She could not deny that he knew what he was doing and a part of her was, in fact, curious as to what else one could do when touching lips and skin.  

But whenever she thought of him, she would, without exception, have her mind turn elsewhere.

Even now, as she lay in bed reflecting and reminiscing,  her mind unbiddenly conjured visions of a blonde moustache over lips and tanned skin.

No, she should not think of him, she reminded herself.

Yet it was all she did until she fell asleep. 

The hosts of the two Kings were still two days away when a messenger arrived in the office of Prince Imrahil, where his children had gathered after dinner.  

“Prince Faramir has sent word that he has found Lord Baranor and his companions.” 

Lothíriel looked up from her book, in awe. 

Erchirion stood up, visibly excited. “Tell us more.” 

Imrahil beckoned the messenger to approach him and received the letter. Hastily he read through the missive and then looked up at his three children with a triumphant flicker in his grey eyes.  

“Captain Baranor has agreed to become a liaison for Gondor, provided we meet with some of his reasonable demands.” 

“That is excellent news!” Exclaimed Amrothos. “When can we meet him?” 

“He is staying in Osgiliath, as we were told by our sources - "

Erchirion frowned and raised his hand in confusion. “Who are our sources?” 

“Gondorian infantry soldiers with close ties to the Rangers of Ithilien. Not many survived the war, but the ones who did, spoke of Captain Baranor and his deeds concerning Minas Ithil.” Prince Imrahil explained and he glanced at his daughter. “They spoke with your sister and she relayed the information to us.” 

Lothíriel smiled brightly, enjoying the proud look on her father’s face.  

“Well done, sister.” 

“Erchirion and Amrothos, you will join me for Osgiliath as soon as the anniversary celebrations are done. Lothíriel, I shall leave a Swan Knight with you, but I urge you to start your journey to Dol Amroth for the month ends.” 

All three of them gave their agreement, happy that finally progress would be made in the trade agreements with the Haradlands. Lothíriel had been attempting to manage the moods of the men in her family, all of whom had been prone to wallow in frustration and despair. Most of the time that meant that she was trying to distract them from their worries, and she was running out of notions that could hold their interest. The cooperation of Baranor meant that they would gain an edge in their negotiations, laying the foundation of a reliable trade network between the Haradlands, Gondor, and beyond.  

What followed was a lively discussion about the role of Captain Baranor and the risks and benefits of his involvement. An hour later, the brothers chose to retire for a drink, while Lothíriel stayed behind with her father.  

“How goes the courtship with Lord Forgammon?” This was already the fifth time that her father asked her. And every time she gave the same answer.  

“It goes well, I suppose, Ada.” Lothíriel never knew what else to say. The time spent with the lord was pleasant. Logically their marriage would be beneficial for both fiefdoms. Lady Vanyalos adored Lothíriel and thus she was overjoyed with her son’s courtship. Yet she could not force herself to put more effort into forging a relationship with Forgammon, even if he was an accomplished kisser.  

Prince Imrahil nodded, his sharp eyes fixed on her face. “My daughter, I want you to make a decision before you leave for Dol Amroth. Either end the courtship or accept his suit. I see no reason for any more delay. You have to be more decisive, especially in matters such as these. Do you not know that both Dol Amroth and Lossarnach are awaiting your answer?” 

She met his gaze, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “Yes, Ada.”

Lothíriel donned her Healer’s robes and had her chambermaid twist her dark curls into a braided bun, before putting on her head cover.  

Like last time, Minas Tirith was astir with preparations for the arrival of the Kings. The Houses of Healing adapted to the procedures that had proven to be most efficient in the past, their Healers and their assistants delegated to their dedicated positions. Meanwhile, the kitchens, the stables, and the guesthouses were ready for an influx of demand as well. 

This time, however, there was an increase in wounded and so the Warden demanded more of his staff. Lothíriel did not have a moment of rest from the moment the first blonde warriors and wiry, dark-haired soldiers streamed into the High Hall of Healing. While she was not responsible for the healing directly, she spent the whole day providing the right medicine to the Healers and giving the lightly wounded the care that was within her skill set.  

“Westu, hlæfdige, hál!” Greeted one of the Rohirrim, as he sank down on the cot she had offered to him. She had lost count of how many of the soldiers from the North she had helped.  

“Ferthu hál, cempa.” She replied with a warm smile, immediately taking in the places he was hurt. She set out to clean the wounds and then applied a thin layer of Sorrowfew on them, before bandaging him up. During her work, she felt a strange prickle in her neck, as if someone was watching her. A glance at her patient’s face confirmed it. He was looking at someone behind her and bowed his head with a brave grin.  

Lothíriel turned around to see a tall armoured man walk away, in his hand his helm with the horsehair tail.  

She breathed deeply to steady her heartbeat, refocusing her attention on the horse-lord in front of her.  

This was to be expected.  

They were bound to run into each other. 

She could handle this. 

And he was not for her to have. 

With the last bandage done, she gestured for the man that he was free to go. He bowed and left. Lothíriel looked around and saw no other patient in need of attention. She sank down on the cot and heaved a deep and tired sigh.  

It had been almost five months since she had last seen Éomer King. And she had succeeded in thinking less about him during the day, by concentrating her attention on her duties, her passions, her family, and even on Lord Forgammon.  

During the night, though, he was ever-present. He persisted in appearing in her dreams, where he would be holding her by her waist, or where he would be sitting next to her while looking at her as if she was the only thing that mattered in his life. Yet more disturbing visions occurred as well. He would appear to be wounded or on his deathbed. Then there were the dreams in which the single kiss they had in the stillroom would evolve into a flurry of intense kissing, wandering hands, and bare skin on the cushions near the fireplace. Or that dream in which they were both astride on Firefoot, but instead of being taken to the Houses of Healing, he would find some other, more secluded, space to further explore how it felt to have their bodies pressed tightly against each other.  

“Your Highness, are you well?” 

Angrenor, the Swan Knight that had the duty to guard over her, was kneeling in front of her, looking concerned. She had not even heard him approach, even with his heavy suit of arms. She stared at his lined face in surprise. “Sir, you are very stealthy.” 

“Not at all, milady, you were very deep in thought.” The Knight straightened up his stout body and helped her up as well. “Perhaps I should go tell the Warden you are done for today?” 

Before giving an answer, she cast a look about the High Hall. The staff of the Houses had been working since before breakfast, and it was almost dinner time now. The patients seemed to be handled or delegated to the appropriate Specialist Healers up in the House of Remedies. The Warden was nowhere to be seen, but she did not wish to go looking for him. He could be with Éomer King, and she was determined to stay far away from him for as long as her station allowed it.  

Instead, she approached one of the Healers in charge of the High Hall and took her leave of her.  

“We will need you in the morrow, Your Highness,” said Healer Lagreth, “some of the medicine that you make, is in short supply, and the other Herbalists have requested your help. I will have your stillroom prepared.” 

Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. She had been avoiding that still room, but duty trumped personal problems, and instead, she thanked the Healer and promised to return early.  

Angrenor escorted her to the Dol Amrothian quarters, where he was given leave by Prince Imrahil. Lothíriel bathed and changed into one of the formal robes she had brought along from home. Her mind was overwhelmed by thoughts of the Rohirrim King, which was downright foolish because she had not actually seen him except for a glance at his retreating back. What would become of her, if she were to face him at dinner time?  

On Erchirion’s arms, Lothíriel left with her brothers for the welcome feast, her mind still in turmoil. They approached the dais where the Queen, the Kings, and the Prince sat. Arwen caught her eye with a warm smile and for a moment, Lothíriel’s head was clear. 

She was a Princess of Dol Amroth who was about to greet her lords and liege, and there was nothing to be nervous about.  

Following her brother’s lead, she curtsied grandly and greeted each of the royals, including her father, with a happy smile and a heartfelt greeting. Éomer King was also greeted in the same manner. She met his gaze proudly and proclaimed her greeting clearly with only the slightest tremor. He was dressed in black and gold robes, with his maroon cuirass on top of it. Across his brow was his crown, nestled on his half-tied hair. As was his habit, he was frowning slightly with an unreadable expression on his face, which remained even as he returned her greeting.  

Lothíriel and her brothers made for their seats, and she let out a shallow sigh, grateful that their reencounter was over so soon. 

She had finally faced him and she had done so without stuttering, blushing or stumbling. There was no doubt now that she could handle being around him.

“Milady, allow me to take you to your seat.” Lord Forgammon appeared in front of her, and without waiting for her answer, he took her arm in his.  

“Well met, Lord Forgammon. By all means.” 

It was better to concentrate on her suitor, she thought wryly, as he was the best chance at a politically useful match. Amrothos did not at all agree, of course, because he cursed under his breath as he followed them, while Erchirion excused himself to talk with their father.  

The table at which they were to be seated was along the length of the dais and she ensured that her seat would not face the dais. She knew that she would be sorely tempted to keep looking at the Rohanese King. Her suitor was most willing to oblige and sat down next to her. Amrothos chose to sit opposite them, probably so that he could keep a close eye on them. 

During their courtship, Lord Forgammon had usually been a quiet dinner companion, and thus the first two courses passed in relative silence. When the third course was placed in front of them, a marinated mushroom salad, he took a few bites and then set his utensils down.  

“Lady Lothíriel."

Lothíriel glanced at him and put her fork down, wondering why he was looking at her so intently.  

“You have proven to be very wise in growing all sorts of herbs and plants, but have you any experience with cultivating mushrooms?” His eyes flickered with something akin to excitement.  

Lothíriel was taken aback by the energy in his voice. He rarely showed any emotion except for disgust and annoyance. “I have not, milord. Have you?” 

Forgammon turned towards her while pointing at the salad. “I have not, but I know people in Lossarnach who are masters in foraging and cultivating mushrooms. Granted, the mushrooms are used either for food or for poison darts, but I have a very strong feeling that there will be mushrooms in Lossarnach with healing properties!” 

Relatively speaking, his excitement was subdued compared to the average person however he was figuratively bouncing in his chair. And Lothíriel could not help but smile and be affected by his energy.  

“That is wonderful, milord. I would love to learn more about it.” 

The energy made Lord Forgammon look his age and perhaps that same energy persuaded him to take hold of her hand in the presence of a Dol Amrothian Prince who was glaring hard at them. 

“Princess Lothíriel, will you join me tomorrow for a visit to The Old Archives to see what knowledge is kept there?” 

Before she could even think to answer, Amrothos spoke in her stead. “I am afraid my sister will be occupied with her duties in the Houses of Healing tomorrow, Lord Forgammon. Perhaps you can go yourself and bring back to our quarters whatever you deem useful? I am sure that father would not mind the three of us pouring over dusty old books in the common room.” 

Lord Forgammon’s mouth stretched disdainfully before giving a reply. “You take an interest in herb lore, Prince Amrothos?” 

“I take an interest in my sister, milord, and I would not like her to go to such a dreary place.” 

Lord Forgammon glared back at the younger man but admitted his defeat soon after. “Very well. Let us meet after lunch, milady?” 

Lothíriel agreed, shooting a frown at her brother, who in turn raised his eyebrows with a scowl. “Aye, you can send word to me and I will join you in our common rooms.” 

The lord stared at her for a moment, before giving her hand a light squeeze and letting go. “I look forward to it, milady.” 

She nodded with a smile and turned to her salad. Amrothos genuinely disliked Forgammon and the feeling was mutual, despite knowing each other for a decade already. They only bore each other’s company for the sake of Prince Imrahil. She stole a glance at the man sitting next to her, who was having his salad with his usual stern expression. There was no doubt that he was a great asset to Dol Amroth and to Gondor as a whole, but it did not sit right with her that her marriage would have the shadow of animosity between her loved ones. Perhaps, over time her brother would be able to let his grudges go.  

The rest of the courses passed uneventfully, except for the periodic scowling and glaring from the youngest Dol Amroth Prince. When the meal ended, he was quick to take hold of his sister’s arm and pulled her along towards the Southern Guesthouses.  

“Lothíriel, you must end this courtship.” Said he, when they were alone in the common room of their residential quarters.  

She sank down on a sofa seat, rubbing her forehead. “Amrothos...” She said tiredly, “It is not that simple. He is important to Gondor and he has ambitions that suit my personal interests while having the means to support these... Aspirations.” 

“Look, I understand the goal and duty of marriage, Lothíriel,” he said in an empathic voice, sitting down next to her, “and I understand he is influential, but he will squeeze all the joy out of your life if it serves his purpose. And even if it does not happen immediately, he will do so eventually.” 

“Despite all that, he is still the best match when it comes to rank.” Lothíriel did not understand why she was defending the courtship, but a dutiful part of her was compelled to do so. “If I marry some lesser noble, the power I will have as a married woman shall not have the highest potential.” 

Amrothos rubbed his face in frustration and grabbed his hair in his hands.  

“Refrain from pulling your hair, Amrothos,” she huffed, “you will grow bald early.” 

He ignored her attempt to distract him from his tensions. “You do not have to get married, Lothíriel! Not now, not never.” 

“You are right, but I do not wish to remain unmarried for the rest of my life. Therefore it is best I marry the one most suitable for a Princess.” 

He stared at her. “Forgammon is not the best.” 

“Perhaps. But I see no one else.” 

He was about to say something, when Imrahil and Erchirion entered the room. Instead, he closed his mouth and looked thoughtfully at his feet.  

“Amrothos, Lothíriel,” said Imrahil with a lightness in his voice, “I bring you good news...” 

Both of them looked at him and Erchirion with interest.  

“Your brother Erchirion is betrothed.”

The following morning, Lothíriel rose early, dressed in a fresh set of Healer’s robes and went to the Hall for breakfast.

From a distance she could see a relatively small number of people having their morning meal. One of them was the King of Rohan, sitting amongst his direct command. She turned around and went to the kitchens to have a meal there. The kitchen staff was used to her comings and goings, which were unusual for Gondorian royalty, but they welcomed her always as she enjoyed discussing the use of herbs and plants in food. 

As she had her meal she reflected about Erchirion. Her brother had been consistently drunk the past few days. Was it because of his betrothal? Amrothos had told her that Imrahil had put in a lot of effort to get this union arranged. Had Erchirion been the one who had been causing trouble on this matter? When their father had announced it, Erchirion did seem pleased. Had his contentment been an act? When she had gone up to him, he had deflected all of her questions and left to meet his friends, so her brother was not being forthcoming either. 

“Shall you be having supper in the herb garden again, Your Highness?” asked one of the kitchen staff, biting back her smile. 

“No,” Lothíriel was taken aback by the forwardness of the young woman, and she put her spoon down in her bowl, “that shall not happen anymore.”

“Shame. The two of you got along so well, that – “

“Idril!” The head chef interrupted with a warning look on her face. “Mind your own, if you know what is good for you! Your Highness, I beg your pardon, we did not mean to upset you.”

Lothíriel looked down at her breakfast, all appetite lost. She too once thought that there would be more suppers together, as well as other meals the two would have in private. But things had not gone as per her expectations. 

Her foolish, naive expectations. 

Abruptly, she stood up and took her leave, despite profuse apologies from many staff members. Perhaps she had been rude, but she could not stomach their well intentions yet. Instead she made her way to through the herb garden.

She opened the door to the stillroom in the Apothecary wing of the House of Remedies and just stared at the space. 

Five months ago, this room had bee  filled with a cosy atmosphere, with throw pillows and cushions piled up on one side, a veritable spread of their favourite foods in the middle of the room, and a pot of mulled wine brewing on the other side of the room.

Her heart still ached, but she had no regrets. Ending their meetings had been the right decision for both their sakes. He had made a fool out of her and she had allowed him to do so.

Her anger at him had long since dissipated. The heartbreak would fade eventually, too. Hopefully. 

She took a step over the threshold and pressed her lips together resolutely.

More important matters were at hand now and she scanned the list with the herbal medicine the Healers needed from her. A number of her specialties and large batches of Sorrowfew and similar salves. 

She rolled her head and then her shoulders, and she set to work.

It was near lunch time and Lothíriel was cleaning up the stillroom, having had a productive morning.

When everything was spotless, she refreshed herself and left the still room for a walk in the herb garden before she would return to the Dol Amrothian quarters. The Royal Gardeners had been tending dutifully to the herbs, bushes and trees, and it was to their efforts that the garden was an invigorating place to be in. There were also the Royal Gardens near the front of the Houses of Healing which featured the efforts of landscapers and many walking paths under looming trees, but there were too many people about for Lothíriel to enjoy. 

She stretched out her arms and circumambulated the garden once alone and twice together with Sir Angrenor, the Swan Knight who watched over her.

She tried to make some idle talk with him, but like his predecessor, he favoured listening over talking. Too tired she was to give monologues, so they stayed in companiable silence. It was when she considered returning to the Southern Guesthouse that someone came out of the House of Healing doorway opposite the apothecary wing. 

Both Lothiriel and Angrenor turned their heads to look at the newcomer, who was partially hidden out of sight by some overzealous shrubs.

A soft rhythmic clanging sound approached and immediately a lump formed in her throat. 

Even without a visual, the Princess recognized the heavy footfalls and the clanging of armour. Hastily she turned around and walked up the nearest parapet, hoping that the grey colour of her robes would blend in with the wall. Sir Angrenor stayed put, but he was well aware of her agitation. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, her ears fully aware of his nearing. 

A few moments later, Éomer King appeared, seemingly deep in thought as he walked past them, only to retrace his steps and look at Sir Angrenor, who immediately bowed deeply and greeted him. 

“You are the Princess’ personal guard, are you not, good sir?” She heard him say. 

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

"Then she is here?"

"... Yes, Sire."

The rhymthic clanging was now very close and its source stopped mere feet behind her. 

Lothíriel bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for some miracle to make her invisible to him. 

Then she heard Éomer King clear his throat. 

“Princess Lothíriel... Well met.”

Chapter Text

She had no choice but to turn around and answer to him. He was a King, after all.  

But she was a Princess no less, a proud daughter from the Line of Imrâzor, and she could talk with him without losing her nerves. Seeing him at court was one thing, but to have him seek her out in private once more, was a different matter altogether. 

Their past would colour their words and actions, all of it laid bare between them, undeniable and abraded. And she was the one who had gotten hurt the most. She was the one risking her all once again. 

Taking a deep breath in an effort to steady her nerves, Lothíriel finally turned around to face him.  

“Well met, Your Majesty.” Her voice did not waver and she curtsied as formally as she could. When she straightened up, she met his gaze coolly, yet she could not hold it for long. 

For as he stood there alone in the garden, with Sir Angrenor duly out of earshot, away from observers and on-lookers, and alone with the woman whose love he had denied, Éomer was not able to maintain the illusion of being his usual self, a person whose heart was as unchanged and calm as a mountain. 

If Lothíriel's eyes were not fooling herself - though she did not trust her body wholly simply because her heart was racing, her nerves were pulled and her hands were itching to reach for him - it had seemed that the young man from the Line of Éorl looked weathered and worn. 

Yes, his armour was polished and formidable as always, and his hair was plaited and his beard was neatly groomed. But there were bags under his eyes, his lips were stretched grimly and there was a strain in his face that spoke of...

Of pain? Of sadness? Or perhaps her eyes were indeed fooling her and they were mistaking fatigue and general weariness in an attempt to feed her vanity that perhaps he was out of sorts because of her. 

The same kind of thinking that led her to her own sorry state of mind. 

No, Lothíriel told herself. He was simply tired because he was a King, green and eager to do right by his people. It was not for her sake, not for the naive little princess that had been imposing on him, mistaking his kindness and simple lust for something more lasting. 

As she stared at him, she knew that he was studying her as well. His gaze was heavy and she felt a blush spread on her cheeks. She looked down.  

No good would come of being here alone with him. 

The urge to flee was strong and she racked her mind for an excuse that would not diminish her pride. Anything to get out of here, and out of her greedy little spiral desperate still for his affections. 

“How... How have you been, milady?” His voice was gruff and warm - just like it had been in their moments alone together, making her stomach swoop with its sweetness. 

And how treacherous was her body, still pining for his nearness! 

Is that all it took for her resolve to crumble? A look at his sad face and the sound of his voice? 

Despite the months of heartache, she longed to embrace him and kiss him - and tuck him in bed after a cup of sleep tea because his exhaustion was so apparent, that she was afraid he would fall ill at a moment's notice. 

No, she told herself once more. It was not for her to be concerned for him. It was what had started this entire heartbreak in the first place. 

And had he not been adamant despite his own actions? And in turn, had she not made clear to him and herself that she would never bestow her tenderness upon him again?   

So she needed to stay strong. For the sake of her pride, her title and for the sake of her own stupid little heart, the very same that still wanted to throw itself at him.  

Éomer was not for her, and she was not for Éomer. 

And he did not need to know how she had been. Indeed, he had no right to speak to her so pleasantly, as if they were friends. As if she did not confess her feelings for him and he had not broken her heart. How could he forget himself so?  

“Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?” Lothíriel ensured the steel in her voice. 

And Éomer did notice her tone, and he shook his head, resigned. Then he started to say something, but he stopped as a servant approached the Princess. The young man bowed and spoke to her.  

“Your Highness, Lord Forgammon awaits you.” 

Lord Forgammon. Her suitor. 

She had forgotten all about him and his mushrooms, but he was a good excuse to use. 

A convenient way to be responsible and keep her distance from the Northern King.  

“If you will excuse me, Your Majesty, my presence is required elsewhere.” She curtsied once more and gestured to Sir Angrenor that they were leaving.  

But then his voice rang clear in the empty herb gardens. “Lothíriel, please!"

Unable to school herself, she had turned around to look at him, her shock apparent. 

"Lothíriel, I - I am sorry!” 

The pain in his voice and the anguish on his face were so obvious, that her breath caught in her throat.

"I know you do not owe me a moment of your time - not how I treated you," Éomer spoke earnestly, his eyes boring into hers, willing her to hear him and perhaps understand him, "But I must tell you how ashamed I am of myself. I..."

He held out his palm to her as he searched for the right words. Lothíriel glanced at it before looking back at him, unsure of everything.

"I took advantage of your good, caring nature for my own comfort, without paying any mind to how it would affect you. You looked after me so well and I repaid you most unkindly. My actions, my words, everything I did was so disrespectful to you - "

Though she was hearing him speak, it was as if the meaning of his words was processed very slowly by her head. With a light frown, she stared at him, desperately trying to make sense of his speech - make sense of him. There was a weird buzzing feeling in her abdomen as if the void there was trying to shapeshift into something solid and stinging.

" - and now I do understand if you wish to forget about everything and ignore me as well, and you would have all right to, all right to - of course. But I must tell you that I am so grateful for all that you have done for me. The things I was going through, I was drowning and those times with you were the moments I was able to gasp for air. I was able to catch my breath - "

He was rambling, Lothíriel noted absently as she tried to understand him. Éomer never rambled.

"But I hurt you. I still hurt you and I cannot forgive myself for it, though I selfishly hope that one day you shall - forgive me, that is. Not that I deserve it, naturally! That is not -"

An ounce of vindication welled up in her from that void, her mind finally able to process his words. At least she was not the only one left broken by what had happened between them. He too had been affected by the fallout of their separation, if one could even call it that. He too had been suffering. His body belied his exhaustion and even his speech was affected. Éomer had always a very decided way of communicating. Concise and clear. 

This was, by his own standards, anything but.

But what was he trying to do? Was he trying to apologize? Was he trying to befriend her once more?

A bubble of unease rose in her chest. 

Not friendship. She could not handle that.

She could let go of her anger. Indeed, she had already done so, because holding onto her soreness had been a burden to her soul. Knowing how gentle he used to be with her, and the sheer mountains of the burdens he had to carry, she had forgiven him the moment she saw the tiredness etched into his skin.

He might not love her, but she wished him no harm, ever. Not even the mildest discomfort did she wish for him, especially now that he had acknowledged how had behaved with her.

It was laughable how easy it was for her to forgive him, but that came as no surprise. Seeing the mighty King of the Rohirrim struggling to express himself, was something that did not leave her heart unmoved.

And that, realized Lothíriel, as she stared at his tall yet obviously agitated shape, was dangerous.

Her foolish little heart was about to foster hope, reading into his words certain meanings that he did not intend.

"That is not what I am trying to say here. What I mean is that I appreciate - "

Lothíriel then cut him short, because regardless of how big a breach of etiquette it was, she simply could not allow this precious and precarious rambling any further.  "Thank you, milord!"

Éomer immediately fell silent, his hazel-green eyes widened in surprise as he studied her from under his brow.

A flush crawled up her cheeks and she raised her hand in a placating gesture. "I mean to say that I forgive you."

He did not reply, but instead continued to stare at her.

"Thank you for..." Lothíriel swallowed thickly and cleared her throat. "I need to go. Now. Lord Forgammon is waiting for me." 

And a moment later, Éomer gave his gruff acknowledgement of her words.

"If you would excuse me, milord." She had been anxious to leave, but now that she was actually about to leave, she did not wish to.

Still, he inclined his head and then moved aside to give her passage.

With brisk steps and a stinging heart, the young woman curtsied and left him behind in the herb garden. 

In an odd parallel to her journey back to her room that fated night five months ago, so too did she hurry back to her room, her heart and mind overwhelmed because of the blonde horse-lord. Sir Angrenor followed her closely, silent but obviously concerned for his protegée.

No doubt this too would be reported by him to her father and her eldest brother. And Lothíriel did not mind it. At least she was allowed to make her mistakes, which was a freedom that very few noblewomen could afford. 

"Your Highness," the Swan Knight finally spoke up, having arrived at the entrance of her rooms, "Shall I have someone bring you luncheon? I shall inform Lord Forgammon of your delay."

Lothíriel shot him a grateful look. She had forgotten about luncheon and Lord Forgammon again, very quickly too, but at least she had the loyal Knight looking out for her. 

Though he was no Sir Feruion, he understood that his duties to her - actually to her father - went beyond being a personal guard, and she appreciated it. 

"Thank you, Sir Angrenor," she said and they shared a smile before she allowed him to close the door to her rooms. 

Lothíriel entered her bedroom and refreshed herself before she sank down on her bed and thought of what just had happened. 

Éomer had acknowledged his wrongdoings and he had apologized to her regarding his treatment of her. Like her, he had suffered. And she had forgiven him, instantly. 

And perhaps she had been too hasty to give him his forgiveness and to cut short his rambling to save him from discomfort. 

Had he acknowledged her feelings for him? Had he acknowledged his own?

Indeed, he had said nothing about why he had kissed her. About why he was able to find comfort and peace with her. And why did he seek her out today to apologize? 

With any other man, she would be able to firmly ascertain that he had feelings for her. But with Éomer? 

Even thinking of it was plainly perilous for her poor heart. No good would come of it. He was not for her, and she was not for him. 

If she would keep repeating that to herself, perhaps the vision of his sorrowful countenance would not have a lasting effect on her. 

Lothíriel spent luncheon trying to ignore the aching of her heart as she attempted to eat at least part of her meal. The afternoon was passed pouring over the singular tome Lord Forgammon had found in the Old Archives.

The fact that he even found a single one was a miracle, as Lothíriel had surmised that the kind of people who would forage and cultivate mushrooms, would not be the ones to fill books with their knowledge. The one record found was written by a lesser noble who had made a hobby out of mycology, and he had been diligent and meticulous in his records. Even in one single mushroom journal, there was an overwhelming amount of information that Lothíriel needed the whole afternoon parsing and processing.

Lord Forgammon stayed with her until it was time for a pressing Gondorian council meeting. She did not mind his absence. He asked too many questions about production value and finding the easiest way to get the most medicinal worth out of the fungi. It was tedious. 

Amrothos stayed with her until the end, though he took little interest in the source material. Instead, he wrote his own correspondence, balanced a pen on his nose or stared at the wall, thinking hard about a topic he refused to share with her.  

Dinner time was nigh and Amrothos called out to his sister. “Hey there, Lady Toadstool! You should go and get ready for dinner, you have been in your stained Healer garbs since morning.” 

She stood up and looked down her gown, panicked.  

Had she been wearing dirty clothing in front of Éomer King?

Then she corrected herself.

In front of Lord Forgammon, the one who was actually courting her.

Yet as she inspected her clothes for spots, she found none. When she glanced back at her brother, he was grinning broadly. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and finished her last sentence. Then she retreated to her room and was made ready by her chambermaids for the evening meal.  

Her hair was loose in curls, cascading down her shoulders and back. Her evening gown was midnight blue with silver embroidery at the bodice and hems. The delicate silver and sapphire jewellery she wore elevated her appearance from noble to regal, and she sighed softly as she studied herself in the mirror. It was her favourite gown, usually able to give her morale a boost, but today its magic fizzled and died after the first minute.  

How could she enjoy her finest raiment though? All she could think of was Éomer. She was pathetic. He might have apologized to her and she might have forgiven him - too easily - but he had still rejected her feelings. 

Twice! 

No, all her pining was wasted on him. She was a Princess and she had her duties, none of which concerned him directly. 

The only way to move on from him was to keep moving. 

Her fingers found an embroidered spiral seashell on her dress and she traced it a few times, willing herself to calm down and focus on what truly mattered. 

Keep your head up, Lothíriel. You can do this. 

Motivated once more by the Ramshorn squid, the Dol Amrothian maiden stood up and made for the door full of resolve. 

When she came out, only Amrothos was waiting for her. Erchirion had been spending all his time with his betrothed and thus had been notably absent. Prince Imrahil had been occupied with the Gondorian council that her suitor was also a part of. Soon, the siblings arrived at the dining hall where once more their table ran parallel to the dais. Before she was able to navigate to a seat where she would not be able to see the King of the Riddermark, Amrothos led her to a seat facing the dais and sat down.  

She did not. Instead, she glanced around nervously, especially at the dais, which was currently crowded with servants setting up the table for the rulers.  

“Sit down, Lothíriel,” said her brother in a hushed voice, “we can see Erchirion easily from here.” 

Simultaneously, they looked at their elder brother, who was currently in deep conversation with the elder sister of Lord Boridhren of Lebennin, Lady Minieth. 

“He seems happy. Did he keep it from you, too?” asked Lothíriel, her eyes still fixed upon the pair.

Though privately she wondered how drunk Erchirion was right now. He was currently holding a goblet of wine in his hand, but his attention was entirely on the woman sitting beside him. Lady Minieth was an... Interesting choice for her brother, to be sure, but Lothíriel would not say that they were ill-matched. 

“Aye, but that is merely because Ada told him to keep mum until the suit was accepted, of course. Ada said that the wedding shall take place once the negotiations with the Haradlands have a solid foundation. Then Erchirion can stay with her at Pelargir to oversee it in his place.” 

“My, such convenience.” Imrahil was a good father, but he was an even better politician, and that one aspect of him tended to bleed into the other. 

“As expected of our dear Ada.” Amrothos turned to sit more comfortably in his chair. “Hark, here comes another one of our father’s machinations.” 

The King’s council had ended and its attendants streamed in to take part in the meal. Lord Forgammon appeared on the other side of the table alongside his mother, Lady Vanyalos, and greeted them cordially. 

As cordially as he could, which was not a generous amount, thought Lothíriel to herself as she inclined her head in greeting. 

The presence of the High King and Queen was announced, as well as Éomer King and Prince Imrahil, after which all sat down and the first course of the dinner was served. 

Lord Forgammon took a seat opposite Lothíriel. Much to her dismay, though, behind him at a short distance sat Éomer King, directly in her line of sight.

It was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. Their meeting in the herb garden had been a grand attack on her resolve and she had needed to muster all her willpower to stay on the path that she had decided. The path that led away from him.

Yet here she was, veering close to him, tempted by the convenient opportunity to gaze upon him and worry about him.

It was a queer addiction, her need to care for him. Her need to be concerned for his well-being. 

Even Orcs were clever enough not to fall into the same pit twice. And here she was, noble Princess of Dol Amroth, teetering on the edge once more, wishing to ignore all warning signs and just jump in.

Her heart squeezed painfully. She did not wish to be in this maddening situation and she wondered if she should excuse herself, begging weariness. As he was about to beckon to a servant to move her chair back, Lord Forgammon spoke up.

“Milady, I have some news regarding Captain Baranor.” 

Lothíriel's torrent of self-pity seemed to lie down, and she turned to him with interest and encouraged him to speak.  

Captain Baranor, who was no longer a captain factually, was currently residing in Osgilliath. During and after the Ring War, he and his companions had taken down fortresses and watch points within enemy borders. Their intention had been to fight Mordor until death, taking with them as many Orcs and other evil creatures as possible. Their attacks had been covert, especially due to the events that took place in parallel. After the defeat of Sauron, they had continued their efforts inland, but once they had heard the news that there was a King in Gondor, they had ceased their battles and returned to Osgilliath. As there were only soldiers stationed in the ruins of Osgilliath, their presence had been known only by those who halted them at the security posts. The soldiers had lost track of them soon after they had given the party their leave.  

“I am not surprised that the soldiers let them go,” said Lothíriel after Forgammon told his part, “apparently he was a beloved Captain of the Gondorian Guard, and I am sure at least one of the watchmen knew him personally.” 

As she spoke, she felt a familiar weight settle onto her. Unable to school herself, she automatically gazed beyond the lord of Lossarnach, instantly meeting his eyes.

Éomer was staring at her, quite intently, while resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, his chin supported by his hand. When he noticed her looking back at him, he inclined his head to her and then looked away.

She too turned her attention back to her food, while her heart thudded loudly in her ears.  

Why was he watching him? No, once more she corrected herself. There was no need to fall into that spiral of longing by thinking of an answer to that question.

Stubbornly, a small part of her relished his gaze. Dressed very differently from this morning, Lothíriel was no stranger to men staring at her, and she could not help but be vainly pleased about the King of Rohan being unable to resist her allure.

Yet, physical attraction was not enough. Even after everything, she wanted all of him and he did not want all of her. That imbalance was dangerous for her.

She felt his stare again, and her vanity gave way to a roiling swoop of helplessness in her chest.

He had told her to move on. Why was he not letting them move on then?

Lothíriel met his eye once more, and very lightly she shook her head, warning him of his indiscretion.

Do not stare at me, Éomer King.

Éomer then sat up straight, the frown on his brow deepening, and he finally cast his eyes to the ground.

She let out a measured, inconspicuous sigh before she turned her attention back to Forgammon.

To her pleasant surprise, Amrothos and he were having an earnest conversation about Captain Baranor. For a few minutes, she observed how Amrothos was taking a genuine interest in the topic, making remarks and asking for elaborations from Lord Forgammon. Perhaps there was hope for a pleasant acquaintanceship between her brothers and her suitor. It would certainly simplify matters for her.

Lothíriel took a few bites of her meal before she interjected with a question about compensation for the crew of Captain Baranor, which led to another fascinating turn in their conversation.

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully and when it was over, Éomer was one of the first to leave.  

It was the day before the Anniversary, and the Dol Amrothian Princes awaited their cousin Prince Faramir’s return from Ithilien. Aside from the love they shared, he would also be coming bearing details about the meetings planned with Captain Baranor. Éomer King also awaited the arrival of his future brother-in-law at the fully restored City Gate. He stood a little aside, speaking with his direct command, dressed in a regal outfit of gold, maroon and brown. On his brow was his crown, gleaming in the sunlight.  

Lothíriel observed him and his men from a distance as she stood beside her brothers. He looked every bit of a king her father considered him to be.

Did he feel like a king yet? During their rendezvous, he would often express his insecurities; fragile intimations of which he had said that he could only share with her. Still, as she looked upon him, his posture was regal, proud and inspiring awe. Not a hint of the sorrowful man clumsily apologizing to her.

Perhaps her forgiveness of him had been enough. Perhaps her warning to him had finally made him realize his own boundaries and his own capabilities as well. Perhaps during their five months apart, he had grown to be more comfortable in his role. Perhaps he had received assurance and encouragement from his people enough to have more confidence in his rule. Perhaps he had found someone who could give him the comfort he needed without it being a burden. Perhaps he did not need her, after all.  

She looked down at her hands, hurt by her own foolish thoughts.

It was difficult to move on when he was near, and she felt like she had made very little progress in forgetting about him. It did not help that he was only a few feet away and her whole body was hyperaware of him. It did not help either that she was close to the place where he had dismounted Firefoot one early morning and discovered her browsing for apples, triggering the first of their many supper tête a têtes. Where they stood now was also the place where she bid him farewell when he left with the funeral procession. The barrage of memories did nothing good for her nerves and she felt like any effort, made to distance her heart in the past five months, was wasted in not even four days.  

She did not even have the luxury to admit defeat. Not after how he had looked and talked.  

Unbidden, her eyes strayed to him once more, where they met his. He looked troubled. He held her gaze for a moment, before inclining his head and looking away.

Lothíriel released a shaky breath and sought for something else to pay attention to.  

In such luck, the party from Ithilien was approaching, and soon her dear Cousin Faramir dismounted his horse and greeted Éomer warmly. Moments later, he approached the Dol Amroth family and he kissed and embraced each of them, starting with her and ending with Prince Imrahil.  

“What news I hear, Uncle. Is there to be a betrothal announcement to be made from Dol Amroth?” asked Faramir, referring to Erchirion. 

Her father smiled broadly. “Aye, many months have I laboured to secure this match, as you are aware, and I am pleased to say I have succeeded.” 

As one, everyone who had come to receive the Steward of Gondor mounted their horses and made the journey up to the Citadel, where King Elessar and Queen Arwen awaited their arrival. Lothíriel was on her Gondorian side-saddle and she followed behind her brothers, accompanied by her Swan Knight.  

Distance, she reminded herself. Distance from Éomer King is what she needed.  

Distance was not something she had. In fact, the Princes of Dol Amroth sat very close to the Kings and Queen in the High King’s Hall. All influential nobles had gathered to partake in the Concluding Debate. Lord Forgammon too was present, and he sat next to Lothíriel. It was a convenience if only because his stern expression reminded her not to let her mind - or her eyes - wander.  

The discussions began. First was the topic of the covert attacks of the Orcs the past year. It was agreed upon that the traps designed by Dol Amroth were effective, but that Gondor would look at alternative designs made by the Dwarves, the Elves and the Haradrim because the Orcs would soon enough wisen up on the traps and learn how to avoid them. A delegation of each kind would come together in Minas Tirith by the end of summer to exchange knowledge and skills.  

The second topic was the trade routes that would be solidified and expanded upon throughout the Unified Kingdom of Gondor, Eriador and Arnor. It was agreed upon that dedicated ambassadors would continue to work on their parts of the routes and they would meet at the end of the harvest season to align with one another. Lothíriel listened attentively to the discussions, taking some notes so as to ask Imrahil follow-up questions in private, later on. 

“What are you scribbling, milady?” whispered Lord Forgammon near her ear, looking over her shoulder, during a short break.  

“I have some questions for Ada, so I am writing them down.” 

“May I have a look?” He held out his hand expectantly, leaving her with no choice.  

She passed him her booklet and watched as he read through the pages.  

Eventually, he closed it and handed it back to her. “Princess Lothíriel, I have to say, those are some very insightful questions.” 

She met his gaze challengingly. “Lord Forgammon, what a tone of surprise!” 

He then smiled, a sight that had become less rare to her. “Forgive me, it was not my intention to offend you.” 

A look of playful disbelief crossed her face, but then she smiled, too. Some habits were hard to break, but she appreciated the ease with which he apologized for his words and behaviour. Would he one day be willing to apologize to Amrothos or Erchirion in a similar manner, if she did decide to marry him?  

He leaned even closer and said, “I could maybe answer some of those questions for you, milady. If you would allow me to do so.” 

He was making an effort, and while she would rather have her father be the one to give her elaborate answers, she supposed that Lord Forgammon should be given a chance to do some courting.  

“How about this evening, after dinner?” 

Lothíriel nodded.  

Satisfied, he sat back in his seat. “Then we shall have a turn about the Royal Gardens and have your questions answered.” 

“That sounds lovely.” Lothíriel opened her booklet and after another smile directed towards him, she turned her attention towards the High King, who had resumed the meeting.

Inevitably, her eyes strayed to Éomer.

He met her gaze with such ferocity that for a moment she forgot to breathe. He had a deep frown and his lips were pulled into a scowl. No wonder enemies on the battlefield would run in the opposite directions seeing his face.  

Lothíriel shifted in her seat, uncomfortable and hot under his heavy glare. She looked down, her heart thrumming loudly in her ears, wondering what had upset him.  

She chanced another look at him and saw that he was no longer looking at her, but he still looked troubled.

Concern welled up in her heart, even though she knew she could not help him.  

The discussions continued, first about the relations with the Haradlands, then it was about the Druidan Forest and its safekeeping. The following topic was the progress of establishing Gondor’s reign in Eriador and Arnor, which included reports, charts and maps to highlight the crucial developments. Finally, the King spoke his closing remarks.  

“As the final hours of the first year of Sauron’s defeat draw to their end, I commend each and every one of you for your contributions to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. Your labours eased and improved the circumstances of our people, making for a tomorrow that is bright and welcoming. Queen Arwen and I, King Elessar Telcontar, shall continue to serve you and count on your support. This ends our Concluding Debate for this year. I invite you all to join the celebrations tomorrow, where we shall commemorate those who gave their lives for us and celebrate their legacies."

The court was adjourned. Lothíriel stood up and took her leave from Lord Forgammon. Already falling into old habits, she turned to look at the Northern King. He was still sitting on his throne, staring at the ground, seeming lost in thought.  

“I wonder what troubles him.” She heard Amrothos say, and she approached her brother, who was also observing Éomer. “He has been out of sorts since Faramir’s arrival.” 

“News about his sister?” suggested she, considering that he loved his sister the most. 

“That may be, but I doubt it. He would have been halfway to Edoras if there was something amiss with Lady Éowyn.” 

They watched as Éomer broke from his reverie and stood up. He noticed their gazes and approached them, making an effort to have a friendly expression. “Well met, Prince Amrothos, Princess Lothíriel.” 

“You have been out of sorts since this morning, Éomer.” Amrothos chose to forgo both formality and subtlety, something that the Northern King seemed to appreciate because the forced smile on his face became genuine.  

“It is nothing, I just received some disconcerting news a while ago.” Éomer cleared his throat and he met her eyes for a split-second before his attention was caught by one of the Steward’s men.  

“Your Majesty, Prince Steward Faramir awaits your presence in his office.” 

“Certainly, I shall be along momentarily.”  

“You must speak to me about your worries sometime later, my friend. I may not be my father, but you can count on me nonetheless.” Amrothos gave one of his encouraging smiles which was gladly received by him.  

“Come now, you are a good friend to me in your own right, Amrothos.” Éomer clapped the Prince’s shoulder, amicably. “Feel free to share your own burdens with me, as I would like to bestow upon you the same kindness.” 

Lothíriel quietly watched on, endeared by their easy manners.  

“Oh, are you sure? Well, I shall gladly take you for your word, even if you beg me to stop halfway.” Their joint laughter rang through the almost empty hall, and the Princess smiled indulgently. Amrothos had the ability to change a person’s mood with just a few sentences. He had shared that trait with their mother. 

Éomer cleared his throat once more and he said, “I beg your pardon, milord, milady.”

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary before he turned around and walked off.  

The two siblings watched him go, silently, before they too left.  

Chapter Text

That very same day, King Elessar invited the entire court for luncheon. He had arranged for it to be an informal affair, with smaller tables spread out through the hall instead of two main ones. The attendees were encouraged to sit amongst those they spoke infrequently and no talk of business was allowed.

It was how Lothíriel ended up sitting between a very elderly Gondorian noble, two young men of lesser noble descent, an elf visiting from Mirkwood, and the High King Elessar himself. Lothíriel’s family was spread throughout the Hall.

It took her not even a minute to find Éomer King, though she tried to stop herself from doing it. He was sitting two tables away from her, his tall figure towering over his luncheon companions, even when sitting down. She could see his profile clearly if she leaned a bit forward. He was frowning and paying very little attention to the people at his table, which had a decent variety in age and station.

Lothíriel sighed and looked down at her hands, annoyed with herself that she was once again worrying about a man who felt nothing for her. She should be concentrating on Lord Forgammon, as she had to decide whether or not she would marry him.

Lord Forgammon was sitting not far off with Prince Erchirion among others as his table companions. He was busy talking with his usual stern expression and clear voice. For a few minutes, she observed him, forcing herself to imagine him as her spouse, the father of her child, and the person she was supposed to depend on first and foremost. She had almost succeeded in conjuring up the visions in her mind's eye when her eyes strayed to her brother.

He was glaring at Forgammon, evidently struggling to contain his irritation. Despite his propensity to reach for the bottle whenever he felt less than happy, when it came to matters of patience, precision, or power Erchirion had nerves of steel. In fact, according to her own observations as well as an entire wall dedicated to Erchirion's marksmanship awards, he was the most even-handed of his siblings. Yet here he was, frowning and gritting his teeth because of the brown-haired lord from the mountains.

With a frustrated sigh, Lothíriel tilted her head, wondering for the umpteenth time if there was any hope for peace between her siblings and her suitor. She then noticed that Lord Forgammon was observing her. When their eyes met, he inclined his head and smiled at her, leaving her no choice but to smile in kind. 

They got along well enough, especially when it concerned topics such as politics, herb-lore, mycology, Alphros, or the straightforward planning of their future together. Very respectable matters, of course, but she had yet to feel the need to share her inner thoughts with him or to chat with him casually about their daily life. She did not feel the need to touch him, feed him, or have him near her all the time, either. 

Not like she did with him. 

She broke the eye contact with another slight smile and a nod of her head. Then, before she could stop herself, she leaned forward to cast another glance at the man whom she was not supposed to care for.

And her breath caught in her throat. Apparently, he had already been looking her way because his hazel-green eyes were now boring into her grey ones.

While she had been surprised because of his stare, the actual intensity of it shook her to her core. Before, when he had been deep in thought he had looked troubled. Now, though, with gritted teeth and eyes blazing, he seemed to be boiling with rage! 

Hastily she looked down. Éomer King was undoubtedly an intimidating man, and she needed a moment to gather herself. 

When her mind was clear and her breath was steady, she wondered what had caused his anger.

He had been looking at her.

And she had been smiling at Lord Forgammon. 

Lothíriel's stomach contracted with the realization, both joy and anger clashing and curdling her insides.

The nerve of that man! How dare he be jealous? 

Indignance welled up in her chest. He had no right to be upset. He was the one who had refused her. 

Perhaps he was confused, but she would set him straight once more. Her heart was not his plaything. 

With her chin raised proudly, she met his glare squarely with her own look of Amrothian steel. This time, however, he did not look away and continued to glower at her with a stormy expression. 

But a warm voice called her by her titled name and she sat back suddenly, embarrassed at her own childish behaviour. 

King Elessar was looking at her, as was the rest of the table.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I was distracted.”

The King smiled, his eyes squinting with earnest amusement. “Indeed, there are distractions all around, Princess Lothíriel. In fact, my eyes too keep straying to my Queen.”

As if to demonstrate, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at Queen Arwen, who sat at the table furthest away from his.

Lothíriel blushed and bit back a giggle at her King’s openly affectionate behaviour. It was a refreshing sight to see a powerful man doting on his beloved without paying regard to the constricting Gondorian customs.

In the past year, the Dunedain had affected positively not only the fates of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and other beings alike on a grand scale, but even the stuffy Gondorian court had had an upheaval due to the influx of foreign influence. Lothíriel welcomed all change, especially the change that allowed her to pursue her passions with more freedom. 

Lunch was served in a way that everyone was welcome to partake in whatever was placed at the centre of the table, and the servants would replenish whatever would run low. The Hobbits had undoubtedly left their mark on Minas Tirith, thought Lothíriel with an amused smile, once again missing them and wishing them well.

Inspired by her thoughts about the Halflings, Lothíriel requested the King to tell her, and the rest of the company, about the Hobbits. A nostalgic expression came upon his face and he grinned. Then he began his story, regaling all who listened with such amusing anecdotes and happenings. How fond his memories were of the four Halflings whom she had met, but also Bilbo, Frodo's legendary uncle. 

Lothíriel was of a sure mind that the King was looking forward to his next visit to the Shire, where he would be establishing his throne in the north of his kingdom.

Throughout the meal, as she listened to the King's tales, Lothíriel kept feeling the weight of Éomer’s gaze upon her, sometimes fleeting other times enduring, but ever returning. For her own sake, she chose to continue to ignore him, considering that he did not seem to be willing to lower his gaze even when challenged by her.

Stubborn man. 

When luncheon had ended, Lothíriel stood up, her soul and her body both nourished by Aragorn's stories and the wonderful variety of rustic and flavourful food inspired by the Hobbits. As she began making her way towards the exit, a curious and almost wistful thing happened. 

A servant maid approached her and greeted her as she was about to join the mass of people leaving the hall. "Well met, milady. I pray you, take this."

Before Lothíriel could have realized what was happening, the maid had pressed a slip of paper in her hand and disappeared. 

The young lady glanced down at the slip of paper. 

She could guess who it was from.

With trembling hands, she folded it open and read the words written in a familiar, hasty scrawl.

'Please meet me in the stillroom.

E. E.'

Heat crawled up her cheeks as the implications and memories linked to this note flooded her mind.

Being alone with him, talking, eating, touching, and kissing...

All of which she had sworn off for her own sake, and his as well. 

Lothíriel did not have to search long for him. Not five feet away he stood, his jaw set and his eyes fixed upon her expectantly.

For a moment, she struggled with herself on what to do. 

However much she longed to sprint out of Merethrond, across the courtyard towards the Houses of Healing and to the Apothecary Wing, she would not. 

Lothíriel tucked the paper in the inner pocket of her skirts where she kept the spiral shell. With her index finger she traced its shape a few times before she squared her shoulders and decided on what to do. 

Holding his gaze, Lothíriel finally shook her head.

She would not meet him at the stillroom. 

Hurt flashed instantly on his bearded face and a strange guilt spread in the pit of her stomach. 

No, said a small but strong voice inside of her. There was no rational reason why she should feel guilty. 

He was the one crossing the boundaries he himself established, again and again. If he wanted to be alone with her, then he should have married her. 

Lothíriel pressed her lips together in anger.

She was no mere farmgirl with whom he could spend time as he pleased. In fact, no self-respecting farmgirl would tolerate such audacity either, King or no King. 

"Milady, may I escort you out?" 

Lord Forgammon had appeared at her side and she glanced at Éomer. 

He was looking at her, his brow furrowed and his jaw slack, evidently pleading for her not to go with her suitor. 

Her foolish heart was screaming at her to excuse herself from the Lord of Lossarnach and run to Éomer instead. 

But actions had consequences, even for handsome warrior Kings. 

Without breaking their gaze, Lothíriel offered her hand to Sir Forgammon, who smiled broadly and tucked it in the crook of his arm.

Seeing this, Éomer bared his teeth in a snarl with his nostrils flaring, and he turned away from them. 

Then Lothíriel watched him leave Merethrond with heavy, stomping steps. She had gotten what she had wanted, but she could not be happy about it. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. First, she took a walk at the Pier with Lord Forgammon and his mother. Then she finished her study of the mycology book and sent the Lord to return it to the Old Archives. That was followed by a visit to the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Finally, she retired to her room to get ready for the evening trying to keep focus on the task at hand.

Her hand slipped into her skirt pocket and she took out the paper with Éomer's hasty handwriting.

As she stood at her desk adjacent to her changing room, she remembered the letters and notes they had exchanged in the past. What had become of them? Had Éomer thrown them away or had he kept them in the fancy wooden box she had put them in?

Even at the height of her heartbreak, she had not been able to throw away his letters. But keeping them would have been too painful. Even her copy of Théoden King's herbarium held too many hopes and dreams about Éomer, so she had forced herself to part with that as well. 

And now this slip of paper?

She should throw it away.

Ah, but she could not. So she retrieved her personal herbarium and tucked it in between the other loose papers at the back of the book. 

Halfway through the motion of putting the journal back in its place, Lothíriel stopped. 

A sudden urge took hold of her. She wanted to run to the stillroom and see if he was waiting for her there, just in case she would change her mind. 

If only her silly heart could understand that it was no use now regretting not meeting Éomer in the stillroom.

Lothíriel sighed deeply and willed herself to calm down. If Éomer magically had changed his mind about marrying, then all he had to do was declare his intentions to her father. It was that simple.

Then a knock at the door was heard.

"Who is it?" 

"It is, I, milady. Your chambermaid. It is time to get ready for the ceremony."

Lothíriel pushed the herbarium holding Éomer's paper back onto the shelf and cleared her throat. 

"Come in!" 

Enough with the simpering, she told herself. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth with a special and singular duty tonight. 

Prince Imrahil would be announcing his son’s engagement to Lady Minieth to the Gondorian court in the custom of Dol Amroth, which meant that she had to look every inch of a Dol Amrothian Princess for the ceremony.

She would be wearing a sleeveless silver gown, one that would be heavily embroidered with swan and boat motifs with a gossamer grey shift to cover the bare skin of her arms, her back, and her neck. Lothíriel would be wearing her mother’s silver and gold tiara in her braided hair, which was embellished with sapphires and pearls.

Not long after she was ready, her father escorted her to Merethrond, with her two brothers following closely behind them, with Amrothos carrying a slim wooden box.

In preparation for the engagement ceremony, the Dol Amrothian family was seated at a table in front of the dais. There was an empty chair, meant for Erchirion’s fiancée.

Queen Arwen and High King Elessar had once more Éomer King seated to their right. He was dressed in his emerald green robes, with his golden crown on his brow.

When all the attendees were seated, King Elessar thanked them for their presence and invited Prince Imrahil to speak.

"Ready?" Asked Imrahil under breath. 

Lothíriel nodded and placed her arm on his, allowing him to guide her onto the dais. When they stood in front of the Kings and the Queen, they greeted them before turning to the audience. In the split second during which she had turned, her eyes met Éomer's. 

He was sitting up stiffly with a strangely pained expression on his noble face. 

But she could not dwell on it, for she and her father were about to start the ceremony. 

“Good evening, my dear King, Queen, peers, family, and friends," Prince Imrahil said, his voice ringing clear across the expanse of Merethrond, where everyone was looking at him and his daughter with mild to great interest.

"Dol Amroth thank you all for joining us here this evening. As you know, as the Prince of Dol Amroth, I have dedicated myself to safeguarding and strengthening the bonds within Gondor as well as building new bonds with the lands beyond our glorious Kingdom. While I have humbly done my part in this, I have also sought to honour my promise to my late wife to ensure the happiness and prosperity of our children. Bearing that in mind, over the past months I have laboured to strengthen the bond between two allies." He paused and looked around meaningfully with a broad smile.

His audience was awaiting his words with bated breath, observed Lothíriel mildly as she stared out into the crowd. No doubt they were now all wondering what the powerful and cunning Prince Imrahil had been able to bring to success. 

"Thus it gives me great pleasure tonight to announce to you the engagement... Of my son Prince Erchirion to Lady Minieth of Lebennin!”

In true Gondorian fashion, there was merely polite clapping, though some faces in the crowd seemed to be more interested in whispering their opinions to one another. 

Imrahil beckoned to his son and Erchirion appeared from the right, the hand of Lady Minieth tucked in his arm. Lothíriel and Imrahil greeted them both with kisses on their cheeks.

Amrothos then approached the dais and opened the slim wooden box, revealing an heirloom necklace of Dol Amroth. 

As gently as she could, Lothíriel took the necklace from the wooden box and secured it around the lady’s neck. If her mother had been alive, she would have performed this ceremony to welcome the young woman into the family. With a smile, Lothíriel ensured the silver and sapphire pendant hung in its proper place. 

"Welcome to the family, dear Lady Minieth."

Lady Minieth thanked her and she curtsied before her future family, who returned the gesture.

Erchirion eagerly took her hand in his and once more the court clapped in approval.

With the engagement ceremony thus concluded, Lothíriel took a moment to observe how her brother helped his betrothed down the stairs of the dais and to the unoccupied seat at the Dol Amroth table. They seemed to be happy. 

As she moved to follow after them, she walked past Éomer King, and unable to help herself around him, she stole a glance at him.

His gaze was trained on the newly engaged couple, but what was remarkable was his body language. 

He was leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees while he rubbed his beard thoughtfully, his brows bunched into a confused frown. 

Had he been so emotionally invested in Erchirion's personal life that he was out of sorts now? 

Éomer's eyes snapped to hers and he sat up straight and raised his eyebrows at her questioningly. She returned the gesture, unsure of what exactly he was asking her. 

But then the moment passed and she took her seat at the family table. When everyone was seated once more, dinner began.

It was a merry affair at the table of the Dol Amrothians. Amrothos and Lothiriel spent the meal plying Lady Minieth with questions, hoping to get to know her better, as Erchirion had been very mindful of keeping her away from them.

The lady had a similar complexion to hers, but she had pin-straight brown hair and large green eyes. Compared to Lothíriel's tall and lithe figure, Minieth was a head shorter than her and pleasantly full-figured. She enjoyed all the activities proper Gondorian ladies were wont to do: embroidery, playing the harp, singing and she had recently started painting still life.

“I do confess that my flowers look rudimentary and my fruits seem to have been kept in the sun for too long, but I still enjoy the activity.” She told Lothíriel with a slight, deprecating smile. 

“If it suits you, milady,” replied the Princess kindly, “I could help you sometime. I may not know how to paint, but drawing plants and flowers is something I am familiar with. I could give you some guidance and you can teach me how to use paint.”

“I would love nothing more, Your Highness.”

Erchirion shot his sister a grateful look, who smiled in return. She truly wished for her brother's happiness. 

"Do tell me this, dear brother," she said and she schooled her face with a frown, "why have you kept us in the dark about Lady Minieth?"

Erchirion merely quirked an eyebrow. "I was afraid that you would scare her away with your opinions on horseback riding."

"I would never," protested Lothíriel, though she was unable to resist a little grin, "not until you were actually married, at least."

Amrothos barked a laugh and Imrahil too smiled.

Minieth, though, looked panicked. "No, milady, I am to blame. I was worried about my brother. I wanted to keep a low profile until everything was settled."

Lothíriel regarded her with a discerning gaze. Minieth was wiser in social politics than she let on. Suddenly she had the feeling that the woman had a significant hand in orchestrating her match with Erchirion. It very well could be that Lord Boridhren had been sidelined by Imrahil and Minieth altogether. Which was... Curious, to say the least of it. 

"I cannot blame you for wishing to spare his feelings, Lady Minieth," Prince Amrothos leaned forward to his sister-in-law with a conspiratory squint of his eyes. “Lord Boridhren is a good fellow, but it is my sister who has always had her particularities about horses."

Everyone at the table laughed good-naturedly, even Minieth though she did not understand the jest fully. But Amrothos was not wrong. Horseback riding while sitting astride was a hard-earned freedom for Lothíriel and she would never relinquish it, not even for Éomer himself. 

Once again her mind had looped back to the horse-lord King, and she suppressed a sigh of frustration before forcing herself to focus on her brother once more. 

Erchirion had, yet again, a goblet of wine in his hand, and it was almost empty. 

When Lothíriel had heard about the union, she had made inquiries in the House of Rest. More than once had the young Prince been there, nursing a grand hangover after too many drinks. 

And to confirm her suspicions, her brother had been a frequent visitor of the recuperation ward, even after his union was agreed upon. The staff at the House had been all too eager to complain about him because Erchirion was a mean drunk. 

To gain a better perspective on the matter, she had asked the maids of the Southern Guesthouses to inform her of the latest about Minieth. 

Apparently, there had been a scandal concerning her before the War had escalated. The young lady from Lebennin had a fiancé who had been boasting about her overly affectionate nature. His words had then reached Lord Gorhir, the father of Boridhren and Minieth, who had ended the engagement and demanded a duel from the fiancé for the sake of his daughter's honour. Before such a duel could have taken place, the Corsairs had attacked Pelargir and both the Lord of Lebennin and the fiancé had perished in the attempt to defend the city. 

Nowadays, mere whispers of the scandal remained and the majority of the Gondorians looked on Minieth with pity. 

Lothíriel had taken her time to digest the information, and she had reached the conclusion that the match was probably a good one. Lebennin was at the heart of Gondor, and Erchirion had a scandalous past himself. All too often had he gotten in trouble by providing a bit too much understanding and comfort to young widows.

And it had seemed that he was interested in his fiancé. Even now, as Lothíriel observed them quietly, the two of them were whispering continuously with each other. But still, she worried. Because when she had kissed his cheek during the ceremony on the dais, she had smelled his favourite hard liquor on him.

That particular liquor, she knew, was not for the sake of his nerves. For some reason, he was still drowning in his unhappiness.

Perhaps he felt yet attached to one such a widow.

If that had been the case, though, he could have married the widow. Indeed, in Dol Amroth marrying a widow was considered to be a very honourable deed that only powerful men could undertake. 

And Erchirion was anything but weak, except when facing their father. 

Had Imrahil refused that union? 

As she glanced at her father, Lothíriel wondered if she should further inquire into this. If she were to ask Erchirion himself, he would probably not give her a straight answer. Then again, she did not like her brothers prying into her love life, and she thought that they deserved the same respect from her. 

After all, she too had not shared everything about Éomer and Forgammon with them. She had tried to, initially, but there was a clear bias against Lord Forgammon that was anything but helpful. 

Amrothos had been against the match with Éomer and against the match with Forgammon, as well. Erchirion seemed annoyed by the whole matter entirely, while Elphir had told her to choose the most politically sound union. 

Simply put, she could not depend on her brothers in this matter at all. She would have to decide on her own in the end. 

Theoretically, the match between her and Lord Forgammon could be a successful one. They were both passionate, but his pursuits were business-like while hers were for the enrichment of her life and that of others. Family was important to each of them, yet he did not seem to like her brothers. Lord Frogammon had two sons whom she had last seen when they were toddlers. Nevertheless, she felt no compulsion to meet them. She would have a lifetime for that, and furthermore, the boys would be enrolled in the Swan Knight training soon after the wedding. The idea that she would be a stepmother to - 

“Milady, are you ready to take your leave?”

Lothíriel was jostled from her thoughts by the very person she was thinking about. Lord Forgammon was looking down at her. He was, as always, impeccably groomed, wearing a modestly embroidered ensemble. He had one hand extended towards her. Behind him stood his mother, Lady Vanyalos, smiling ever sweetly.

She had forgotten about the notes that she had taken during the Concluding Debate.

Slowly, she stood up and ignored her younger brother glaring daggers at her. Her future sister-in-law was looking at her and Lord Forgammon very sharply, no doubt her Gondorian court gears turning rapidly in her head. 

Lothíriel was not surprised by this. It was only fair, considering she had been thinking about Minieth in the same manner not minutes ago. 

She allowed her suitor to hold her hand. “If you would excuse me, Ada, brothers, Lady Minieth.”

She should have known that this would happen. After all, he had gotten her consent the last time they were alone together like this.

Lothíriel, Forgammon, and his mother had taken a turn about the Royal Garden before they settled at a seating area. One by one the nobleman had answered all of the questions she had written in her book, in a speed that be lied his wish to get it done immediately. Lothíriel had felt like a child using a shorthand method to write down his answers, trying to keep up with an impatient tutor.

“ – and that is how we can assure fair trade for both parties, without compromising on our position. Is it all clear?” Forgammon had looked at her with an expression that said he was ready to end the discussion.

Lothíriel had agreed readily, and she had accepted his invitation to take another turn about the Gardens. Claiming fatigue, Lady Vanyalos had remained seated.

The Princess had been casually commenting on the plants growing in the shades of the walls of the Sixth Circle when the man beside her had stopped them in their tracks. He had looked around and when he had seen that no one was there except for them, he had taken hold of both her hands and made her look at him.

His eyes had been lively and his hands had been warm around hers.

“Princess Lothíriel, last time you told me you would permit me to kiss you again...”

Now she stood, somewhat taken aback that he intended to follow up on their first kiss.

He did not seem to be someone who would care a lot about showing affection, however, Lothíriel realized upon reflection that he had been given her small compliments here and there during their time together. It was flattering that she was able to inspire him to praise her.

To think that a stern man like him would want to kiss her again... It was somewhat charming. While she was not excited at the idea, she was also not revolted. That also counted for something, she supposed.

“I do recall that, Lord Forgammon.” She replied in a quiet voice.

“Do I still have your permission?”

She appreciated the insistence on her consent and she felt comfortable enough to reply. “You have, Lord Forgammon.”

He took a step closer, his eyes darkening with anticipation. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders and he pulled her closer, gently.

Lothíriel did not know how to feel. Was it not supposed to be more thrilling? He was doing nothing wrong, his behaviour was courteous, and he smelled pleasant and clean, like sandalwood. One should not mind a kiss from a man who was as self-assured and gentlemanly as he was.

Her eyes were still open when he brushed his lips against hers once and then twice, before increasing the pressure as one of his hands caressed its way to the back of her neck. Finally, as her eyes shut, his other hand rested on her lower back, bringing her closer to him.

Then she felt his lips leave hers to trace her jawline towards her left earlobe. It was a ticklish but not unpleasant sensation. When he reached the delicate skin below her ear, she felt herself sigh softly. In response, he pressed her even closer to himself and whispered:

“Lothíriel.”

Her eyes snapped open and she pushed him away, wide-eyed.

There was no rolling rr.

That was not a deep, accented voice.

The person who had been kissing her was not Éomer.

She had known that it was not Éomer who had been about to kiss her. 

How then could she forget it the very next moment?

She could not comprehend her own betrayal. Did her body fool her or did her mind play tricks on her?

Lord Forgammon was staring at her, half in shock, half contrite.

“I beg your forgiveness, Princess Lothíriel, I –” The man was uncharacteristically scrambling for words. “It seems I went too far – “

Taking deep breaths, Lothíriel watched him fumble to express himself, as she too could not muster up the adequate thing to say. She was preoccupied with scolding herself for mixing up her fantasy with her reality. There was no excuse for her own insanity.

How could she confuse Lord Forgammon with Éomer, when her eyes had been open at the start of the kiss? 

Lothíriel pressed a hand against her forehead as a thought occurred to her.

Was this to be her fate, she thought miserably, to kiss one man but to fantasize about another? Was there no escape from her own feelings? 

With a sigh, she leaned against the wall adjacent to where they stood. What a perplexing predicament this was!

Meanwhile, Lord Forgammon had started pacing to and fro, rubbing his beard, still wishing to explain himself, thinking that he was to blame for her current state of distress. “I realize that you have little experience in such matters, rightfully so, given that you are a Princess. However, it has been a long time since I have allowed myself to feel something for someone other than my late wife - " 

“Forgammon! You bastard!”

Chapter Text

Lothíriel was startled by the new voice cutting through the quiet air.  

Before she could make sense of it, her brother Amrothos stood in between them, breathing heavily and eyes bulging. He had his sword brandished and pointed at the other man’s throat. Lord Forgammon stood with hands up, his wide eyes fixated on the tip of the sword, looking genuinely afraid of the Prince.  

Prince Amrothos had his teeth clenched, looking like he wanted to do nothing more than cut him in pieces. “How dare you take advantage of my sister, you – “ 

Finally coming to her senses, she grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him back. “Amrothos, stop this!” 

“Not a word from you, Lothíriel,” he snarled at her, wrenching himself free from her hands. He did put down his sword, but it remained clenched in his hands, “you were supposed to be chaperoned for this exact reason!” 

“Come now, Prince Amrothos,” Forgammon spoke with all the authority he could muster, “Your sister and I are courting after all - " 

Amrothos glared at him, effectively shutting him up. Without a doubt, Prince Amrothos, Grand Officer of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, made a formidable sight if he wanted to, even without his armour and banner. “I shall not accept a single explanation from you, you filth. Stay away from her, or I will maim you!” 

“Your father-“ tried Forgammon again, but he cut himself short when Amrothos took a few threatening steps closer.  

“My father shall hear about this,” he glanced back at Lothíriel, “all of it.” 

He then sheathed his sword, took hold of Lothíriel’s hand, and pulled her along out of the Royal Gardens.  

“You are the worst chaperone in Gondor, Lady Vanyalos!” Shouted he as they moved past where they sat. “An Orc would have been wiser in this task.” 

Lothíriel and Lady Vanyalos gasped in shock at his rude words.  

“Amrothos!” 

“Stay quiet, Lothíriel!” 

Amrothos did not release her hand from his vice-like grip until they arrived at the door of their father's office. Without even bothering to knock, he kicked the door open.

Even the presence of two noblemen did nothing to temper his anger, and he merely growled at the two visitors to leave. They made themselves scarce immediately.

Prince Imrahil has stood up, alarmed by the violence of their intrusion.

"Amrothos? Lothíriel? What is the matter -“ 

“Your noble Lord Forgammon has forced himself upon your daughter out in the Royal Gardens for everyone to see!” 

Instantly, their father’s face turned grim. “Is this true, Lothíriel?” 

She shook her head rapidly. “Ada, he did not force himself – “ 

“Do not lie to protect that bastard! I saw you push him away.” Amrothos yelled. "You looked extremely upset!"

“Peace, Amrothos! Lothíriel, tell me what happened truthfully.” 

She sighed and sank down a chair. “We were out for a walk when Lady Vanyalos had begged fatigue – “ 

“She is a fraud, that duplicitous – “ 

Imrahil glared and told his son to stay quiet.  

“So she sat down,” continued Lothíriel, her eyes now fixated on the floor, “we walked on and then he asked me permission – “ 

Amrothos looked at her in shock. “You allowed that man to kiss you? What is wrong with you, Lothíriel? Up until a year ago, he treated you like a child!” 

Prince Imrahil sighed wearily, rubbing his brow. “One more outburst like this and I shall remove you from this room, Amrothos. Do not test my patience.” 

He then gestured for Lothíriel to continue, who bit her lip and nodded. “And then I pushed him away when... It was enough.” 

Imrahil nodded in understanding and then started pacing, obviously thinking over what was best. His two children watched him walk up and down the room for two long minutes. Finally, he turned to her and spoke. “Like I said before, I need you to decide before you leave for home in two days. Considering there is already a... Physical compatibility – “ 

Lothíriel turned pink immediately, but she did not voice her disagreement. He did not need to know she had imagined Éomer romancing her instead of the Lord of Lossarnach.  

“ – and you have enough common interests, you should not need to spend any more chaperoned time with him.” 

She gave her agreement readily, as she did not wish for any more kisses from Forgammon.  

“I do suppose you should dance with him, but a single one is enough. Your brothers will ensure that you will have sufficient other dance partners.” 

“Yes, Ada.” 

"Amrothos."

"Aye?" The young Prince raised his eyebrows, wondering what his father's order would be.

"Do not let them out of your sight. Lady Vanyalos cannot be trusted."

Amrothos inclined his head in understanding, lending his cooperation in this matter all too willingly.

With a sigh, Imrahil then dismissed the both of them, bidding them to have an early rest. As the siblings walked to their rooms, Amrothos took advantage of having his sister alone with him.

"Lothíriel."

"What is it, Amrothos?" she replied wearily, though she already knew what he was about to say.

“For Ulmo’s sake, I beg you, Lothíriel! Do not tell me that you want to marry him.” 

“Amrothos, please just leave me alone.” 

“You cannot marry him, he will alienate you from us - “ 

“He will not!” 

“Yes, he will, Lothíriel!” Amrothos exclaimed in exasperation. “He is just like Uncle Denethor! He will do whatever serves his purpose best.” 

“He is not like Uncle Denethor.” 

“Be serious now –“ 

“Who is like Uncle Denethor?” 

Erchirion appeared from behind them and coaxed them into the Dol Amroth common room. 

“That uppity bastard Forgammon, of course!” Amrothos did not see any reason to hold back apparently. “He forced himself upon Lothíriel and she still considers marrying him.” 

“Heavens above, Lothíriel,” said the elder brother in an irritated tone that pleased Amrothos until he said the next words, “Make up your mind about him already. Minieth has been pestering me about you and him ever since she found out about your courtship.” 

“Make up your mind?” Amrothos hit his brother on his upper arm. “Are you fine with having Lord Forgammon embedded further in our lives?” 

Lothíriel sighed deeply and rubbed her face. "Amrothos, please - "

“No, but - " 

"Please, just - " She tried to interject, but even though she was the topic at hand, their brothers ignored her.

“Then tell her not to get married to that prick!” 

She tried again, now getting irritated by them. "Listen to me, Amrothos! For goodness' sake - "

But Erchirion talked over her, too. "What can I tell her? I doubt she would listen to me, either. You know how spoiled she is. Why do you not just accept - "

Now she was being insulted by them!

"Erchirion, wait -" 

"Accept Forgammon?! Are you out of your bloody mind?" 

"Stop! Stop! Both of you, stop talking!”

With more strength than she knew she had, Lothíriel had pushed both her brothers onto the sofa seat behind them. 

After falling on the seat with a soft thump, both Erchirion and Amrothos looked at her in surprise. Seeing their little sister standing over them with such a fierce expression, they promptly forgot what they had been arguing about.

Lothíriel was breathing hard now, as she tried to clear the fog of frustration from her head. She had finally gotten her brothers' attention and now they were looking at her expectantly. 

"I think it is time you remember, Amrothos, Erchirion..." She said after regaining some of her calm, "that most of the men suitable for me in age and rank have died on the battlefield. If I do not marry Lord Forgammon, well that is fine... But who exactly is left to marry then?"

The Princes shared a look between them before Amrothos spoke up. 

"You do not have to marry at all, Lothíriel. You are a Princess of Dol Amroth, you shall have nothing lacking. And you can count on us to look after you if the need ever arises."

Lothíriel laughed humourlessly and shook her head in disbelief. 

“Tell me one thing, Amrothos,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even, “when you find someone to marry your sorry arse, do you think you will mind your spinster sister?

The youngest Prince of Dol Amroth stared at his sister, dumbstruck. Erchirion chuckled wryly but sobered up when Lothíriel’s glare turned to him.  

“And if Lady Minieth is bothering you about me, you can refer her to me. I shall speak to her directly. Here you are, not two days engaged and already you are more concerned with what she thinks than that you care about what I am going through.“ 

“That is not true, Lothíriel... “ Erchirion's protest trailed off because he knew that she was right. 

“I love you both, but I do wish to be married someday. You cannot discourage me from living my own life."

A tense silence stretched out between them as Lothíriel waited for their response. Both Erchirion and Amrothos had cast their gaze to the ground, obviously still reflecting on what she had said. The last time she had seen her brothers look so chastised and downcast, had been when they, as children, had caused Lothíriel to dislocate her collarbone during one of their forest explorations. Her heart ached to see them upset, but they had left her no choice. They still had the tendency to view her as a little girl. And though she had a lot to learn and experience, she was no longer a child.

Erchirion gestured to Amrothos and they shifted to create space for her. Then Erchirion gently clasped her hand and pulled her to sit between them.

“Forgive me, Lothíriel, I...” he said in a quiet voice, “I will support whatever choice you shall make.” 

With a sad smile, Lothíriel rested her head against his shoulder and squeezed his hand. “I thank you, Erchirion. You shall know of my decision the morning of your departure to Osgiliath.” 

However, Amrothos was not yet willing to resign. He shifted closer to her and took her free hand in his. “Lothíriel," he said in a voice low and insistent, "I swear to you that you have my respect and my love. And I swear that I agree that your life is up to you. You should definitely get married..."

He let go of her hand to run both of his through his curly hair, his agitation palpable. "But - Sister, I beg of you. Do not marry Forgammon. Please!” 

Lothíriel stared at him through her eyelashes, still leaning against Erchirion. She understood how Amrothos felt and she loved him for it. If it had been that simple and easy a decision then she would have acquiesced a long time ago. Yet there was a part of her that felt compelled to perform her duties in gratitude for the privileges she enjoyed as a Princess of Gondor. The list of political and financial benefits of marrying the Lord of Lossarnach was long and it concerned not only her own life but also the lives of the common folk who would obtain access to resources unique to the respective fiefdoms. 

Erchirion squeezed her hand again, hoping to provide her some solace. He was warm and solid, and for a spell, she felt young again, of an age when physical affection with her brothers was natural and routine.

But she was of age, and burdened with the reality that she too, like Elphir and Erchirion, would eventually have to marry for the sake of her title. With a resigned sigh, the young woman sat up and slightly shook her head. "Amrothos, I wish I could tell you what you want to hear, but unless a better suitor comes along, he is the best option for me.” 

Amrothos let out a frustrated groan and pulled at his curls with both hands. Muttering under his breath, he let out a string of Dol Amrothian swears until he suddenly froze.

He sat up again and snapped his head towards her. "A better suitor, you say?" He echoed.

“Yes?” 

He squinted his eyes. “A match better than Forgammon?” 

She cast her eyes to the sky, annoyed by his inane questions. “Yes, Amrothos.” 

He stood up, abruptly. “Better than –“ he laughed and then gasped, comically. “I need to go.” 

“What?” She stared at him, confused. Erchirion too, looked at him with interest.  

“No, no. I need to go now. Now. What time is it? No. It does not matter.” He adjusted his cloak, ran his fingers through his hair, and straightened his jacquet. Then he kissed his sister on the forehead, patted Erchirion on the shoulder, and briskly walked out of the common room.

His siblings watched him go, only mildly confused. Amrothos had the tendency to surrender himself to whatever whimsy came to his mind at the moment. Lothíriel and Erchirion knew better than to ask questions. 

Lothíriel had not been able to sleep until the first rays of the sunrise broke through the dusky horizon. The entire night was wasted on forcing herself to make a decision about Lord Forgammon. When she finally got up and dressed simply, she had come no closer to a decision than she had been the evening before. Or even in the past three months, if she was being truthful to herself.  

After heaving a deep sigh of resignation, she left her room and had breakfast at Merethrond, which was fully decorated for the feasting tonight. Lothíriel always appreciated the quiet breakfast she was able to have in the early morning, as very few of the people who demanded protocol were present.

Erchirion was there, sitting with his fiancé and a matronly-looking lady as their chaperone. After a quick greeting, she decided to sit alone and finish reading her letters from Aunt Ivriniel and Merry while she had breakfast. There was also a short letter from Feruion, the retired Swan Knight who had been at her side since her mother passed away.

Sir Angrenor, her current Swan Knight was as always guarding over her from a proper distance. She would be under his protection until the festivities started in the afternoon, as Imrahil deemed that there were enough people present to ensure her safety.  

She did not mind always having a guard. Indeed, they looked after her in ways that were not burdensome, but sometimes she could not help but feel belittled. As if she could not be trusted to keep herself safe.

Perhaps she would ask Éowyn to teach her some fighting skills fit for a lady, she thought absently as she finished her last bites and stood up to leave.  

Then she made her way to the Houses of Healing, hoping to spend some time with the Warden, as she would be leaving soon again. She still had much to learn from him, and she wondered how knowledgeable he was in the use of mushrooms in healing potions. That thought reminded her of Lord Forgammon and her mood soured once more.  

“Who do we have here?” said the Warden the second she set foot in his private office. “The Princess Herbalist, well met! Come in, come in.” 

“Well met, Warden Bair. How have you been?” 

“All is well, my dear.” 

Lothíriel settled in the chair opposite the Warden as he continued to write something in a ledger. 

"Lady Siloril has not yet arrived. Is everything well?"

She nodded. "Yes, Warden Bair. They have experienced some delays on their way here, but I expect them to arrive around noon tomorrow."

"She is quite fragile. It would have been better if she had stayed in Minas Tirith throughout her pregnancy. All this travel, it cannot be good for her."

Lothíriel stared at the ground for a moment, recalling the many arguments Siloril and Elphir had had regarding this topic over the past few months. "Yes, well... It is fortunate then that she will remain under your care for the last two months."

"Indeed, indeed."

In a comfortable silence that was routine between a master and his student, Lothíriel waited for the Chief Healer to finish his task.

“The Houses of Healing are mostly vacant,” said he when he was done writing and had closed the ledger, “but I expect some drunk people tonight and tomorrow morning, requiring attention to their scrapes and needing hangover cures.” 

“All the Healers and their assistants have returned to their offices in the City?” 

“Aye, I expect the rest of Minas Tirith to get in similar states. Perhaps they will be better off than the nobles, perhaps worse...” He trailed off, deep in thought.  

“Is there anything I can help you with, Warden?” She asked, already feeling restless in her inactivity.  

The wise and experienced Chief Healer knew that the Princess was looking for something to keep busy with, hoping to be of use to anyone just so that she would not have to pay attention what was going on in her mind. Roughly one year ago, it had been the fear that she would lose her father and her siblings, but now that peace had been restored, the Warden wondered what was troubling her.  

“We should make a supply of hangover potion, I suppose. Will you help me with that? Is there a Dol Amrothian recipe for that?”  

She smiled and replied, “I just add some red panax root extract to the recipe used in Minas Tirith. Do we have that in stock?” 

The old man hummed thoughtfully. “I think so.” 

The pair of them set out to gather and measure the ingredients for a massive batch of hangover potion in preparation for tonight. Lothíriel then sterilized the phials while the Warden double-checked his calculations, before they set up their workspace.

Ten minutes later, the liquid in the cauldron was simmering softly, releasing a earthy smell that irritated her eyes. They had made great progress.

“Tell me what is on your mind, Princess,” the Warden said while carefully weighing dried blueberry powder, “you seem to be troubled by something and I am willing to dispense some wisdom.” 

A small, wry smile came on her face and she shook her head. “It is a delicate matter, Warden Bair, and though I need advice, I cannot share the details.” 

He nodded thoughtfully while he continued his work. “Not to sound my own trumpet, so to speak, my dear, but I am quite apt in saying the right thing even when I do not know the finer things of a situation.” 

He obviously wished to know, thought the Princess with amusement. 

 “Very well, if you insist, I shall tell you to the best of my abilities.” She put down the crock of mountain salt that she had fetched from the storage and turned to him.  

“I have a choice to make that will change my life for the better if I accept, but I do not know if the improvement will be long-term or short-term. And if I do not accept, life will continue on as of old, but I might miss out on the enrichment of it in the long term.” 

“Hmmm, much uncertainty, no doubt. And do you truly possess the power to decide, or is it an illusion of choice?” 

“I very much have the final say.” 

“Will it affect other people’s lives if you choose to accept?” 

“Aye, but mostly mine.” 

“I see. And how long have you the time to decide?” 

“I need to make a decision before noon tomorrow.” 

“Is that all the time you have been given, Princess?” 

Lothíriel sighed. “No, I have had about three months to decide...” 

At this, the Warden stopped his work and turned to look at her wide-eyed. “Princess! Such indecisiveness.” 

Dropping her gaze to her hands, she bit her lip in embarrassment. “I know, Warden Bair.” 

“Why, I do not think I need to hear anything else from you to give you advice.” 

She looked up, curious.  

“I shall give you some universal advice, one such that I apply when faced with a patient who is unable to decide to take a more invasive treatment for the sake of survival. My dear,” he paused with gravitas, “anything other than acceptance is refusal.” 

For a moment she stared at him as he smiled, proud of his own profound words. Then she frowned. “I do not understand. How can I apply that to my own situation?” 

The Warden shrugged. “How about I give you an example? Perhaps you can learn from that. One day a man was brought to me, a very serious case. Both his legs had been crushed under a falling rock and they were beyond saving. If his legs were not amputated, he would succumb to his injuries and die. When I told him this, he said he did not want to spend the rest of his days as a burden to others. His loved ones insisted that they would take care of him, urging him to undergo the amputation. So he agreed, but he kept asking me to wait another day. Unable to force him, naturally I kept delaying the procedure. Three days passed and by then the infection in his body had become incurable. When I told him that it was too late for amputation, the man smiled and thanked me for my care.” 

Lothíriel stared at him, baffled. The Warden was a strange man and even stranger were his tales. “What happened to him?” 

“He died, of course, you silly girl!” The Warden began scooping the mountain salt into a bowl, while the young woman stared at him in horror.  

“What a horrid tale! How does it apply to me? My decision is not so grim.” 

“All the better for you, then! So now you know what to do.” 

She sent him a look of consternation. “Do you mean... Amputate or die?” 

“Precisely!” 

Lothíriel placed a hand at her brow. “I cannot make heads nor tails of this. However, I thank you nonetheless for your effort.” 

With an obnoxious twinkle in his eye, he leaned close to her for a moment. “Think about it, and then you will know your own mind.” 

“Aye, sir, whatever you say," she replied, brushing aside his words as an old man's folly. "Now, I am going to add the final ingredient to the hangover cure.” And she stirred the red panax root extract into the large cauldron.  

“Go ahead and have a taste,” he said, “it should be ready now.” 

Lothíriel took a sip and groaned. "Oh, heavens above. It is positively disgusting.” 

“Excellent. This will replenish their bodies with much-needed nutrients and discourage future excesses.” 

Lothíriel laughed softly. There was no actual cure for a hangover, but the drink did help the person with their recovery. 

“If there is nothing else I can help you with, Warden Bair, then I shall – “ 

A knock interrupted her. A servant came in, but after noticing the presence of Lothíriel, he froze in his tracks.

"Come on in, Master Egdir. Do not mind her."

Shedding his reticence, the servant walked up to the Warden and whispered something in the old man’s ear.

A strange look crossed Bair's face and he met Lothíriel’s questioning eyes with a twinkle in his.  

"I believe, my dear Princess Herbalist, that you and I have somewhere we need to be."

Chapter Text

Amrothos’ Interlude

Amrothos could not stand by and do nothing. That is not what love was to him.

Love meant more than sacrifice, kindness or dedication.

Sometimes love meant interference, manipulation and conflict.

Love meant taking matters into his own hands for her sake.

And he loved Lothíriel with all of his heart. There was no one like her in his life.

Perhaps it was like that because Naneth had died, leaving behind her memories in their hearts and her likeness in her daughter. More than once Erchirion had told Amorothos that he should not confuse his sister for his own mother, but he did not care what he had to say in the first place. Logic and rationales mattered not to Amrothos.

He just truly admired his sister. 

Like the sea, she was always in motion, tending to this duty or pursuing that passion. She was full of potential, love and strength. In a lot of ways, she was like their father, who was tenacious, ambitious and loyal. Amrothos was certain that if she was given the chance, she would be a beloved and formidable leader like Imrahil. It was unfortunate that women had to look towards their husbands for the chance to be more than a supporting character in their own lives.

No wonder the uptight prick Lord Forgammon had coaxed her into a courtship with visions of independence and entrepreneurship.  

But Forgammon would not care for Lothíriel the way a good spouse would.

Yes, he was attracted to her, but that was no feat. He was more interested in the benefits of marrying a Princess of Dol Amroth. Once that man got what he wanted, he would ignore her existence and live his life regardless of what she wanted. She would be lonely and neglected, like Aunt Finduilas. Though more of a modest nature, she too had had her own ambitions and passions. However, after Denethor had drained her spirit, she had been a mere husk of a person, wasting away as her grasp on reality weakened until reality itself relinquished its hold on her existence.

Amrothos’ heart clenched painfully as he stalked his way towards the kitchens.

So many better people had offered for Lothíriel hand in marriage and he had chased them all away. And the War, too, had taken countless lives, including those of eligible bachelors of good standing and character. There was only one man alive who stood above the others in terms of personality, power and grace.  

Éomer King.  

The only problem was that the King of Rohan did not want to marry.

Or at least he said that, but Amrothos had started questioning that because he had been observing him. At first, it had been out of genuine concern for his friend, but when he had noticed a pattern in his behaviour, he had started tracking his behaviour more attentively.  

Éomer had been stealing glances at Lothíriel.

Indeed, he had been outright staring at her when he thought no one was looking. And if Lord Forgammon was near her, Éomer was not frugal with his glares, either.  

Yet it was not the staring and glaring that had convinced Amrothos of Éomer’s genuine interest in Lothíriel. After all, many others enjoyed looking at the Princess and many others glared at Forgammon too. Lust and irritation, respectively, were commonplace.  

No, it had been Erchirion’s betrothal that made matters obvious to Amrothos. By a stroke of luck, Éomer had been there when Faramir and Imrahil spoke of a betrothal in the Dol Amroth family. Erchirion had been keeping his courtship secret, so naturally one would assume that it was about Lothíriel’s betrothal.  

Éomer certainly did seem to think so, and Amrothos had been there to witness the effect of that news on the young King from the North.

A shadow of despair had come over the warrior King’s face and it had remained there for a long time.

Odd though it had seemed to Amrothos in the beginning, it became apparent when he took the time to reflect on what he knew about the friendship between his sister and his friend.

Despite Éomer’s refusal to marry, they had liked each other well enough for her to send him medicine. Furthermore, Éomer had sent her a Rohanese heirloom; a gesture that had meant that he trusted her and appreciated her. No doubt they had run into each other when they both had been in Minas Tirith, yet after Lothíriel had returned in November, she had not had any correspondence with the Rohirrim King. That had indicated some kind of trouble between them and that was all he knew of it.

Nevertheless, the behaviour of Éomer since the arrival of Faramir spoke of things beyond Amrothos’ knowledge. Éomer was not in the habit of looking at other women, except for an occasional look of awe for Queen Arwen. But now Amrothos knew there was an exemption to that rule; a change in the Northman's habits.

Just before the betrothal ceremony, his sister had entered Merethrond on her father’s arm in full Swan Princess splendour. Amrothos, walking just behind her, had observed very closely how Éomer had gazed upon her with admiration and longing, his eyes unwavering from her graceful form.

When Imrahil and Lothíriel had taken their place on the dais, his expression had darkened and he had made no effort to hide his troubled look. It was true that the people of Rohan were not afraid to feel, and Éomer was no exception to this.

Amrothos' amusement and wonder had been no less when Éomer's troubled look had turned to one of shock the second Minieth had appeared. Indeed, watching the blonde warrior had been so comical that Amrothos had barely remembered to give the necklace to Lothíriel during the betrothal ceremony.

Even after the ceremony, when dinner had been served, Amrothos had continued to register every single one of Éomer's glances and stares at his sister, and thus both Amrothos and Éomer had ended up eating very little that evening.

He had looked upon Lothíriel with such longing, that Amrothos had been taken aback by the sight of it. Then he had recalled that his friend's strange insistence to apologize for his refusal to each of the Princes of Dol Amroth, with such sincerity and perhaps something akin to pain, that it would be no surprise that he had had feelings for Lothíriel since the very start. And that he tried to alleviate his own unhappiness at having to refuse the union by apologizing to others.  

If there was anyone worthy of his sister, then it was Éomer, son of Éomund, a noble warrior who had come into power unwillingly and unexpectedly, and who was currently doing whatever he could to do right by his people and by his ancestors. At that time, Amrothos had been relieved that Lothíriel would not marry Éomer, but now he could only regret his behaviour. 

Ulmo knew how foolish he felt meddling in his sister’s future with Éomer. But if he wanted to save his sister from being squeezed dry by that opportunistic prick, he would need Éomer to realize his feelings and then act upon them.  

Finally, he arrived at the rooms of the King of Rohan and he spoke to the guard. “Please inform the King that his dear friend, Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth, is here.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

Not a minute later, Amrothos knocked at the door to Éomer’s office and opened it without waiting for an answer.  

Éomer, who had been leaning on his desk, reading through a letter from Erkenbrand, looked up with a smile. “Amrothos, my friend, what bring you here at this late hour?” 

The young Prince held up two mugs and two large bottles of alcoholic beverage. “A drink with my friend.” 

Amrothos pinched the bridge of his nose and sat up from his sofa seat with great difficulty. Someone had been knocking on the door for the past minute.  

Last night had not gone according to plan. What had started as an attempt to exchange woes and worries, had turned into a night of drinking. The two bottles had turned into three and four, of not just ale, but also wine and mead. There was no doubt that the King of Rohan knew how to drink and make merry. They had spent the entire time talking and laughing. There even was a wrestling match and an impromptu sparring with hearth pokers.  

In his most vulnerable moment, Amrothos had shared his worries with his Rohirric friend, who had been more capable of handling his drink. As best as a man deep in his cups could, Amrothos had described all the ways that Lord Forgammon would negatively impact his sister’s life.  

Only once had Éomer spoken up. “You do not know, perhaps Lord Forgammon could give her all the happiness that the Princess deserves.” 

At this, the young Prince had laughed before adopting a very serious expression. “Do you know of a certain Steward Denethor?” 

He had then related his comparison between his Aunt and his sister. Éomer had grunted his condolences and Amrothos had sunk down on the floor next to him, sloshing about his ale. “Forgammon is exactly how Denethor used to be. Lothíriel is willing to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of duty. By Ulmo's balls, Éomer! If something happens to her because of that – that bastard...” 

Amrothos had sobbed then, holding his head for a moment before emptying the flask of ale. He had intended to ask Éomer to reconsider his view on marriage, but he had fallen asleep moments after whimpering pathetically.  

Hours later, he had woken up on the floor in the common room of the Rohirrim King, a pillow below his head and a blanket thrown across his body. With bleary eyes, he had looked around to see the King himself sleeping stretched out on the chaise longue wearing nothing but his breeches.  

A sharp pain had then stung in his princely head and Amrothos had winced. With great difficulty, he had walked to the door and gotten the attention of a nearby guard.  

“Get the two of us some kind of hangover cure. But be discreet, Prince Imrahil cannot find out about this.” 

He had settled on a sofa seat and promptly fallen back asleep, only to be woken a while later by incessant rapping at the door.

Éomer muttered something about opening it, before he turned around and continued to sleep.  

Amrothos groaned and said loudly, too loud for his own sore ears: 

“Come in, man! Good lord.”  

The door opened to reveal the Warden himself. Amrothos was very grateful to see him, holding a phial of a light green concoction.  

“Blessed be, Warden, thank you for preparing the drink so quickly.” 

The old man grinned. “You are very fortunate that your sister and I had just finished preparing the hangover drink.” Then he swiftly stepped inside the Rohirrim common room, only to have Lothíriel of Dol Amroth follow him suit while holding another phial in her hands.

The young woman fixed her brother with a glare.

Amrothos blanched at her appearance and sprang up from his chair. “Lothíriel?!” 

Behind him, he heard a mutter, followed by a heavy thud and some cursing.

He turned around to see that the mighty King of Rohan had fallen off the chaise longue and was at present scrambling to his feet.

With a pink face and messy hair, Éomer stared at the young lady, stupified by her presence in his private rooms.

Lothíriel, too, seemed to be flabbergasted by the sight in front of her.

And why should she not be, thought Amrothos in mild amusement as he watched on, an awkward silence expanding between the four of them. Éomer had a terrific array of tattoos, scars and well-developed muscles that any woman would take pleasure in seeing.

In fact, Amrothos himself had taken the time to admire his friend's broad build during their drinking party last night.

Éomer, son of Éomund, was an attractive man and Lothíriel seemed to know it all too well.

Warden Bair cleared his throat, startling everyone into movement.

Éomer began looking around for his tunic, to cover up his upper body in the presence of a lady. Amrothos stepped closer to the Chief Healer, eyeing the phial in his hand with great interest. Lothíriel averted her gaze in an effort to maintain a bit of decorum, only to surreptitiously steal glances at Éomer with keen eyes and a red face.

It was at that moment, despite the nasty headache he was sporting, that Amrothos finally understood. 

The reason for her indecisiveness concerning Forgammon, the reason why she had been given Théoden King’s Herbarium, and the reason for her downcast expressions when she thought no one was aware. Amrothos could not believe he had been so blind to this before.

Lothíriel had feelings for Éomer.  

Furthermore, the Warden himself seemed to be entirely aware of whatever was going on between Lothíriel and Éomer, because he met Amrothos with a slow and knowing smile.

That sly bastard!

The Chief Healer had brought her along on purpose, probably without informing her completely so that both parties would be caught off-guard. He had been boastful of the fact that he had facilitated the romance of Faramir and Éowyn, and he now fancied himself somewhat of a royal matchmaker. The Chief Healer of Minas Tirith moonlighting as a matchmaker it was as ridiculous as it was brilliant.

Meanwhile, Lothíriel had regained her composure and Éomer had managed to put on his tunic.

“Well met, Warden. And Princess Lothíriel.” He approached the newcomers in a confident and kingly stride, hoping to compensate for his discomposure only moments earlier.  

Both the Warden and the Princess inclined their head in acknowledgement.

Amrothos cleared his throat and took the phial from Warden. As he opened the little glass bottle and drank it, he continued to observe them. Éomer turned to Lothíriel and looked at what she was holding.  

“Something for the hangover.” She softly said and offered him the bottle.  

Almost too eagerly the blonde man took the bottle and emptied it immediately, only to grimace at the taste. He coughed and looked back at Lothíriel, who had chosen to hide her face with her hand at that very moment.  

“Again something –“ Éomer muttered and then cut himself off before speaking in a more subdued manner. “Thank you for ah, for this.” 

“It is nothing, Your Majesty,” replied Lothíriel in a tone that was cool and distant, and then she turned to look at her brother, “I shall not tell Ada about... This, but you should be back in your room before he discovers you are not there.” 

Before Amrothos could thank her, she curtsied and left the room. The Warden shared another look with him and left as well, closing the door behind him.  

Éomer stood still near the door, staring at the spot where Lothíriel had been moments before.  

“Éomer, are you quite alright? Did the drink make you unwell?” Amrothos patted him on the back, feeling mostly amused and slightly worried.  

When he turned around to meet his gaze, Éomer gave his friend a smile. “Aye, it is nothing. I suppose it is best that you hurry along. Thank you for having a drink with me. I needed to unwind.” 

Amrothos really liked Éomer. He would be good to Lothíriel, if he ever allowed himself to accept her hand in marriage.

“Not at all. I unloaded all my troubles onto you, my kingly friend, but you were not able to share yours. I am so sorry about that.” 

“Perhaps some other time, I might need it more.” 

Amrothos nodded in understanding. It made sense that he did not wish to talk about the woman he admired with her very own brother. 

Taking his leave, the Prince slowly began making his way back to the Dol Amrothian quarters, the crisp sunlight and early morning sounds doing a number on his senses.

Still, he was not unhappy with what he had learned.

He loved Lothíriel and he was glad that there was a chance at marital happiness for her. He just needed to give Éomer a few well-measured nudges to make it happen. What those nudges were, he did not know yet, but he would have to figure it out soon enough.

End of Amrothos' Interlude

Chapter Text

The music swept through the hall, flutes, fiddles and drums. The sounds of the drums were deep, continuous and rousing while the flutes and fiddles ebbed and flowed, entreating the dancers to move on the music like the waves on the ocean. The musicians were currently playing a series of Dol Amrothian songs, at Lothíriel’s request. It had been ages since she had had the opportunity to dance with her brothers to the music from her homeland, so she had taken advantage of her friendship with the Queen and put forth her request.

A bitter but mostly sweet feeling crept up on her as she spun from Elphir to Amrothos, missing the salty sea spray and the feel of sand beneath her bare feet. She longed to be back in Dol Amroth, already tired of all the emotional unease she had gone through the past few days. There was comfort in the presence of her brothers, though, and as she met Elphir’s eye, he smiled indulgently before taking hold of her hand and spinning her around.

She was grateful for having lost no sibling or parent during the War. It was only Boromir’s absence that she felt. But as she looked around the hall and took in the cheer and joy that was in the air, she knew that his wishes for Gondor had been fulfilled. It was for him and others like him, valiant warriors giving their lives for the sake of their beloved kin and country, that all of Merethrond was decorated from wall to wall. The banners of all fiefdoms were displayed behind the four unoccupied thrones on the dais. Grand arrangements of pale fragrant flowers were placed on silver pedestals throughout the Hall, their sweet scents adding to the high-spirited atmosphere, while the walls were carefully decorated with silver and white streamers, interspersed by large white marble candle holders.

It was a magnificent celebration of victory, one that would be talked about for years to come. A celebration just like what Boromir dreamt of in the quiet nights after turbulent days. Even if he was not present, the love for him in the hearts of the people of Minas Tirith encouraged them to feast and make merry, honouring the sacrifice of the many for the sake of all.

With another smile, she spun in place and curtsied deeply to Elphir as the final notes of the song were played out. There was only gladness in her heart at this moment, as she had succeeded in putting aside all her worries aside to focus instead on the here and now.

During the banquet held before the dancing started, Lothíriel had enjoyed her family’s company, reconnecting and reflecting on the events of the past year. Prince Elphir had arrived mere hours ago, along with his son and his seven-month-pregnant wife. By morning Prince Elphir would resume his father’s role in Minas Tirith, Siloril would spend her last two months under the watchful gaze of the Warden and Lothíriel would return to Dol Amroth to rule in her father’s stead the day after tomorrow. Imrahil, Erchirion and Amrothos would leave for Osgiliath for two weeks to establish an understanding with former Captain Baranor. Thus it meant that this celebration would be the last time the Dol Amroth family would be together as one until the wedding of Faramir and Éowyn.

When the tables had been cleared after the banquet, Lothíriel had been the first to be on the dance floor, pulling along a reluctant Elphir.

“Do not deny your sister, Elphir, I have missed you dearly and soon I shall have to leave.”

An uncharacteristically tender look had crossed his face and he had kissed his sister’s hand before taking his place on the dance floor. Amrothos had appeared at his side, having convinced a young noblewoman to dance, while Erchirion had brought his betrothed along.

Aragorn, Arwen, and Éomer had taken their places on their thrones on the dais, wearing their finest, most regal ensembles. There they had been looking over the people celebrating, pleased to see such joy and merriment. Soon enough, the High King Elessar and Queen Arwen had joined the dance routines, smiles pulling at their lips as they took their turns. More than a few of their fellow dancers stared at them in awe, as the couple made a striking and beautiful vision, gliding across the floor like a pair of graceful swans navigating a serene lake. It was poetry in motion, their bodies and spirits harmonious in the celebration of their timeless love.

Lothíriel, too, stared at them as she twirled in place. She had been dancing without pause with all three of her brothers, Faramir, and then even with her father. It was a blessing to be able to dance with family, however, she longed to be regarded by someone who loved her for who she was and for whom she could blossom because of one man's tenderness for her. Quite like Arwen - truly one of the most beautiful creatures Lothíriel had ever seen - who seemed to emanate pure light when Aragorn was near, the Dol Amrothian Princess wished to be wholeheartedly desired as well. Not for her connections or her power, but for her thoughts and choices, for her secrets and her ambitions, for her flaws and her potential. 

Never had she had this greed until she saw the young King of Rohan, openly and unashamedly crying with love for his country, his King and his family.

And she had coveted his affections ever since.

A lump formed in her throat and Lothíriel swallowed with difficulty, willing herself to feel less. It was a joyous occasion and there was no room for melancholy today. She was celebrating life now by dancing with her beloved father. 

Imrahil took her hand in his and guided her into the concluding step of the dance. She met his grey eyes bravely with her own and offered him a smile, one that he was swift to answer with one of his own.

The music had ended then, but her father did not let go of her. "My dear, are you well?"

"Yes," replied she hastily, "Yes, Ada. I am well.” Lothíriel now stole a look at the royal couple as they walked back to the dais hand-in-hand, and she sighed wistfully, basking in the radiance of their entwined souls. 

But then a new tune set in, one that she recognized as Boromir’s favourite and her mind strayed from the latent ache in her heart. Faramir approached her and extended a hand towards his cousin. “May I have this dance of you, dearest sister?”

As they assumed their positions side by side, they shared a knowing look and raised their hands as one. Song of the River Sons was the name of this music piece. It told the tale of three brothers stealing a boat and setting sail down the river to explore new lands. Remarkable about this dance was that its steps were inspired by the body movements required to steer a sailboat. There were high sweeping gestures akin to the motions to adjust the sails, the low brisk gestures reminiscent of one of manning the rudder, and swift leaning and balancing steps similar to the moves used for torque. It was a complicated dance that Boromir had learned from Imrahil when he visited Dol Amroth in his youth. It was in fact because of his Uncle that the famed eldest son of the Steward had earned his sea legs, adding yet another skill set to his wide range of abilities. The Song quickly became a favourite of Boromir, as it reminded him of his Dol Amrothian roots and the love he received from Imrahil and the maternal side of his family. Of course, Faramir had been quick to follow his brother’s lead, but Boromir had been the first to master the sailing as well as the dancing, even before Elphir had had the chance.

Indeed now it was in remembrance of the Captain of Gondor that Lothíriel and Faramir danced, paying homage to their beloved brother and recalling one more time his cheerful laughter and expert footwork. Boromir would never again dance to the Song of the River Sons, and Faramir and his cousins would never again dance to it without hearing a sombre undertone.

The final music notes trilled out and Lothíriel bowed to her Cousin, a lump forming in her throat.

“There is none like him,” she said to Faramir in a shaky voice, “none like Boromir.”

There was a shimmer in his grey eyes, but he mustered a smile. “And how fortunate are we, that we were able to love him.”

Lothíriel smiled too, but before she was able to speak another word, Erchirion came up to her and took hold of her hand.

“Thiri,” he said, using his childhood nickname for her, “dance with me this easy one, so that I may retire.”

Her second eldest brother was very agile both with words and weapons, but when it came to dancing; he practised little and disliked it greatly. Yet he had orders from Imrahil to keep his sister without want for dancing partners, so he chose the last and simplest Dol Amrothian tune to fulfil his duty.

“Eager to get back to Lady Minieth’s side, are we?” teased his sister as she rested a hand on his shoulder and allowed him to guide her into a spin.

A lop-sided grin appeared on his face and he glanced at his fiancée, who was watching them from her seat, but he did not reply.

Half an hour later, Lothíriel finally begged leave, unwilling to be even a minute longer on the dance floor. She had danced with all her brothers and with Faramir and Imrahil twice each. Her feet were hurting, her dress was chafing at her skin and she was incredibly thirsty.

Picking up her skirts, she made her way to the nearest refreshment table. The table was laden with dainty foods and many kinds of wine and ale, but she was not in the mood for eating or imbibing. Was there not a single crock of water or juice? She searched the table fruitlessly before sinking down at a bench nearby to cool down while watching the crowds dance.

It would not do, she reminded herself, to wallow in self-pity. Dancing was one of the activities she enjoyed the most and she had been doing so well, dance after dance, focusing only on the here and now. Yet the stinging weight in the pit of her stomach was becoming heavy again, adding to the soreness of her muscles and the weight of her silver and white gown. 

Hungover no more, Amrothos had brought it to her that afternoon and he had insisted that she wear it to the Remembrance Feast that evening. It had been a dress of her mother's that he had had adjusted for her size and height. It was truly a bewitching gown fit for a Swan Princess of Dol Amroth. Similar to the feathers of a cygnet in winter, the white glittering fabric gradually turned grey, and the edges of the skirts of her dress were a dark silver that shimmered in movement. More appropriate for a Dol Amrothian spring, it had no sleeves and the boat-cut neckline was wide and modest. It had been one of her mother's preferred party dresses, so Lothíriel had acquiesced if only to see the brilliant smile on her brother's face. 

As the seams of the fabric chafed at her skin and the weight of the skirts bore heavily down on her body, she regretted her choice now. She adjusted her dress in a vain attempt to lessen her discomfort. The lightweight blue gown that she had planned for today would have been a more practical choice after all, even if it did not flatter her figure and skin as much as this one did. 

The music swelled up again and Lothíriel gazed at the dancers, their happy, flushed faces, sweeping steps and colourful outfits slowly dispelling the shadow that had crept onto her heart. 

After mere minutes of people-watching and absently picking at the pearls stitched onto her dress, her view was blocked and she sat up.

A long-stemmed glass appeared in front of her and Lothíriel followed the length of the arm to see who was offering it to her.

It was none other than Éomer, dressed formidably in maroon, gold and silver. His beard was neatly trimmed and his hair had braids on which his crown rested. His gaze was warm and eager, and she looked down immediately as heat gathered in her cheeks.

It had been a while since she had thought about him, a whole hour. She had not expected him to approach her, but it seemed that he had found her quite purposefully. What that purpose was, however... She would not dwell on it.

He sat down next to her, gently took her hand in his broad one and pressed the glass in it.

“You should drink this.” His deep voice was easily heard despite the din of the celebrations.

Lothíriel wanted to protest, but she was thirsty and the chilled lemonade drink was exactly what she required. She emptied the glass in one movement, not bothering to mind her etiquette.

She stood up and placed the glass on the table behind them before looking at him as coolly as she could.

“Thank you for the refreshment, Your Majesty.”

She was halfway a curtsey when he spoke.

“You look lovely, Princess.”

His plain-spoken compliment made her breath catch in her throat. Still sitting on the bench, he was just in her line of sight. His hazel-green eyes were full of sincerity and wistfulness, causing the spiky mass in her abdomen to twist and turn arduously.

What was she to do? 

Leaving still seemed to be a good idea. Lothíriel inclined her head in acknowledgement and then turned to leave, her heart thudding in her ears.

“Lothíriel, wait! Lothíriel.”

She looked back over her shoulder at him, still in disbelief at how informally he dared to address her in such a crowded place. He had stood up and a hand was extended halfway in her direction, a frown at his brow and his jaw set in fresh determination.  

Her heart gave a painful squeeze at his pleading expression, reminding her how it desperately ached for a love unanswered.

So she pressed her lips and shook her head before picking up her skirts and attempting to disappear into the dancing crowd.

It was a vain effort. He was tall enough to keep watching her even from the edge of the dance floor. Heat coursed under her skin, while her heart smarted painfully, an easy victim to his sweet words and longing gaze. 

A small part of her relished in the fact that Éomer missed her. Indeed, he was becoming bolder in seeking her out. Yet her sensible mind protested against that cheap sliver of happiness. Whatever he felt for her, admiration or lust, it was not strong enough for him to seek her hand in marriage. 

And this kind of half-hearted attachment was simply cruel. 

Lothíriel wiped at her eyes and then wryly laughed at herself. Crying on the dance floor, what a foolish girl she was!

A humourless laugh escaped her mouth, only barely heard by herself, because the music was loud and the people were loud and loudest still was the upset thudding of her heart.

How she wished to be unburdened from him. She had not imagined herself to fall in love with anyone, because she had been told that she would not have that luxury as a Princess of Dol Amroth. Thus, the only thing that she had hoped for herself was to marry a decent man, someone easy to kiss, one whom she would be able to learn to love in due time, just like Elphir, her parents and others like them had.

Yet here she was, hiding herself away from the man who had fixed himself so firmly inside her heart, despite not allowing her an inch of space in his.

A new tune started and some of the dancers rejoiced, for it was a favourite of many. She was fond of it too, but at this moment she wished to be anywhere but here. The music was loud and the people were loud and loudest still was the upset thudding of her heart. Dancers began to swirl around her, blind to everything except their own amusement. She was very much in their way; however, she stood rooted to the spot, her dress and her elaborate hair weighing her down along with her self-deprecating musings.  

Soon enough, one such dance enthusiast bumped into her, and Lothíriel was torn from her thoughts as she sought to regain her balance. Out of nowhere, a hand rested on her waist and she heard a familiar voice ask: “Milady, are you alright?”

It was Lord Forgammon and he was looking at her with both interest and impatience. Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and placed it on his shoulder meaningfully.

“If only one dance is what I am allowed, milady, then I must have it now.”

Lothíriel breathed in and out deeply, wiped once more at her eyes and pasted a smile on her face. It seemed that her distress had not been visible to him, so eager was he to claim her hand. “Let us dance then, milord.”

They stood opposite one another joined hands and spun on the rhythm of the music. He was dressed in silver and black with slightly more embellishment than he preferred. His hair and beard were neat and his brown eyes never left Lothíriel’s face, except for the turns in their dance.

Had she not known Forgammon for a decade, she would have readily accepted his suit. But even as he smiled, even as his eyes gleamed with apparent desire and admiration for her, her perturbed mind sent her recollections of his scowls, jabs and sneers directed at her and her brothers.

And that is what it always did, regardless of how hard she tried to focus on their pleasant enough courtship.

Anything other than acceptance is refusal.

 The Warden’s words sprang to the forefront of her consciousness and finally, she understood herself.

She stopped their dancing, but she did not relinquish her hold on his broad, dusky hand.

“Lord Forgammon, we need to talk.”

Seeing her serious expression, he immediately led her out of Merethrond and into the courtyard where the White Tree sapling flowered. From the corner of her eye, she saw Amrothos follow them suit and she signalled him to keep his distance.

Begrudgingly, he lingered out of earshot near the doors of the Feasting Hall, but his eyes never left the form of his sister.

The man offered Lothíriel a seat at the stone bench near the flowering sapling, but she refused.

“Lord Forgammon, I shall be frank and to the point with you, as has been my habit.”

“I appreciate that, milady.” He stood at a respectable distance and his eyes were void of any emotion.

“Milord, I cannot accept your suit.”

“I see.” He was not surprised.

“The past three months, I have attempted to see you in the light of a spouse, a lifelong friend, and a liege. Yet the past has been ever fixed in the back of my mind and I...” She paused to take a deep breath, aware of the impact of her words. “Milord, in vain I have tried. Yet I cannot reconcile the man who enjoyed scolding me with the man who is to be my husband.”

Lord Forgammon nodded and looked down. “You did mention very early into the courtship that it was one of the things holding you back from giving a prompt answer.”

“Aye, so I did. And I have done my best to overcome this bias, but I cannot help but think that once the novelty of our marriage wears off, we will fall into patterns of old.” The young woman shifted in place, her head still raised and her shoulders squared, hoping to the man an impression of unwavering self-confidence.

“In my defence,” said Lord Forgammon after a moment of silence, “I see you very differently from the girl you used to be. I do not feel the urge nor see the need to speak to you like I did then.”

Lothíriel smiled wistfully at him and pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I will always be that little girl, milord. I am just better at hiding her.”

They held each other’s gaze, studying one another. Lothíriel’s expression was calm and unworried. Lord Forgammon, on the other hand, seemed dejected and a touch sorrowful. He may have been a politician and a ruler with sharp wit and even more knife-edged tongue, her outright rejection of him had stung him.

“Is our past the only reason that you see no future?" he asked in an unnaturally even tone." Is there perhaps... another suitor?”

It was quintessential of him to be so direct, and she had finally gotten used to his barbs because of their time spent together. “The past is reason enough, milord. However, there is no other suitor besides you.”

“The King of the Riddermark.”

That did catch her off-guard, and she struggled momentarily to contain her shock. “What of him, milord?”

“Your father Prince Imrahil had spoken of his  interest in him for your sake.” He looked at her, his eyes slightly squinted, hoping to discern the meaning behind her stiffened shoulders. “I have noticed him watching us, looking... Most unhappy.”

Unfortunately for her, she was not able to control the flush that crept up her cheeks. She could only hope that the relative darkness in the courtyard could conceal it. 

"Lord Forgammon," she replied with a voice not unlike her father's when he was indignant, "I do not see how you need to concern yourself with him or any other potential suitor.”

But he was not fooled, and he laughed, a soft scoffing noise. “Forgive me. It is merely that I was thinking out loud, milady. You see, I...” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “If you choose to marry him - a King, then I would look less of a fool in the wake of our failed courtship.”

Lothíriel stared at him, temporarily at a loss of words. Even now this man was only concerned for his image. But at least he was frank about it, as he always had been with her. 

“Then you will be sorry to hear, Lord Forgammon,” She said, after deciding to share a snippet of bald truth with him, “that Éomer King has refused my hand in marriage, not once but twice.”

That did take him by surprise. Lothíriel took a moment to wryly enjoy his disconcerting like she had always done.

“Is that so?” He fell quiet, staring at the ground, deep in thought. Then he met her gaze once more and said: “If that is true, then he is a bigger fool than I thought.”

For a moment, Lothíriel did not know if she wanted to be angry at Éomer’s behest or if she wanted to cry at her own behest.

So she laughed.

Forgammon was right.

Éomer Éomundson was a fool for how he had behaved with her.  

It had taken her a long time, but she could finally see what her father appreciated in Lord Forgammon. He was brutally honest, regardless of rank or station and his sharp words held the power to cut through any mist of emotions. Without a doubt, he was a politician that you would want with you rather than against you. 

“Milord, I thank you for speaking with me so candidly." She allowed herself a small smile at him. "I feel that I have learned a lot from you and I hope you will not think ill of me when our paths cross again.”

With a frown, he stared at her before releasing an uncharacteristically deep sigh. “Princess Lothíriel, friendly acquaintanceship is a meagre alternative to having you as my wife... But I accept it nonetheless, for I hope I can have your support in laying the groundwork for herb medicine sourced from Lossarnach.”

The formidable man, never upset enough to not talk business.

“You did not need to marry me for the support of Dol Amroth, you already have it.”

Lord Forgammon shook his head. “Come, stay honest. I shall not have your support if I do not ask for it explicitly right now. I do quite recall the countless times that you fled my presence or had your brothers intervene."

"Yes, you are right to think that!" 

What a profound moment it was! Laughing in unison with Forgammon was the last thing she had imagined to happen after refusing his suit. Yet their chuckles filled the otherwise silent courtyard, causing Amrothos to glare at them.

“Shall we return to the festivities, milord?”

As a reply, he offered her his arm, and she gladly took it.

“I suppose we should inform our families that the courtship is over.” She murmured as they approached where her brother stood.

“Aye, my sons would be glad to hear it.”

“I beg your pardon?”The future of his children had been the lord’s main driving force behind his pursuit of her.

“Aye, they are very much opposed to becoming Swan Knights. They prefer their studies to a future in knighthood.”

Their gazes met again and they laughed once more in unison. Amrothos demanded to know what had amused them, but she waved him off, passing him by and back into the Feasting Hall.

“Shall we finish our dance?” suggested Lothíriel, suddenly feeling feather-light and quite energetic. “As a celebration of our newly forged ah... What was it, friendly acquaintanceship?”

“Indeed.”

They walked to the dance floor and smoothly integrated themselves into the dancing line.

Lord Forgammon was an excellent dancer because his lead allowed her to be distracted by her thoughts. The relief of ending the courtship was immense. She felt like a weight was lifted from her chest and that the lights and colours of the world that had been dimmed before were now bright once more. Eventually, the final chords sounded and the dancers clapped in appreciation of the musicians, who bowed and stepped away for a short break.

Lord Forgammon took Lothíriel’s hand and kissed it very gallantly. After a bow, he took his leave and disappeared into the crowd.

Not a moment later, did Amrothos appear and no doubt he had questions, ones that she had no choice but to answer.

“Lothíriel, what news have you?” He held her by her shoulders and looked at her insistently.

With a sigh, she gently released his hands from her shoulders, leaned forward and whispered. “I am not leaving your side yet, Amrothos. The courtship has ended.”

As she moved away from him, she took note of his shock. “Truly?”

“Let us not tell others, or other men might insist on a dance with me,” Lothíriel whispered conspiringly. “Tonight I only want to dance with my Princes.”

To her surprise, Amrothos did not look happy. “What is it, dear brother?”

“I... I am sorry for making matters difficult for you.” He spoke with a crack in his voice.

With a small smile, she rested a hand on his cheek and beheld him. He was her best friend and her partner in all her escapades and rule-breaking. He had been right about Lord Forgammon, but she appreciated that he had given her enough space to end the courtship on her own terms.

“I love you, Amrothos.” She pressed a kiss on his brow and pulled him along to the refreshment tables. “Come, there must be wine with our name on it.”

“Oh, I do not know if I should have another drink,” protested he, though quite half-hearted, “I had quite a few ales already.”

“One wine and then one dance, for the sake of your sister! We should celebrate.”

She picked out a glass of red wine and took a sip, relishing the taste. Amrothos followed suit and they stood in amiable silence, watching people come up and refresh themselves, waiting for the music to start again.

It did not take her long to find Éomer King in the throng of people. He stood with a few other men, having a lively discussion. Newly unburdened from her suitor, Lothíriel took a moment to admire him from this safe distance. He was the most attractive man in Merethrond, she thought as she took another sip, and the only bachelor present not interested in marrying her. And she wondered if that said more about her than it did about him.

The first notes of the next dance music piece began and she turned to her brother to get his attention. He was already looking at her, with a strange look in his eyes.

It was unsettling. 

“Let us dance to the music of the Rohirrim!” Lothíriel hastily said, a blush creeping up her cheeks. And she pulled her brother to the dancing area, joining a group of three people. The energetic tunes made the siblings forget about their worries and instead devote their attention to the easy yet rapid steps.

They clapped, spun and leapt to the beat, meeting one another’s eye with broad smiles. The Dol Amroth family members all had mastered the dances from Rohan, much to the pleasure of Faramir, who was crossing off the days on his proverbial calendar.

The song smoothly changed into a slow but cheerful one and some dancers left the floor while a few joined.

“Éomer King, join us!" Amrothos exclaimed and she stared at him wide-eyed. 

The King of Rohan was known for his propensity to avoid dancing at celebrations, claiming that he did more than enough of his share of coordinated movements on the battlefield. No one ever begrudged him for that, so he was left alone well enough. 

So when Éomer appeared alongside Amrothos, coming to stand opposite Lothíriel, she had trouble believing her eyes.

“I was unaware that Rohirrim dances were popular at Gondorian court, milady.” Éomer directed the remark at her and she had to scramble to form a coherent reply, taken aback by his sudden appearance.

“In honour of Lady Éowyn’s wedding," she managed to say with difficulty, and she moved her arms to the music." Queen Arwen ensured it, Your Majesty.”

“How considerate of her.” His eyes did not waver from her face. 

“It was Lothíriel’s idea, actually,” Amrothos spoke up, grinning as he took a measured step to the beat.

Panic began to rise from the pit of her stomach, and she cursed herself for having an entire glass of wine when she was so intolerant of it. Now she had trouble managing both her dance moves and her feelings.

Especially now that Éomer was looking at her so closely. "And I am grateful for it, Princess Lothíriel." 

Flustered, she missed a step, adding to her mortification.

Amrothos was in a talkative mood, however. "Yes, if you must know - Lothíriel has quite familiarized herself with your culture -"

His sister attempted to catch his eye, but he was adamant in keeping his eyes fixed on his friend instead.

"Do you know that she can converse in Rohanese as well?"

Another misstep.

"My sister has a natural affinity for learning -"

What was Amrothos doing?

" - and quite adaptive to new environments as well -" 

As he moved further away from her, she could no longer understand what he was saying to Éomer. In her frustration, she missed another cue. 

The blonde man was listening quite attentively and when he took a few steps back to her, he looked at her eagerly. 

Then the music picked up, drowning out Amrothos' voice and she sighed in gratitude. Now she could focus on her dance steps instead.

But she did not, because her eyes kept straying to the rare presence beside her. 

Gracefully Éomer moved to the music of his people, his tall figure unexpectedly elegant and fluid in its movements. He raised his hand and touched palms with the Princess as they turned - a small current coursing through her body every time that they touched - and she heard him say her name under his breath.

“Lothíriel.”

They moved away from each other, only to press their palms together again, and once more he spoke to her.

“Lothíriel, I wish to speak to you. Privately.”

Three steps apart, another turn with the other dancers and once again their palms touched.

Her stomach flopped at the words and their implication, and she had to take deep breaths to calm her rioting heart.

Yes, she wanted to say. 

“No.” She replied, a touch desperate. Already it was hard to refuse him, but in this setting, he was nigh irresistible.

“Why not?” Éomer missed his turn to spin in place.

“I cannot.”

Another meeting of hands. Lothíriel saw that he was displeased from his flared nostrils and clenched teeth. Her heart continued its riot against her mind. 

Her eyes snapped to Amrothos, hoping for a distraction, but he was not paying them any heed as he was quite happy to dance with the young lady beside him.

The music played faster, nearing the end, and Lothíriel spun in place before taking three steps further away from Éomer. His eyes never strayed from her and a heat smouldered in them now, obviously displeased.

She took the three steps back to him and pressed her palm very lightly against his broad and calloused one. His fingers deftly caught her wrist and he forced her to look at him.

“Please, Lothíriel! You must.” His eyes narrowed with unhappiness and longing, causing her breath to hitch in her throat.

Oh, it was too dangerous. She could not bear another rejection.

As the last of the notes were played out, she forcibly released her hand from him and spun out of his reach. Without looking back, she left both her brother and the King of Rohan behind on the dance floor.

The dance floor was a perilous place. She would not step a single foot on it again, tonight. The only one she could dance with had been Amrothos, but he had betrayed her most unkindly. 

No more dancing. Instead, she sat with Siloril, drinking wine and discussing with her the arrangements of the Feast of Remembrance, praising the food, the decorations, the music and the lively people. Granted, it was mostly Siloril talking and Lothíriel agreeing with her half-heartedly, but at least the Princess was in no fear of being enticed into being alone with a tall, blonde King of the North. Even if her eyes kept searching for him, fruitlessly. 

After a little while, Elphir and Alphros appeared, the latter asleep on his father’s shoulder, and the former suggested to his wife that the three of them retire for the night.

Lothíriel helped Siloril to her feet, who kissed her cheek in thanks. With a small smile, she watched her eldest brother and his family leave Merethrond.

She then sought out Erchirion, but she could not see him or Lady Minieth anywhere. Prince Imrahil was sitting with Faramir, Aragorn and Arwen, having a discussion that, given their frequent laughs, was amusing and pleasant. Amrothos was dancing with a pretty noblewoman, a different one than before, and if Lothíriel saw correctly, two more young women were lingering near, hoping for a turn with the cheerful and handsome prince from Dol Amroth.

She was alone with her thoughts and those kept turning to her last dance partner, Éomer King. The audacity of that man, insisting on being alone with her. The idea itself was hazardous and incredibly enticing to her. 

She put her wine goblet down. How much had she had already? For a moment she felt sympathy for Erchirion. Once she had a glass, it was all too easy to have a second, and then even a third. 

It was better to leave.

Her feet hurt and her dress chafed. The weight of her pinned-up hair made her neck ache. The din of the crowd and the music had begun to hurt her ears. She was ready to retire. Gathering her skirts, she circumnavigated the dancing crowd to the dais where her father was. As good manners dictated, Lothíriel praised the organization of the Remembrance Feast and took her leave from the rulers.

As she left, Imrahil called out to her and took her aside. “My dear daughter, Amrothos told me that you have refused Forgammon’s suit.”

“Aye, Ada. Even after all this time, I could not see a happy future with him.”

Imrahil nodded in understanding. “Given your history, I knew the chances of success were slim, but I appreciate that you considered him earnestly.”

“Then you will be pleased to hear that we have agreed to become friendly acquaintances.” Despite her fatigue, a playful grin appeared on her face as she spoke.

He stared at her for a moment, before giving a short and melodious laugh of amusement.

“Pleased, indeed!” He kissed her brow. "I am glad you have managed to learn how to appreciate him. He is an asset to Dol Amroth."

Then he glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "Listen, I have to go check on someone. I shall see you tomorrow morning, my dear."

After a gentle embrace, he left her side in a hurry. Only slightly confused by his sudden shift in mood, she made her way out of the Hall and into the courtyard. The night was quiet and the ruckus of Merethond was greatly reduced outside its doors.

A chilling breeze blew past the damp and exposed skin of her arms and neck, causing her to shiver uncontrollably.

Down the courtyard she went, past the hallway towards the kitchens next to Merethrond, making her way towards the Southern Guesthouses of which the entrance was directly opposite the Tower of Ecthelion.

“Lothíriel!”

She knew that voice too well—the baritone, the accent, and - oh, the passion. An unbidden thrill went down her spine at hearing it so clearly in the quiet. 

"Lothíriel, I beg you. Wait!"

Her legs halted their movement, but she did not turn around. 

She did not have to, because a second later, Éomer stood before her, breathing heavily. The distant lights of Merethrond illuminated his face and she could see he was still upset. 

He was so beautiful, she thought absently. Even when he was frowning. No, especially when he was frowning. 

Once again he had put himself in her path, but this time she was simply too tired and too drunk to maintain her poise and her distance. 

She considered her next move as she studied his features, even as his body heated the cool air on her skin.

His warmth was pleasant.

He was standing so close to her, so close that she barely had to reach out to touch him.

Should she run? She wondered.

Should she be angry with him?

Or -  came the maddening thought as she admired his parted lips - should she kiss him instead?

Chapter Text

Alone in the Courtyard at the Citadel of the White City, two young people were speaking in hushed tones. They suited each other well - one a Princess by birth, the other a King by chance. The tall, Kingly man stood towering over Lothíriel despite her being a tall woman herself. Strangely enough, it was as intimidating as it was comforting to realize that he considered her the only one worth paying attention to.

Ah, but the comfort was not for her to enjoy.  

Lothíriel shook her head to reel in her wandering mind, both for the sake of herself and for the sake of the man in front of her. Then she took a step back and cleared her throat.  

“Your Majesty, what –“ 

“Call me Éomer.” 

Cruelty was insisting on intimacy after denying her the most significant right to it – that of a spouse.  

“I shall not, milord.” Defiance crested in her chest and she looked him squarely in the eyes. “I may have forgiven you for your treatment of me, but we are not friends.” 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he slammed it shut and cast his eyes to the ground.  

There was a reason he had chased after her, however, her anger and her exhaustion were begging her that she should quit his company regardless of how august he looked in the light of the Courtyard lanterns.  

“If that was all, milord, I should be – “ 

“Wait, I wish to speak with you.” His hand shot out and he rested it on her arm, only to wince.  

“Lothíriel,” he said, looking at her with great consternation, “you are – you are freezing!” 

“I know, Your Majesty, which is why I wish to retire to my room.” She made no effort to hide her impatience with him. She needed to go before she did something untoward.  

But before she could take another step, he hummed as if he made a decision, and released his hold on her. Then, swearing under his breath about absurd Gondorian fashion, he took his maroon and gold cape off and draped it over her shoulders. Immediately she was enveloped by its warmth and his scent of horse, hay, musk and something indescribably pleasant. The weight and the texture of his cape were soothing and she felt her eyes droop for a split second. 

For a moment she was back on Firefoot, hidden away in his arms as they made their way towards the City Gate.  

But the noise that suddenly filled her ears was not the loud clacking of horse hooves on stone.  

Sound of chatter and music scattered across the Courtyard as a few people exited Merethrond, unwittingly imposing on the pair's privacy. Without delay, Éomer grabbed her by her shoulders and gently pushed her back towards the kitchens. He opened one of the doors in the hallway, guided her in and closed the door behind them. 

Lothíriel’s heart thudded loudly in her chest as she processed what just happened.  

He had managed to achieve what he wanted and what she had been desperately trying to avoid.  

In a storage room with barely any space to walk, she was still held in place by the warm and large hands of Éomer King. He stood with his back against the door and met her bewildered gaze with his unreadable one. Dim light, streaming in from the small window above the door, just barely lit their faces. The rest of the room was covered in a shroud of darkness. And it was quiet enough for Lothíriel to be aware of their breathing. If either of them moved, they would hear and sense it rather than see it.   

For a spell, they stayed silent. Not minutes ago, they had been out in the open, thereby allowing the effect of his being to dissipate in the crisp spring air. Now his presence filled the small room up to the brim, with not just his hulking figure, but also his scent, his heat and the inescapable hold of his gaze.  

His proximity was intoxicating.  

Once again the suggestion of kissing him came to the edge of her mind. Before she could fall off the precipice, she forced herself to focus.  

“Your Majesty,” she said rather breathlessly, “this is highly improper.” 

Unlike her brothers and other men of Gondor, Éomer always seemed to take his time just enough before answering her. Even now he examined her face closely before he replied in a soft voice. “I do not remember you worrying about propriety... Before.” 

The gentleness of his speech only irked her.  

“That was because I was a fool, then,” replied Lothíriel, not bothering to keep her voice even, “in the past, I was merely blinded by my foolish and naive feelings.” 

Again he stared at her, his brow furrowed and his jaw set. Then his hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, shifting aside his cape and leaving goosebumps on her skin in their wake. He took a deep breath before speaking softly once more as if his words would shatter and scar him if spoken too loudly. “There is nothing now that can blind you, then? No more feelings?” 

He finally had worked up the courage to address how she felt. It had only taken him about five months.

“What I feel is none of your concern, Your Majesty – “ 

“My name is Éomer!”  

His protest was loud and Lothíriel flinched. He never did like being addressed with his title.  

“We have no understanding that allows us to be so informal, milord.” Her voice cracked, but she was grateful for the semi-darkness that hid her face from him. “Whatever we had... In the end, it was you taking advantage of my weakness for you so you could have an escape from your responsibilities.” 

She heard his breath catch in his throat, yet this time he was quick to respond.  

“Yes. Yes, you are right. I took advantage of you, and I cannot apologize enough for my conduct. But I do not regret any of my time spent with you. Lo – Princess, I...” 

His hands slid further down her bare arms and the cape around her fell to the ground with a quiet thud. Again she shivered -not because of the cold, no, he was warm enough for the both of them - but her body relished in his touch. If he had noticed her reaction, he paid no heed to it. Instead, he sought out her gaze with his and brought his face closer to hers. “There is no one like you. The way you can calm my mind, and the way you ease my worries... Lothíriel, I feel human again because of you. Even now. When I am with you... I am Éomer.” 

She stared at him in awe as she attempted to figure out if she was dreaming or having drunk delusions. But all her senses insisted on reality. It was not a dream. Éomer had spoken those sweet words to her. Fragile, sensitive words that did not seem to match their origin - oh, but they did! In this delicate juncture of impropriety and sincerity, he had at long last spoken of how he felt about her. And hope bubbled up in her chest, lightening the burden in her abdomen.

And yet...

There was something else inside her besides hope that insisted on reaching the forefront of her affected mind.  

Something did not sit right with her and it would not be shaken, indeed it demanded the highest attention because it had always been there. Pushed aside, ignored, trivialized, yes. But it had never left.

Anger.

“So, you felt at peace with me?” 

He blinked, taken aback by her flat tone of voice. “Ah, yes.” 

“Comfortable even?” 

“Well, yes – “ 

“Comfortable enough to kiss me and then reject me promptly after?”  

“No! That is not what I had intended – “ 

“No?” She glared at him, her lips pressed thin in exasperation.  

Perhaps she had not forgiven him after all. Perhaps she had been too hasty in easing his guilt. Perhaps she was not as magnanimous as she thought herself to be.  

The hurt ran too deep still because even as he stood mere inches away from her, the pain of his refusal of her many months ago rang as true as her love for him did in her foolish little maiden’s heart. And it finally claimed its release. 

“Pray tell me this, milord. What were your intentions with me?” 

Sensing the urgency of a quick reply, Éomer immediately said: “I never intended to hurt you - “ 

But she interrupted him, as he did not realize that she needed a straightforward answer from him.“ What were your intentions with me, Éomer King?”  

This small pantry of the Citadel kitchens could have been a realm of its own, if only for the fact that there was no room for courtly manners. There was hardly any space anything at all. Yet there they were. Too intimate for two people who were not involved in any kind of relationship, locked away with only the company of emotions now unsuppressable. 

Nevertheless, his hands remained at her elbows, their rough heat warming her skin. She was all but enveloped by him and she took a secret pleasure that he no longer seemed daunted by emotions - neither his nor hers. But she needed more.

Lothíriel sighed. “Tell me, milord. What do you intend to do at this very moment? Now that you have me here... alone and all to yourself.” 

Her words were effective in charging the already tensed air between them.  

He let out a shuddering breath that caressed over her face, and she smelled wine and spearmint. He was nervous, and it was because of her. 

He might not love her, but his desire for her was undeniable.  

As she studied the soft golden colour of his beard and the shape of his lips visible in the dim rays of the lanterns outside, she wondered if she should act upon their mutual attraction. She was half a step away from an embrace. It would be so easy to press her mouth against his, to tenderly touch his cheek and neck, and to find out how strong the taste of wine was on his tongue.  

No one else would have to know if she did, either. He would probably deny it and she would keep it hidden from everyone - a bittersweet secret to entertain herself with during her moments of melancholy. Indeed, she was already drowning in her unrequited feelings, how much of a difference would it make if she added a bit more unresolved intimacy? 

Yes, it increasingly looked like a good idea to Lothíriel. 

But even now her anger still needed to be answered. He did not wish to marry her, so why did he seek her out? He would have to tell her. 

And she would make him.  

At first, Lothíriel let her fingertips only graze the lush fabric on his chest, recalling the tattoo of the Riddermark on his pectoral. The chance to see the inking of the Rohanese Sun once again was slim, but knowing that it was hidden below the fabric was thrilling enough for her. She bit her lip as she remembered their time alone together in the Warden's office. As a Healer's assistant, charged with the task of caring for him, she had been able to touch him. However, that touch had been professional - mostly - but right now her thoughts veered dangerously into areas she had no experience in.

And she had a strong urge to change that, even if she was still quite cross with him. She increased the pressure of her hand and ran it up to his collar to caress the side of his neck. His breath hitched audibly, and she regarded his face once more.  

“You wanted to talk to me, milord. Remember?” 

He grunted and cleared his throat. “Forgammon.” 

“Yes?” she answered neutrally, though glad that he had remembered what he wanted to say to her. Meanwhile, her hand continued its appreciation of the beard hairs on the side of his neck. “You wish to talk about him?” 

Again he took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I do not - I cannot understand. I thought you disliked him.” 

Lothíriel weighed his words carefully and she could not fault him, because she had told him as such. “Lord Forgammon wrote his motivation to me and his logic was sound. So I figured that there was no harm in him courting me.” 

He scoffed and shifted in place as he tried to reign in his disbelief. “What wisdom did he impart to you that made you change your mind about him?” 

Lothíriel traced the embroidery of the collar before letting her hand glide towards his left shoulder, anchoring it there with her fingers. “It was more the straightforward manner of his communication that appealed to me. He knew what he wanted and thus he told me.” 

“And what – what did he want?” A stutter, as if he was almost unwilling to find out. 

“Power. Connections. My ambitions.” She stole a glance up at him before letting her hand glide down his chest again, and her mind’s eye recalled how that very hand had applied Sorrowfew on the bare skin of this man.  

His breathing was rapid now, but he had yet to make a move to stop her.  

No, he was enjoying her explorations as much as she was. 

“You are fine with him desiring you for your title?” 

“I am a Princess, Your Majesty,” She replied airily, “my station and my connections are supposed to be alluring to ambitious men. He respects me enough to be honest with me about how he feels... I have learned to put value in that.” 

He scoffed again, but he was not deterred. “Your brothers do not like him either.” 

“My brothers do not need to like him, Ada likes him well enough.” 

A soft grunt of frustration.  

“Amrothos likened him to late Steward Denethor.” 

Lothíriel rolled her eyes impatiently, her hand now ghosting over the other side of his upper body.  

“Amrothos is an emotional fool who pays too much heed to Aunt Ivriniel’s stories. Their marriage was doomed because of the Shadow’s hold on Uncle Denethor’s mind and Aunt Finduilas’ weak body.” 

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps reflecting on his mental image of Faramir’s father. Meanwhile, Lothíriel allowed her hand to caress Éomer’s bicep, relishing in its firmness and the resulting stuttering sigh.  

He was affected by her touch, she noted with no little satisfaction, despite making a valiant effort to move as little as possible.  

“Do you want me to stop touching you, milord?” 

She heard his breathing still and he groaned. “Lo – Princess Lothíriel, please.” 

“Yes?” 

He inhaled and exhaled. And then grunted noncommittally.  

Coward, she thought ruefully.  

“The man... He spent years belittling you. Will you even be able to see Forgammon as your husband?” 

Lothíriel sighed softly and then decided to speak dangerous words. Something that would shock him. She simply had to.  

“I had my doubts about that as well...” She paused for dramatic effect, “but it helps that he knows how to kiss.” 

“He what?!” 

Lothíriel flinched again, his sudden loudness startling her. It was what she had hoped for. Indeed, her provocation had been very effective. 

His hands gripped her tighter, trembling with suppressed fury. In the dull light shining on his face, she saw his face contort, and her stomach twisted with guilt and desire.  

But also sheer vindication.  

He was jealous and he made no attempts to hide it, either.  

Again hope bubbled up. 

“The bastard dared to touch you and your father saw no problem with it!?” 

“Usually when two people are courting, it is tolerated, Your Majesty.” Her voice wavered towards the end of her sentence. Despite her bold behaviour, she was intimidated by him. 

His glare was intense and Lothíriel swallowed hard. How could one look so daunting and handsome at the same time?  

Before she could dwell on the beautiful ferocity in his eyes, he spoke once more.  

“Show me where he touched you.” 

Had she truly heard him say that or was it her half-drunk imagination distorting reality?  

She stared at him, at a loss for words.  

He had the same amount of patience that she had for him, which is to say – none, for in the next moment he pulled her closer so their faces were mere inches apart. The meagre light now illuminated her body more clearly while he was cloaked in darkness. 

Éomer placed a single hand on her lower back, large, heavy and insistent, its heat seeping through her skin and spreading through her veins. 

“Show me!” His growl in her ear was both terrifying and arousing, and she gasped out loud, shaken to her core.  

She did not have the power to refuse him. Nor did she wish to do so. 

Slowly she raised her hand and showed him the top of it. Then with a slight tremble, she demonstrated how Forgammon had stroked her arm and her shoulder before she grazed her lips with her thumb. Then, as his eyes followed her every move, she dragged the back of her hand over the skin below her left ear and then down her neck.  

A heavy silence spread between them for merely two seconds before he broke it with a vehemence. Éomer swore loudly and turned away from her to hit the door with his fist, his noisy temper filling up the cramped space.  

Lothíriel stayed frozen in place, quiet in her anxiety and curiosity as she observed him. He was resting his forehead against the door as he took deep, heaving breaths to steady himself.  

“Is that all it takes for you?” He asked in a rough voice as he continued to lean against the wood. “Some words... a few touches?” 

Perplexed, she tried and failed to solve the puzzle of his words. “I - I am afraid I do not follow your meaning.” 

With a huff, he stood back up and rubbed his face in frustration. “You told me, a few months ago, about how – what you felt for me...” He shifted in place again and the wan light momentarily illuminated his face. It was pulled into an incredulous expression. “That is all gone now because, he what - he kissed you and, ah - touched your arm?” 

It took a beat, but then the accusation hit Lothíriel hard in her chest, causing her jaw to drop in consternation.  

"Heed your words, Éomer Éomundson!” She exclaimed, her anger once more coming alive.  

He scoffed, his eyes narrowed in anger. “So now you remember my name?” 

“You were the one who told me to forget about you, which is what I have been trying to do.” Lothíriel stepped closer to him and fixed him with the angriest look she could muster.  “You have no right to question my love for you – or for anyone else.”  

“Indeed I do have the right! Did I mean so little to you that you moved on so easily?  To Forgammon, of all people?” He took a step back and let out a short, humourless bark of disdain.  

She cast her eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation.

“Honestly, Éomer! If that were true, would I still be here with you right now?” 

He was a fool. By Ulmo, he was such a fool.  

“What does your being here matter if you have agreed to marry Forgammon, Lothíriel?” 

“Who told you I agreed to that?” She asked him, empathically.  

He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. “You went out with him to the courtyard. And when you returned, on his arm, you were laughing and talking. And then you danced. Because you... you accepted his suit.” 

He had been watching her. And for some reason, that mollified her.

“No," she replied plainly, "we agreed to end the courtship.” 

Éomer opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly confused. Then he asked in a softer voice: “But Prince Imrahil looked so happy when you went to speak with him?” 

Lothíriel shook her head. “He was just pleased that I was able to end the courtship on good terms. Forgammon is a very influential leader and a close friend to our family.” 

“I see.” All anger and frustration left his tall frame and he leaned against the door, attempting to process her words. “You are not getting wed.” 

“Nothing of the sort.” 

He peered at her from under his eyelashes. It seemed that he fared well in anger. Now that that emotion no longer stood between the two of them, he was at a loss for how to behave.  

Frustration rose in Lothíriel, though. He seemed relieved that she was not tying herself to Lord Forgammon, yet he just stood there, gazing at her in his irresolution. What did he want?  Did he not wish to have her by his side for the rest of his days?

“Éomer.”  

He straightened up and looked at her questioningly.  

“Why are we here?”  

There was not even a foot of distance between them and Lothíriel’s hands ached to continue touching him. The blend of his body heat, his scent and the sound of his breathing was potent, and she struggled to keep her mind clear.  

While he stood there, once more thinking - and not acting.  

“Éomer,” she said in a tone that clearly showed her disquiet, “did you put me in a compromising position just so you could question me about Lord Forgammon?” 

At once his body, before in a passive stance, shrank together with abashment, “I... I did not intend for it, but you kept avoiding me.” 

“Could you not have asked my father about it?” 

“I could not find him.” 

“What about Amrothos?” 

Éomer sighed and shook his head. “I tried, but he told me to ask you.” 

Lothíriel then recalled that she had told Amrothos to keep mum about the ended courtship of Lord Forgammon. She could have not foreseen being put in this situation.  

This mad, ridiculous situation.  

Why could he not be honest with himself?  

She observed him as he kept his eyes averted from her. He was supposed to be fearless. How much longer would he continue to play with her sensibilities?  

“Éomer, you cannot do this to me,” she said softly. “Was I not clear to you that I want to keep my distance from you, last time?” 

“Last time you also told me that you loved me...” His voice trailed off, still unsure of what he wanted to say. 

“Aye, so I did, and you said you could not accept me. Has anything changed for you since then?” 

Once more Éomer did not respond and instead chose to stare off into the darkness with a troubled look on his face. A twinge of affection broke through the clutter of impatience and annoyance. Perhaps he required some encouragement - if so, she was glad to give it to him.

Lothíriel took a step forward and placed a hand on his chest, forcing him to meet her gaze. Then she placed her other hand there too before sliding it up over the side of his neck. She ran her nails lightly over his cheek, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his facial hair and the scratchy sound resulting from it.  

“I wish you would answer me, Éomer,” she whispered wistfully as she savoured the sight and feel of audaciously touching his face in a manner so intimate and delicate, that she could not quite believe it was happening. But it was, and he seemed to endure it quite willingly.  

Éomer had closed his eyes and he was breathing heavily, the only movement that he allowed himself.  

Waiting for an answer was torture to the young woman, however, and every second that passed in silence, the bigger the stinging weight in the pit of her stomach became.  

It was purgatory.  

A part of her was still clamouring to kiss him, ordering her to ignore the renewed heartache and instead take what she could from him, because otherwise – it reasoned – once she quit this pantry, she would be left with nothing at all.  

Before she could decide whether or not she would indulge herself, it was Éomer who made the next move.  

Much like he had done roughly a year ago, he took hold of the hand on his cheek and brought it to his lips.  

A gasp escaped her when he pressed a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. Sparks spread throughout her whole body as she continued to stare in awe, once more confused about whether or not she was imagining things.  

But then he whispered, his voice deep and affected. “Lothíriel.” 

As he beheld her with narrowed, dark eyes, she forgot how to breathe. Éomer then wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. Releasing her wrist, he instead cradled her chin in his hand. Lothíriel allowed her head to be tilted upwards without a second thought, for thoughts were useless when one was not sure whether they were awake or quite dreaming.  

Just then the warrior from the North closed the distance and lightly brushed his lips against hers, his moustache tickling her mouth.  

“Oh,” she breathed, her heart aflutter with the realization that he had kissed her. Through half-lidded eyes, she glanced up at him, and she wondered what was next. Because though she appreciated the soft kiss for its existence, she wanted more.  

Éomer had not moved away, his fingers still holding her chin and his arm still around her waist, but he seemed to be frozen and lost in thought anew. 

No, she did not have the restraint to wait. Lothíriel moved both of her hands to grip his embroidered collar tightly and stood on the tips of her toes – as she was tall, yet he was taller – and firmly kissed him again, leaving no doubt as to what she thought of him and what she wanted him to do.  

Fortunately, that seemed to snap him out of his stupor, quite violently even, because she felt a soft growl vibrate from his throat - and then he was kissing her back hard, keeping her tightly pressed to himself.  

A sweet mix of joy and heat flooded Lothíriel’s senses as she came to terms with the reality of his passionate embrace. She slightly opened her eyes to see that – yes, it was Éomer Éomundson and it was his hand that was now cradling the back of her head. It was his solid body that was now pinning her against the door. And unlike last time, it did not seem to be a sudden onset of lust. He had taken his time to consider their entire situation and finally, finally had he realized that there should be no distance at all between the two of them.  

Lothíriel let out a sigh of relief against his lips, even though a small part of her still resisted letting go of her reticence. After all, who knew what would happen when this kiss ended?  

Her eyes fell shut again, annoyed by her own thoughts. She buried her fingers in the hair in the nape of his neck and slanted her head so that she could kiss him with renewed vigour.  

A sound of amusement slipped from Éomer, and she could feel his smile. At this, fluttering warmth gathered in her core, and Lothíriel half-hoped that their kiss would never end. Nothing else could defeat the sheer bliss of being held by the one she had loved and desired for so long.  

Nothing else except for more of him.  

Lothíriel parted her lips, offering him access to a deeper kiss and, to her utter gladness, he eagerly partook in the further exploration of her mouth. Tentatively she caught his bottom lip between hers and ran the tip of her tongue across it, tasting him. 

Éomer grunted and pressed her harder to himself before copying the gesture.  

Oh, he was delightful and delicious, a wonderful blend of warmth and wine, tender and yet tenacious with his attention.  

Thus, they continued to cling to one another tightly, alternating sweet gentleness with passionate pressure until she eventually worked up the courage to deepen their kissing by darting her tongue against his.  

“Mmh!” Éomer let out a surprised moan, but he did not relinquish his hold on her and instead responded in kind, very lightly, before breaking the kiss.  

It had been a wise move, as it was only when they broke apart that Lothíriel remembered she needed to breathe to stay alive.  

Panting heavily, the Princess and the young King maintained their embrace and merely stared at each other as they processed what had occurred just now. And while his expression was unreadable, there was exuberant chaos unfolding in Lothíriel’s mind.  

He had kissed her - again!

They had kissed, earnestly and extensively, and they had enjoyed every second of it. Even now he was holding onto her, adding weight to the belief that he was done being uncertain. Perhaps now he would not betray her heart again, for Éomer, King of the Riddermark, was nothing if he was not loyal and true to those he loved. And perhaps it was not love that he felt for – not yet, but he would not have kissed her if he did not favour her. 

But despite being pleasantly stuck between the door and his delightfully solid body, she could not help but feel unnerved by his silent stare.  

What was he thinking?  

Indeed, was it not straightforward now what he needed to ask her? – a mere formality hopefully at this point, but crucial nonetheless. He would not quit this storage space without committing to her, would he?  

“Éomer… It seems we have kissed again.” Lothíriel whispered to him, bravely addressing the matter at hand. “Do you consider it a mistake?” 

“No!” Fortunately, he did not wait with his response, because he blurted it as his eyes widened and his hands squeezed the softness of her hips. “No, it is no mistake. But – “ 

Lothíriel tensed. There was a but?  

“How much have you had?” 

She stared at him, confused.  

“Wine. How much wine have you had tonight?” There was a tension in his voice that she did not like.  

“I do not know exactly,” she murmured, trying to recall the banquet and the drinks shared with her family. “maybe two? A third, I am not sure – “ 

Éomer rubbed his beard with one hand, his frustration apparent. “Lothíriel, I – I have to go.” 

“You have to go? Now?” 

Lothíriel could not wrap her mind around what he was saying. Asking if she was drunk and then wanting to leave. What was wrong with him? It could not be that after everything that had taken place, he still had no plans of marrying her.  

Fatigue washed over her then. Not only was the lead weight back in her abdomen, but her dress once more bore down on her, itching her skin and aching her limbs. Her heavy, braided updo made her neck hurt and her feet were swollen and sore. Yet the sum of all her physical pain was no match to the smarting of her heart.  

She gritted her teeth and pushed Éomer away from her. Caught off-guard, he stumbled and hit his shoulder against one of the shelves.  

But Lothíriel could not bring himself to care.  

“All this time I have been calling myself a fool, Éomer Éomundson,” she hissed at him, shaking with anger renewed, “but now I realize, there is none as great as you!” 

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned around and tried to open the door.  

A second later she felt his hand on her shoulder.  

“Lothíriel, listen to me.” He spoke with a voice that was calm somehow. But she shook him off and glared back at him through the tears that were forming in her eyes.  

The door was not opening, and she desperately needed to get away from him. She should have left the storage room immediately upon entering it, but her silly heart had insisted on staying here to listen to what he had to say to her.

And now she had gotten hurt. Again.  

“I shall not listen to you, that is what caused this mess in the first place. Now, open this door, and - and go wherever you need to be!” 

“No, wait, I want to – “ 

“Do not ask of me my patience for I have none left for you.” 

She turned around to look at the handsome and earnest man who was easy to love and difficult to leave. There was apprehension on his face. What more could he want from her? In this case, as well, anything other than complete acceptance was a refusal. Even if that something was an intimate moment of gentle touches and deep kisses.  

“Are you stopping me from leaving, Your Majesty?” 

Her accusatory tone spurred him into action. With a soft click of the door, he opened the door for her, picked up his cape and followed her out. There was no one in the hallway to the kitchens. In the distance, they could hear the din of the ongoing celebrations.  

Her eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of her new surroundings when she felt his hand take hold of her upper arm. “Lothíriel, if you would just listen to me for a moment, I can explain why I have to go at once – “  

And once again, she wrenched herself free from him. “I am tired, milord. Tired of you and tired of everything else. I do not wish to hear any of your excuses or – or justifications as to why you think it is fine to leave  – “ She paused her clumsy words to gesture towards the door, “ – such a delicate matter in such a precarious – “ 

“Please,” he interrupted her, his brow furrowed in desperation, “I must meet with Aragorn and Imrahil about – “ 

“Go do your Kingly duties, then!” Lothíriel was not in the mood to hear whatever trade deal or supply issue was more important than her. “They are no concern of mine, you have made that clear.” 

She then picked up her heavy skirts and walked past him towards the entrance of the Southern Guesthouses. Éomer was not to be deterred and he began striding after her.  

“You must listen to me, this does concern you – “ 

“Do not follow me, Éomer King!” She exclaimed and quickened her steps. A glance over her shoulder told her that he had obeyed her and halted in place. She wanted to laugh. Such gentlemanly behaviour! It would have been put to better use inside the supply room.  

Absently she could register him shouting something at her, but the echoes of her steps, the rustling of her skirts and the mad thrumming of her heart drowned out any words that she could have heard.  Not a few seconds later he was out of earshot and out of sight.  

Lothíriel followed a flight of stairs up and then slowed down when she entered the hallway that led to the Dol Amrothian Quarters.  

There was a burning feeling in her chest - a salmagundi of anger, heartbreak and the remnants of bliss sourced from Éomer's embrace.

Gingerly she touched her lips and found that they were still sensitive.  No, she would not think of him for even a second more.

She picked up her pace again for the last stretch to her destination. When she entered the rooms of her family, there was no one there. She let out a grateful sigh, for she knew she looked a fright, and she was in no mood to explain herself to Amrothos.  

Then she rang the bell for her chambermaids and she entered her room. In record time the two maids got her ready for bed without speaking a single word, sensing her disquiet. When they left, she sank onto her bed, her head unwillingly full of thoughts of Éomer. This had been the third time that he had rejected her and she marvelled at her own stubborn heart, that it refused to love him any less.

Exhausted by the long and eventful day, she promptly fell asleep.  

Chapter Text

Imrahil's Interlude

It was approaching midnight and the celebrations in Merethrond were winding down. A middle-aged man dressed in a splendid blue and silver half-armour made his way down the hallway to the Dol Amroth common rooms. The black of his hair was interspersed with silvery grey, concentrated mostly at his temples, and his handsome face was tense with fatigue.

It had been a long and tumultuous day for Prince Imrahil, and not for the first time today did he sorely miss his wife. It had been ten years since her passing, yet not a day passed without the ache of her absence.

His sweet Celairwen, beloved wife and mother of his four children. Parenthood would have been easier to navigate if fate had kept her by his side. He certainly would have not been at a loss like he was right now.

He nodded to the guard standing on watch and entered the common rooms. There, sprawled haphazardly on the chaise longue, was his youngest son Amrothos, sound asleep. Quietly Imrahil stood over him and observed the young Prince.

How was it that his most mischievous offspring had been causing the least trouble for him, he wondered.

Amrothos had the same curly hair that Celairwen had, and he was the only one of his siblings not to inherit Imrahil’s stern brow. Instead, his eyebrows were high and curved, thereby quite capable of lulling any unknowing observer into believing that he was a free-spirited and innocent young man, one who would only be half-serious most of the time and non-serious the rest of it. But Amrothos’ romances had all been superficial, and he was dedicated to his family as well as his responsibilities as Grand Officer of the Swan Knights and Second-In-Command of the Dol Amroth Naval Fleet.  

Imrahil gently pushed a dark curl out of his son’s face before putting a blanket over him.

No, aside from the occasional outburst about whatever topic Amrothos felt strongly about at that moment in time, this child of his gave very little trouble to his Ada.

The Prince sank down on the sofa seat opposite his son and took a moment to close his eyes as he continued to reflect on his children.

In retrospect, it had been Elphir who had given him the majority of his headaches, even if Imrahil was partially to blame. His eldest son had shown no interest in women at all, and Imrahil had been grateful for that at first. But when the time had come for the Prince Heir to find himself a wife, he had rejected every possible prospect until Celairwen had managed to broker the match with Lady Siloril, the sister-daughter of Lord Forlong. And both Elphir and Siloril had readily agreed with Celairwen’s advice of a long betrothal.

Imrahil had not understood why, until a few years ago. Elphir had had no interest in and no knowledge of how to be a good spouse. It was only now that the two of them seemed to get along, but Imrahil was still not at ease with them. There were two months left of Siloril’s high-risk pregnancy and only the Valar knew how the events surrounding the birth of his second grandchild would unfold. He could only hope that with the delivery taking place in Minas Tirith, further grief would be avoided.

Then there was Lothíriel. It had taken her the entirety of three months to consider and subsequently reject Lord Forgammon's courtship of her. In the light of her previous swift decisions concerning her suitors, he had not expected any delay in this particular decision. Yet, he could not fault her. Perhaps it was because she had grown into her role as Lady of Dol Amroth that she had been more careful in the consideration of this match. He did not doubt that she had needed the time to consider the advantages of marrying the influential and resourceful Lord of Lossarnach. Still, Imrahil was no fool. Despite her bravado, it was clear as the waters of Cobas Haven that she was still in love with the young King of the Riddermark.

He let out a small sigh of dismay and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

If he had not put her in Éomer’s path, she might not have had to suffer such heartache. Not unlike himself, she too had a hard time moving on from the person she had come to care for so deeply. For Éomer was a handsome young fellow, strong and proud, and yet humble and kind-hearted.

Thanks to Sir Feruion and Sir Angrenor's diligent reports, he was aware that Éomer too had become attached to Lothíriel. However, the young King had personal issues that left no room for any kind of commitment.

At least, that was what Imrahil had thought until tonight. Though he had been busy enough attending to his duties - for the work of a Prince never stopped - he could not have helped but take notice of the interactions between his daughter and the King of the Horse-lords. 

Lothíriel had never looked so radiant and so much like her mother dressed in the white and silver gown, and Éomer had not been able to pay attention to anything or anyone but her. All through the banquet, he had kept his eyes on her and when she had been on the dancefloor he had watched her every twirl and sway. And if that had not been enough indication of his feelings toward her, he had joined the dancing lines and fallen in step with her, as well.

It was the first time that anyone in Gondor had seen Éomer, son of Éomund dance at all.

Thus the Prince of Dol Amroth could not stop himself from hoping. 

Hoping that the unintended harm of his interference would right itself soon. For somehow it seemed that the moves he made to improve the future of his children always seemed to make matters worse. Without Celairwen to balance out his ambitions, all his best intentions went awry.

For example, he had genuinely thought that Erchirion and Minieth would find companionship and comfort in one another. And up until the end of the party, they had seemed to be getting along fine. But while Lothíriel had been taking her leave from him, he had noticed his future daughter-in-law Lady Minieth of Lebennin at a short distance.

She had been crying. And Erchirion had disappeared.

Upon approaching her, Imrahil had asked her what had made her so upset, but the poor young woman had only sobbed her fiancé’s name before struggling to catch her breath. A lead weight had settled in his stomach then. 

He had known Minieth since she was eighteen summers old. It had been not even a year after Celairwen’s passing that Minieth and Boridhren had lost their parents during a Corsairs attack when they were sailing from Dol Amroth back to Pelargir. Since then she and her younger brother had been in the care of their mother’s brother, Sir Laechanar, a bachelor Swan Knight residing in Cobas Haven. Unfortunately, Sir Laechanar perished in battle, leaving the two once more without a guardian.

It had been Celairwen's cousin, Sir Breniedir of Linhir who had been given charge of the two siblings at the behest of Prince Imrahil himself. When Breniedir had deemed Boridhren worthy of his title a year ago, he had stepped back from his role as interim leader and remained an advisor to the young Lord of Lebennin. It was he who had suggested that a match of Boridhren and Lothíriel. However, when that did not pan out, the alternative union between Erchirion and Minieth had seemed appealing to Imrahil as well. 

Thus he had made great effort to arrange the match in the hope that Erchirion would gain a powerful position as the right-hand man of young Boridhren, as well as benefit from the optimal geopolitical location of Pelargir. It was a setting that would suit Erchirion and Dol Amroth very well. Indeed, it was the best that a secondborn son could wish for.

Yet the young Prince did not seem to care for any of it.

After ensuring her safe return to her rooms, Imrahil had sent a few men to find Erchirion. His behaviour had been most reprehensible and he would be taken to task for it.

“Sire.”

Imrahil looked up towards the door. It was Sir Angrenor.

“Prince Erchirion awaits you in your study, as per your instructions.”

He nodded his thanks and made his way to the office, where he found his second son seated on a chair whilst balancing it precariously on its hind legs.

The young Prince let the chair fall forward into its upright position with a loud thud and he nodded to his father in greeting. “You wished to speak to me, sir?”

Imrahil walked up to his son, his hands clasped behind his back and he looked down upon him to study his state.

His usually slicked-back hair was dishevelled, there was some staining on the cuffs of his sleeves, and the clasps of his collar were undone. The silver and blue cuirass he had been wearing during the evening was placed on Imrahil’s desk. There was no distress or frustration on his face, nothing to signify any worries concerning his behaviour or his treatment of his fiancée. One would think this young man, fresh-faced and relaxed, had not made of a fool of both himself and the Line of Imrazôr, but Imrahil knew better than to fall for his own son’s charm.

No, as he was failing to hide the flask of ale under his cloak, it was evident to him that his son was completely in his cups.

“Erchirion. How has your evening been? Anything noteworthy?”

A corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “I had a pleasant time, Ada. How was yours?”

With a sigh, the elder man sat down in his chair and bent forward to steeple his hands beneath his chin. “It was eventful.”

His son’s smile widened and he raised his brow in surprise. “Is that so? I did not notice.”

There was an unsettling glint in his eyes. Imrahil did not like it.

“You cannot claim to be unaware of what you put me through tonight, Erchirion. What is the meaning of your behaviour?” he asked, straightening up.

Erchirion had apparently been expecting it because he remained calm - too calm. “My behaviour, sir?”

He dared to claim ignorance!

Imrahil clenched his teeth to control his anger. “I speak of your actions, the ones that resulted in you abandoning Lady Minieth in tears with no one looking after her.”

“Minieth? Poor, poor Minieth.” Erchirion shook his head in feigned disbelief and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “There is always something going on with her. What did she do now?”

“I beg your pardon? She is your fiancée and you shall speak of her with the respect she is due.”

When had his son become such a cruel man?

To his father’s consternation, he sighed and rubbed his forehead in an overt display of weariness. “Respect? How can I respect her when she is so exhausting? Always asking me where I am going and what I am doing – “

“As is her right – “

“No!” He held up a hand in protest. “If I want to go to The Thirsty Seer with my friends, she has no right to stop me. I am not her keeper and neither is she mine.”

“Liquor does not suit you, Erchirion. You should have stayed with her and at least brought her back to her quarters.”

“I can handle liquor!” Protested he, and he stood up, the flask still badly concealed in the crook of his arm. “And it is her fault she was alone. I told her that I would have someone bring her back, but she refused me and insisted I stay. I swear to you, she is such a nuisance – “

“Come now, Erchirion, you are being unfair to her.”

But he was unwilling to hear any of his father’s words. He began pacing the room. “You do not seem to understand me, Ada. My dislike for her is to the extent that I do not wish to marry her!”

“You what?” Imrahil's eyes widened in shock and he came to stand in front of him. “Is this some sort of jest, Erchirion? Minieth is precisely the type of girl you tend to take an interest in.”

But he scoffed and narrowed his eyes at Imrahil. “Did your spies tell you that, Ada?”

Spies. That was the word his son used to denote the network of guards, servants and other informants who reported to Imrahil about everything from the plans of the High King for the coming week to the movements of various people in Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and in-between. A side-effect was that he knew of matters that did not directly concern him, something that Erchirion had expressed his discontent of numerous times in the past.

“Yes. My informants have told me that.” There was no use in denying it. “Erchirion, I do not understand. I have never once heard you object to the match.”

He then stopped in his tracks and looked back at him, a frown finally forming on his brow. “Sir. When did you give me a chance for any objections?”

“You were all too happy when we agreed upon the betrothal. And at the engagement ceremony, you were all smiles – “

“I was confused and distracted by her…” He gestured with his hand around his chest. “… Her figure, but I have come to my senses. I cannot marry her. I cannot.”

A tense silence stretched between them as Imrahil struggled to come to terms with what he just had heard. Though he did endeavour to do right by his children, it was undeniable that he had not spent much time with Erchirion. Aside from the occasional scandalous behaviour to that needed it be addressed, he rarely had found himself in his father's office as he preferred the company of his friends to that of his father. And Imrahil could not fault him for it.

“My son, tell me what is truly going on,” he said, his voice even and insistent, “your behaviour has been aberrant for several months already before Lady Minieth was even considered to be your wife.”

But he did not seem to have a receptive audience, for Erchirion merely shook his head once more and finally took out the flask of ale to take a swig of it.

“Erchirion. Your occasional drunkenness has now become a constant. People have taken notice and they are not friendly with their choice of words.”

“I am fine, Ada.”

“Is that so?”

“Your hand is as steady as always?”

“Aye.”

Imrahil came to stand opposite his son and frowned at him. “Hold out your hand.”

“What?”

“I said, hold out your hand!”

With a scowl, Erchirion relented and extended his right hand towards his father, who immediately began scrutinizing it.

His hand was perfectly still... For the first minute. Then Imrahil saw it.

A tremor.

“Your skills are deteriorating.”

“I have the best marksmanship of the entirety of Belfalas and Anfalas, nothing is wrong with me.”

He was quite convincing when he needed to be.

“Stay here!” Imrahil ordered his son as he walked towards the door. Five minutes later, he returned with Erchirion’s bow and quiver of arrows. Then he motioned towards the window. After sending his father an incredulous look, he looked out the window to see a target being readied by two guards in the otherwise abandoned inner courtyard of the Southern Guesthouses.

“You are testing me? Now?” asked Erchirion, looking back over his shoulder in anger.

“Is there a problem, Prince Erchirion?” The challenge was clear in his voice and he knew that his son would not be able to back out.

“None at all, sir.” He replied testily. 

“Good. Three arrows, twenty-and-hundred yards, dead centre, one minute. Your usual party trick should be no trouble to you.”

Erchirion slammed the bottle that he had tucked under his arm onto the desk before taking hold of his bow and quiver.

After another glare, he nocked the first arrow and aimed for the straw target. A second later, a twang and a whistle were heard and the arrow had successfully hit the target in its centre. In the next moment, he readied and shot his second arrow which landed flush against the first one.

This was going better than Imrahil had expected. Perhaps Erchirion was not as in bad shape as he had thought. Perhaps he was not as a neglectful parent as he thought himself to be.

He silently watched his son draw the final arrow and then release it. Then they both peered through the window to see the result.

In the flickering of the torches, they saw that the third arrow had also hit the target. But instead of the dead centre, it had veered three inches to the right.

For anyone else, this would have still been a major feat. But for the Grand Officer of the Swan Knight and the Commander-in-Charge of the Archery Regiment of Dol Amroth, it was an embarrassment. Erchirion was fully aware of this because as he turned away from the window, his face was pale and drawn.

And Imrahil felt his failure even worse, as it meant that he too was a failure as a parent.

“You are not well, my son. I…” He heaved a great sigh and motioned for him to take a seat while he too sat down, not behind his desk, but on the chair next to it. “Something is troubling you and it has affected your health. The Warden has spoken with you of the dangers of sustained drunkenness, warning you of the very signs of physical and mental deterioration that we just now have witnessed.”

He paused and studied his expression. “What is the cause of all of this?”

Erchirion squeezed his eyes shut, his discontent and apprehension apparent. Yet he did not reply.

“Erchirion, please! Dol Amroth needs you, Gondor needs you! I need you. Your liaison skills are essential to all communications between us and the Haradrim – “

"For Ulmo's sake! You do not listen.” He had been sitting down, but he jumped up and turned to his father, his still paled face now distorted into a scowl. 

Imrahil fell silent at his interruption and stared at him expectantly.

“You have never listened to me," continued his son heatedly," yet you expect me to be your mouthpiece whenever it suits your politics. Every decision you have made regarding myself and my siblings has always been tainted by – by the greater good! For Gondor! For Dol Amroth! For anyone and anything, but never us in the first place.”

“Aye, I do not deny that. But it is part of – “

“I am not interested in hearing why you think it is fine and good to sacrifice us for power!”

“Then tell me exactly which of my missteps is bothering you the most perhaps I may remedy – “

Erchirion slammed his fist on the desk, causing the bottle of ale to fall over. “There is no remedy!”

“Tell me!” Implored Imrahil. He deftly caught the flask and put it back upright on the desktop. “Tell me so I can know where I failed you.”

“Fine. Fine.” His son nodded and he rubbed the back of his neck before he met his father’s gaze with his own. “Lady Cellindes, the cousin of Lord Hirluin the Fair, had him send a proposal. And you… You refused it – without even speaking with me!”

The blame and the bitterness were palpable, and Imrahil sat back in his seat, processing. Yes, he could vaguely remember Lord Hirluin suggesting the match, but he had barely given it any thought. Lady Cellindes had been adopted by her parents and she had no real connections or standing in Gondorian society.

“Lady Cellindes was not suitable for you, Erchirion. How could you consider her to be – “

“You are doing it again! You are politicking instead of parenting,” exclaimed Erchirion, and he balled his hands into fists in frustration, “you did not meet her. You did not talk to her or me. You just decided then and there that it was not to be!”

“But she is not nothing like the usual woman you – “

“Cellindes and I had an understanding, Ada!”

Again Imrahil paused for a beat before replying. “I did not know that.”

“Your network of spies did not tell you? I do not believe you.”

“Erchirion, during that time you were with a new woman every other week, so forgive me I did not keep track – “

“You should have bothered to ask me!”

“I routinely refuse offers of marriage for all three of you, son. If you were serious about her, you should have come to me first.“

“I did not have the chance, she, ah – “ The frustration was evident on his face and Imrahil could not help but to feel pity for his son. “Cellindes was anxious and she got ahead of herself, I think.”

Both were quiet for a spell until Erchirion spoke up once more, his weariness now seeping into his voice. “It was not until later that I found out what exactly happened when I noticed that she was actively avoiding me. Sir Norgalad told me what had happened. I was going to find her and talk to her – but then matters escalated in Minas Tirith and we had to leave.”

The last of his anger had faded away. His shoulders were slumped in defeat. “By the time we returned to Dol Amroth, after the coronation, Cellindes was already betrothed to another.”

Imrahil stood up and rubbed the young Prince's shoulder in an effort to console him. When was the last time he had ever done so for him?

“I am terribly sorry, my son.” He said, softly and sincerely. For all of the usefulness of his informer network, he had hurt his son by the lack of communication between the two of them. “Is there nothing we can do now?”

He shook his head. “Nay, she is married now. And quite happily, too.”

“I see.”

Once more the two of them fell silent. It was well past midnight and the noise of Merethrond had died down. Most of the crowd had retired, though a small number of them had left the Citadel for the lower Circles to continue their celebrations there. Imrahil was feeling weary, his joint aching lightly and continuously. Though he wished to retire as well, he first needed to clear the air with the young man in his office.

“Am I right to conclude that Lady Cellindes is the reason your drinking has gone out of your control?”

Erchirion hummed in agreement and he longingly glanced at the ale on the table.

Imrahil moved to look at him with a stern expression. “I do not discount your feelings, dear son, however, your coping is now at your detriment. I do not think that she would want you to ruin yourself in your heartbreak.”

Again he hummed, but he did not meet his father’s eyes.

“That is why I am stepping in. No more drink for you, Erchirion – “

He sat up in consternation, but he did not speak.

“I shall ensure that no ale, mead, wine or liquor is served to you in all of Gondor, and anywhere else I have friends. You shall have to bring your feelings to closure – “

“I cannot, Ada!”

“Well, you must find a way, Erchirion. You must. She has a good life without you and it is time for you to live your own. You have Minieth – “

“By Ulmo, I do not want to have her, she is nothing like Cellindes.”

“Lady Minieth is your fiancée and she does not deserve to be spoken of so badly, not by anyone but least of all by you. She is a very amiable young lady and – “

“Amiable?” echoed Erchirion. “No, she is anything but! Her temper takes unexpected turns and she is stubborn and inflexible.”

“She is not without flaw,” replied Imrahil, his patience with his son finally wearing thin, “but I trust the reports – “

“She is a menace!”

Imrahil levelled him with a glare. “And you are not? Do you not remember that she is one of the women you have dallied with in the past?”

Evidently not, thought the Prince as he watched him freeze in place, eyes wide and jaw slackened.

“No, no,” he stuttered, after regaining control of himself again, “I have not – “

“Come, let us not waste our time with this.” He truly was exhausted and the day ahead was already daunting. “You had accompanied your mother’s cousin Sir Breniedir from Linhir to Pelargir to support him. She was already there and both Breniedir and Lady Minieth claim that you… spent time together.”

“I…” He tried to form coherent words, but he was unable to. 

Imrahil was not surprised by this, as it had been more than a few years ago and there had been other events and other women to keep his son occupied. However, Erchirion needed to remember and if he genuinely could not, then it was all the more important for him to realize the consequences of his careless behaviour.

“You met with her multiple times, at night. She mentioned something about boat rides through the canals and visiting the northeastern docks?”

It was almost comical to see the realization appear on his face, and Imrahil would have laughed. But Lady Minieth’s honour was no laughing matter and to know that his own child had risked it was quite sobering.

“Do you remember now, Erchirion?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Do you also remember what the two of you did during your escapades?”

At this he quickly averted his eyes, belying his guilt and the nature of their activities during their meetings.

“I shall not ask of you what you did, as I do not wish to know the... extent of the liberties you have taken with her." Imrahil struggled with keeping his temper in check. Anger would not be a friend to either of them right now." Fortunately for you, Lady Minieth claims that you were a perfect gentleman who merely offered her friendship as a distraction from the loss of her Uncle.”

“Yes, ah – “ the young Prince muttered, “it was just friendship.”

“And it is precisely this friendship that allows her to see you beyond your reputation of debauchery and reckless behaviour. She is genuinely interested in you as a spouse, Erchirion. Is it not a good thing?”

But Erchirion did not seem to agree with his father's assessment.

“I understand that you might have qualms, but I urge you to see the good in her and the good of strengthening the bonds between Dol Amroth and Lebennin – “

“Could you not put aside politics for once, Ada?”

“I cannot. We have all enjoyed the privileges of our position and we must be mindful of them always, even when it comes to matters such as these! Especially matters such as these. We cannot isolate it. I have only ever wanted the best for all of my children - ”

“Just like how you thought that Éomer King was best for Lothíriel? And then Forgammon?”

“Yes. I am not without fault, but you still have the final say. I only press upon you to decide with not just your heart but also with your mind. And though it has taken her the entirety of three months, Lothíriel has refused Forgammon’s suit tonight. However, she did it after considering everything and not just her personal preference. Something that you ought to do as well.”

“Good for her." Erchirion sniffed and pressed his lips together in a flicker of admiration before the corners of his mouth turned down again. "So if she can make the choice, why can I not?”

“Because you made your choice years ago, in Pelargir! And every other time you were alone with a woman and risked your honour for your own selfish wants.”

“But nothing happened between Minieth and I, did she not say so?” countered Erchirion. “It was just friendship!”

He was right. Objectively speaking, even if the engagement were to end, their past behaviour would not come to light thanks to Breniedir’s discretion. But ending the engagement was a foolish decision, especially at the cost of two young people with too much power for them to handle. Lebennin needed Dol Amroth for support and the union between their Houses would ensure friendship and co-operation between the two fiefdoms.

Yet his son could not see anything beyond his feelings for this married woman.

“Even if you do not marry Lady Minieth, you do realize that Lady Cellindes shall never be yours?”

“I do. But I do not want Minieth either.”

Erichirion was being uncharacteristically obstinate. What was Imrahil to do now? 

“Very well, then!” After a moment of uncomfortable consideration, Imrahil threw his hands up in surrender and he leaned back in his chair.

“What did you say?”

“If you wish to end the engagement with the Lady Minieth and thereby disrupt the entire trade arrangements of Gondor, then I shall not stop you.”

Again Erchirion stared in shock at his father, as he had not expected him to give in so easily. “And – and for that, I am grateful, Ada. I – “

"Wait." Imrahil gestured for him to be silent. “Allow me to expand upon that. You shall have to be the one to go to Lady Minieth and inform her of the cancellation of your betrothal – “

“What? Ada, I – “

“What is more,” continued  Prince Imrahil the Fair, his voice steady and strict, “you shall have to go to High King Elessar and brief him, too. Then tomorrow morning, you shall have to address the High King’s Council on the matter and come up with an alternate plan before we leave for Osgiliath at noon.”

The young Dol Amrothian stood up from his chair and then sat down again, shaken by the sudden gravity of the situation.

“Ada, why me?” he stuttered, his hands clenched at his side. “It was you who brokered this match and hinged the entire Gondor-Harad trade agreement on it – “

“Erchirion, if you want to end it, then you are going have to do it yourself. Because I shall not.”

Silence stretched between the pair of them, one quite secure in his assertions while the other was utterly ruffled. He stood up again, a hand now placed at the desk to stabilize himself.

He glanced at his father, reluctance and shock still etched on his face - perhaps hoping that Imrahil would change his mind about his ultimatum at the last moment.

But the elder man stared back, his grey-eyed gaze resolute.

“Very well. I – ah, I will.” He reached out for the flask of ale that he had put down before, but he dropped his hand when Imrahil cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Then for a moment, he stood there, seemingly unsure of what he wanted to do, before he straightened up and glared at his father and exclaimed: “Fine!”

Thus he stormed out of the office, leaving behind both his cuirass and his drink.

The door shut slammed loudly and Imrahil heaved a heavy sigh, at once worried if he had done the right thing by letting Erchirion break off the engagement.

He expected that it would be morning ere he found out just how bad the fallout of the dissolution of the engagement would be. That meant he had a handful of hours left to take his rest. The beleaguered parent of the Dol Amrothian Princes stood up and picked up the Swan Knight's cuirass from his desk. As he walked out of his office and back to the common room, he gave it to one of the guards with the instruction to take care of it. He stopped at Lothíriel’s room and checked on her – she was fast asleep.

The same was also true for Amrothos, who was snoring away on the chaise longue in the living room. Despite his worries, Imrahil smiled and shook his head fondly.

He loved his children more than he loved Gondor – more than he loved peace. In their youth and their inexperience, they could not comprehend that every political plan, every friendship, and indeed, every single meeting he had, was for their sake. He suspected that it would take years, perhaps decades for them to understand that whatever their old man did for them, it would ultimately benefit them the most.

Even if Erchirion was out there, sabotaging himself right now, Imrahil hoped that he too would look back one day and see what his father had intended for him.

For now, though, Amrothos needed to move to his room, as it had been prepared with a pleasantly rolling fireplace and a bed turned over the way just the way that he preferred it. Together with Erchirion and himself, the youngest Prince would have to do his best to befriend former Captain Baranor, and catching a cold would be quite unhelpful.

Imrahil was about to shake his son awake when a loud and incessant knocking at the door did his job for him.

Who could it be at this late hour, he wondered. As the youngest Prince opened his bleary eyes, his father opened the door.

It was Éomer King, wearing a nervous yet determined expression on his face.

“To what do I owe a visit from you this late, my young friend?” asked Imrahil, both curious and worried. “Is everything all right in Rohan?”

The blonde warrior King stepped in, looking around the common room before nodding at his young friend who had just sat up. “Aye, Rohan fares well.”

Amrothos waved his hand in greeting and yawned.

“Have a seat, Éomer. Would you like something to drink?”

 “No, thank you, I have had my fill tonight.” Éomer did not sit down, but he did let the cape in his hand fall onto a seat nearby.

“Very well…” The Prince looked at him expectantly. It seemed that sleep would have to wait longer still.

“Forgive me for coming at this late hour," said Éomer, his tone urgent and the frown at his brow deep, "but this matter cannot wait any longer.” 

Both Princes were now staring at him, intrigued, and - if they were not mistaken – they saw a light blush creep up his cheeks, just barely hidden by his blonde hair.

After a deep inhale, Éomer straightened his posture and looked Imrahil in the eyes with a serious expression. “I am here because of your daughter.”

Imrahil blinked, taken aback by both the mention of his daughter and the intensity radiating off of his young ally. 

Amrothos too, frowned and swore under his breath, incredulous.

The lack of response unsettled Éomer because he rubbed his beard and shifted in place before moving his gaze to Amrothos.

Imrahil sent a cautionary glance at his son, who had started fidgeting with one of his seashell bracelets. It was a nervous habit, inherited from his mother, that often preceded an outburst. But when the young Prince met his father’s look, the latter realized that there was no anger in him, only anxiety and the already fading haze of inebriation.

Finally, the silence was broken when Imrahil turned to Éomer again to speak.

“Come, my friend. Sit down,” he said, his voice gentle, “and let us talk.”

Éomer settled on the seat opposite the eldest Prince and he cleared his throat. “I realize that… it seems quite out of the blue, especially considering my – my behaviour in the past – “

Imrahil raised his eyebrows slightly, but he chose to continue listening.

“Yet I have come to believe that – “ he paused, searching for the right words, “that knowing Lothíriel has been one of the greatest blessings of my life and I cannot… I cannot allow myself to waste any more time.”

Then he bent forward to place something on the table between them. It was a small cherry wooden box, beautifully carved with the traditional motifs of Rohan. Both the Princes looked closely at the box, intrigued by both its design and its contents. “Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, I humbly request you, for my own sake and for that of Rohan, to allow me to marry your daughter, Princess Lothíriel.”

Ah, and there it was at last, straightforward and earnest.

Imrahil steepled his hands under his chin and quietly studied the young lord sitting in front of him, whose light eyes seemed to plead his sincerity.

It was a far cry from how Éomer had stood in his study, one year ago, his body tense with stress and shame, as he had sought to explain his unwillingness to marry not just Lothíriel, but any woman at all. Fine logic it all had been, and true as well. But the Northerner probably had not foreseen that he would find himself quite attached to the young lady of Dol Amroth soon after.  

Imrahil had kept himself well-informed about the two of them by his informer network, especially through both Feruion and Angrenor. The Knights had reported mutual affection between his daughter and his Éomer King, but they had also spoken of his insecurities and unpredictability.

The fact that he had come to find Imrahil at this frankly inconvenient hour, meant that he had finally been able to solve the dissonance between his heart and his mind. And yet, in the wake of his talk with Erchirion, Imrahil was hesitant to give his blessing without at least the approval of one of his children.

His gaze moved to his youngest son, the self-proclaimed greatest friend and protector of his sister. Last year, Amrothos had been adamantly against the union, citing the stark cultural differences between Rohan and Dol Amroth and the sheer distance between the two realms. Imrahil did remember noting that his son had not raised a single objection about Éomer's character. 

And now the King of Rohan himself had come to seek for Lothíriel's hand in marriage.

Amrothos returned his father’s look thoughtfully. Imrahil raised his eyebrows, wordlessly asking his son for his opinion.

For almost a minute, Amrothos stared at the ground down, once more playing with one of his bracelets.

Then he looked back up with a frown and finally gave a small inclination of his head.

Meanwhile, Éomer was staring unseeing at the marble floor as he awaited their response anxiously, his nerves fraying as the two Gondorians silently communicated. When Imrahil suddenly stood up, he immediately stood up too, his eyes wide and eager.

"Éomer, son of Éomund, worthy King of Rohan..." The elder Gondorian paused and glowered at him for a moment. Then the glower made a place for a warm smile and he held his arms wide. “You have my blessing.”

The relief on the Northerner’s face was palpable and he gladly stepped forward to receive the embrace.

Imrahil clapped him twice on his back and stepped back, holding Éomer by his shoulders. “Dol Amroth is honoured by your offer, though your worry is not over yet.”

The smile slipped from his blonde bearded face and Imrahil gave him the same impish smirk that Amrothos and Lothíriel had. “The matter now entirely rests in the hands of the proud Princess of Dol Amroth. She will have to accept you, Éomer King.”

“Aye, of course,” said the young man sincerely, “I agree. Ah, where is she?”

Amrothos piped up. “She is in her room.”

“Shall I see if she is awake?” offered Imrahil.

To their mild amusement, Éomer shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back before replying. “No, I think she might be tired from ah - from all the dancing. It is best that I wait until tomorrow.”

Imrahil pressed his lips together to stop himself from smiling and instead nodded brusquely. “Aye, I am afraid so.”

The blonde man picked up his cape from where he had dropped it and began walking towards the door. “Would you be so kind as to send me word when she wakes?”

“It will be done,” replied Imrahil, “I suggest you take your rest now.”

“Wait, Éomer!" Prince Amrothos called out and pointed to the small keepsake box that the King had left on the table. "What about this box?”

He blanched and walked back with a sheepish smile. “Forgive me, it had slipped my mind. I shall need your help with this.”

Imrahil shared a curious look with his son. 

Ten minutes later, Imrahil accompanied Éomer out of the Dol Amrothian quarters, and after spending a few minutes discussing Rohan’s current affairs in the inner courtyard of the Southern Guesthouses, the King took his leave and left for his rooms. When Imrahil returned, he found him hunched over with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

"My son," he gently said and ruffled his son’s messy black curls, “Lothíriel is very fortunate to have a brother like you.”

“I know!” Amrothos raised his head, a grin breaking through despite his reddened eyes. “I am the best.”

With a sad chuckle, Imrahil wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders.

Though he was glad that Lothíriel would be marrying his dear friend Éomer - truly one of the best of Men, it did mean that eventually, she would be out of the safety and familiarity of her father's reach. She was sound asleep a few doors down, but it felt as if the separation from his only daughter had already begun.

He was sure that she would be perfectly happy with Éomer, but how would he - famed and reliable Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, manage without his dear Lothíriel? She had been at his side even since before she was born, growing happily in his beloved wife’s womb, and her vivacious and ambitious presence was a comfort and a constant source of happiness for him. He had done everything in his power to fulfil her wishes and, upon the counsel of his elder sister Ivriniel, given her the education and guidance to become a leader in her own right. And he had succeeded, because even now when she was a bit foolish and naive still, she had all the makings of a Queen.

Yes, he had all reason to be proud.

Nevertheless, he felt heartbroken.

With a small groan, Imrahil stood up and patted Amrothos' back, who wiped at his eyes before standing up as well.

"Time to sleep, my boy. We have an eventful day ahead."

"Good night, Ada."

"Good night."

As he shut the door of his bedroom behind him, Imrahil pressed a hand against his forehead and let out a sob.

"My dear Celairwen. If only you were still with me."

End of Imrahil’s interlude

Chapter Text

“Wake up, Lothíriel! By Ulmo’s beard... wake up!” 

Lothíriel had been dreaming quite pleasantly of blonde hair and horses when she was startled out of her it by a loud and gratingly cheerful voice. 

“Ah, hmm?” She sat up and opened one eye to see him standing at her bed, wearing his full Swan Knight armour. His helm was tucked under his arm, and his curly bangs were contained in a small braid at the top of his head.  

“Amrothos? What time is it?” 

Her brother laughed cheekily. “It is time for you to get up. Many people are anxious to see you.” 

Lothíriel frowned at his cryptic words, but she got to her feet. “What is the time, the actual time, Amrothos?” 

“It is past 9 AM. Never saw you sleep until this late, Princess. Hurry up, Ada wants to leave in an hour.” He looked at her for a beat with an odd expression. Then he reached out and pinched her in her side, causing her to yelp in discontent. 

“Amro – Oh!” In a vain attempt to get revenge, she reached out to pull his hair – for everything else was covered in protective gear – but he gracefully moved out of her reach and out of the door, sniggering loudly. 

With a groan, she pressed a hand against her temple, her brother’s noise drumming on her head even as the clanging of his armour became steadily more distant. His loud voice shouted then, calling out for a servant to take his message and then he was out of earshot.  

In the following silence, it was now her own body that began polluting her peace. Memories bubbled up to the forefront of her mind, of her dancing, laughing and crying on the dance floor. She was rid of Lord Forgammon at last, but…

Éomer, that beautiful, maddening man! 

Heat crawled up her skin as she recalled being pulled into a storage room by his strong, broad hands while still wearing his decorative cape. 

Lothíriel sat back down on her bed, overcome with the recollection of the sensations caused by the man she had lost her heart and mind to. Though her head throbbed with a vengeance – wine never did suit her, how much had she had? – she remembered the sweetness of his words, the violence of his jealousy, the hesitancy of his touch and his willingness to let her hands wander his body. 

At once she looked down at her hands.  

How boldly had she touched him! 

The same hands she now pressed against her face and she threw herself back on her bed with a moan. She was supposed to be a role model to the rest of the unmarried women of the court, but her behaviour yesterday night was anything but exemplary. But Éomer was not going to tell -  

“Lothíriel!” 

It was Amrothos again. 

“I am going ahead, but do hurry!” 

“Yes, I shall be there soon.” 

She stood up and refreshed herself, absently going through the routine as her mind continued to overwhelm her with memories. 

They had kissed. Many times. With bodies pressed against one another – oh, she had felt so alive and adored in his arms. There was nothing accidental about any of the times that he pressed his lips against hers, either. There were no mistakes, no confusion and no malice during that blissful time when he had closed the distance between them and kept her securely pinned against himself. He had even smiled during the kiss.  

It was after that, that he broke down their fragile little moment of mutual contentment. 

The warmth that she had felt now made room for the iciness of a third rejection. The way things had progressed between them she had been so sure that their kiss would be followed by a proposal.  

Indeed, if being groped and kissed by her in a cramped and dark space could not induce him to marry her, then she doubted if anything else ever could.  

What madness was this… And how stupid of her to allow him to reject her once more! 

Lothíriel groaned and sobbed a few times as she finished putting on her clean garments. A comfortable dress of dark blue cotton wool would suffice for today, while her hair was pleated into a simple braid. Anything else would take up precious time when she knew she was already late.  

After she quickly applied a few touches of face paint to brighten her face, she made her way out of the Dol Amrothian quarters, and after a short stop at the Kitchens, she hurried to the Citadel courtyard. 

“Ada!” 

Prince Imrahil had been standing beside his sons, apparently discussing something very serious. Upon seeing her approach, he turned to greet her with a smile and a kiss on her head.  

“There you are, my beloved daughter. Your absence was felt most ardently.” 

At once Amrothos made a strange noise, a mix between a cough and a laugh, and Lothíriel looked at him curiously. When her gaze travelled to Erchirion, he was hiding a smirk behind his hand despite looking like he had not slept all night. Elphir, on the other hand, looked well-rested, bar the light frown marring his noble brow. 

“Is there something the matter?” 

“They are eager to leave,” replied Elphir, glaring at his younger brothers, “it is time to go to the High Stables. I have the first meeting lined up at noon and I need to prepare for it.” 

Imrahil, Erchirion and Amrothos were set to leave for Osgiliath to meet with Sir Baranor, to make progress on the trade agreements with the Haradrim. Lothíriel and Elphir accompanied the three Princes down to the High Stables to see them off from there.  

As they went, she noticed Amrothos looking about several times as if he was in search of something. Indeed, there was something off about her entire family this morning. She could not put her finger on it, but it did put her on edge. However, they all assured her that nothing was wrong and they were merely managing their hangovers. Her own sore body protested against her inquisitive nature and she thus relented, uncomfortably accepting her brothers’ truth as her own. 

Ten minutes later, the three Princes had led their mighty steeds out to where she and Elphir awaited them. Lothíriel opened the linen bag she had fetched from the Kitchens and gave each horse their favourite snack.  

“You spoil them,” Elphir said beneath his breath, and though his tone was grumpy, he could not hide the little quirk of his lips. They shared a look and she knew that he was thinking of all the times as a teenager he had snuck his baby sister his share of the sweets that their Uncle had brought from Linhir. 

Then, as was the custom to their household, she kissed her two brothers and father farewell and gave them each a fresh loaf of Dol Amrothian travel bread. In the same tradition, Amrothos folded back the wrapping of his loaf and took a large bite. He grunted appreciatively and mumbled his thanks, earning an indulgent smile from his sister. 

“Good morning, cousins. Are you ready to leave?” 

When the young woman turned towards Faramir intending to greet him, the view that she beheld froze her in her tracks. 

It was indeed her dear cousin Faramir who was coming their way, but he was not alone. Next to him was the kind High King Elessar dressed in his royal fineries, and joining them was none other than Éomer King himself, similarly dressed in rich maroon and gold raiment. His baldric was strapped over his shoulder with his scabbard at his flank, and he had chosen not to wear his trademark cuirass. He looked no less intimidating to her, though. His hazel-green eyes were heavily fixed upon her, and a tremor shot through her body. 

Lothíriel hastily averted her eyes, shaken by his unexpected appearance and even more by his unwavering stare. She had been so wrapped up in the warmth of her brothers that she had not realized that her father’s departure from Minas Tirith would warrant a farewell by not just the Steward, but the Kings as well. 

The three men came to a stand near them and Lothíriel greeted them with a curtsey before she slipped away and hid behind her father’s horse, grateful for the sheer size of the noble animal. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest while she struggled to steady her breath. The need to flee was mounting, but there was yet no way that she could make a covert exit. Instead, she peeped below the horse’s barrel to look at whatever was visible of the men, to await a moment of escape. 

In a typical manner, the men had exchanged greetings and spoke of their day’s plans. Then, much to her dismay, she watched how one pair of legs - wearing boots embroidered with the traditional motifs of Rohan - began walking towards Lothíriel’s hiding place.  

She bit her lip and looked about nervously, her agitation causing Loborros to shift in place. 

He was very close now and about to turn past the horse when Faramir called out his name. 

“Éomer,” She heard her cousin say, “I think I saw Firefoot on the other side of the stables.” 

His footsteps had halted. “Firefoot?” 

“Did you not say that you were coming to see us off at the Gate?” 

“Ah, I did say that,” Éomer replied with audible reluctance and walked off in the opposite direction.  

Lothíriel heaved a sigh of relief and smoothly stole from behind her father’s steed to rejoin her family. Erchirion and Amrothos had put their helms on and had already mounted their horses. Again they were grinning about something and it irked her to no end.  

“What is the matter, Erchirion? What has put you in such a good mood?” 

And it was a valid question. His grumpiness had been quite worrisome for her and while she was happy to see him in better spirits, she could not help but be curious. But he only shook his head and shrugged before leading his horse away to the water troughs to avoid further inquiries.

Amrothos, however, beckoned his sister closer with a clandestine raise of his arched eyebrows. “Our dear brother was seen leaving the quarters of Lebennin early this morning.” 

Lothíriel’s jaw dropped and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “Do not repeat this information to anyone else,” she hissed, “if Ada hears this –“ 

“He knows already,” he whispered, clearly enjoying this kind of furtive discourse with his sister, “I suspect that he sent him there in the first place.” 

That did not make sense. “He sent - why would Ada do such a thing?” 

However, he was unable to answer, because at that moment Imrahil appeared at their side, leading Loborros by his reins. 

“Write to me, Amrothos,” she quickly said, widening her eyes at him insistently.  

“No, I shall not,” he replied and the smirk he sent her unsettled her once more, “you shall have other things on your mind, in any case.” 

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he stuck out his tongue at her and led his horse away from her to stand ready to leave. 

She turned to look at her father, who was regarding her soberly. “My daughter, I trust you to look well after yourself...” A thoughtful glint then came into his eyes. “Remember, my support is with you always.” 

He kissed her brow and thanked her for the bread she put into his saddlebag. After a final embrace, he bid her farewell once more and mounted his steed. Lothíriel patted the horse’s neck affectionately and moved aside. “Fare thee well, Ada.” 

Everyone was acting so peculiar, she mused as she walked to stand next to Elphir, who had been conversing with his brothers in low tones. Moments later, Aragorn, Faramir and Éomer appeared astride their steeds. As they rode past, Éomer made no effort to hide his stare at her, and Elphir coughed oddly, earning a strange look from his sister. 

Together they watched the party ride out of the High Stables until they were out of sight and the Princess released her breath. She had managed to avoid being alone with Éomer. Now she only had to maintain her distance from him today and tomorrow morning she would be on her way back to Dol Amroth. 

“What is your plan for today, sister?” Elphir asked as he offered her his arm. 

Avoiding Éomer King at all costs, she thought to herself.  

“I shall take along some breakfast and work in the herb garden, and perhaps then I shall spend time with Alphros and Siloril,” answered she and they set off towards the Houses of Healing, “is there anything I can help you with, Elphir?” 

He glanced at her and patted her hand on his arm lovingly. “Not at all, my dear. Let us strive to have dinner together tonight.” 

Elphir escorted her to the herb garden, where he took a moment to ask her about its latest additions. Then he left for his meetings and Lothíriel put on her gloves and set to work.  

An hour later, she was sipping a cup of sage tea while admiring the blooming plants and shrubs, satisfied with the effort she had put in after her arrival. Working and sitting in the herb garden always filled her with peace, and fortunately for her, the worst of her hangover was gone as well. 

With a sigh, she stretched out her limbs and closed her eyes to enjoy the fledging heat of the spring sun on her face. In a few days, she would feel the sun in its full radiance paired with the refreshing salty breeze blowing from the shore. It was the closest thing she had to her mother’s touch, lightly and lovingly brushing aside her child’s curls.  

After another deep breath, she finished her tea and freshened herself up a little ways off the seating area, using a towel and the remaining water she had brought along for her gardening.  

When she returned to the bench, she gathered her belongings in her trusty linen bag. She had only just gripped its loops when, from the corner of her eye, she saw some movement in the distance on the far side of the garden.  

Instantly, her senses warned her of imminent danger, and rightfully so.  

It was Éomer, coming up the stairs and approaching her with great speed, his eyes affixed upon her figure.

Panic took hold in every fibre of her being and only one thought came to mind.  

Run.   

She let the bag fall back on the marble bench, picked up her skirts high and ran into the doorway to the House of Healings, the very same she saw him first appear from, more than a year ago.  

“Wait!” 

She heard him and his rapid footsteps catching up with her, and so she ran even faster. She came into the High Hall of Healing and ran across the open space, startling a few patients and a Healer’s assistant. She turned into the House of Rest and climbed the stairs to the resting rooms meant for the Healers and their assistants, hoping to hide there.  

“Lothíriel, stop running from me!” 

His voice echoed up the stairs and she winced. He was skilled at chasing and hunting. But of course.  

She looked around and saw the door to the changing rooms. In she went, and immediately she put over her clothes the clean grey Healer’s outer robes that were hanging on the hooks nearby. They were thin enough that she could wear them without much discomfort. Much to her relief, the head cover that she had grabbed had a full veil, as well. After draping the veil over her face and adjusting the robes to fully hide the blue of her gown, she exited the changing rooms, just in time to hear Éomer’s heavy steps come up the stairs.  

“Lothíriel, are you in here?”  

Quickly, she entered the hallway leading directly into the House of Remedies, her breath coming in rapidly.  

It was preposterous, a grown woman running and hiding from a man - a King no less! However, she had very little choice in the matter. It was a sweet torture to be around him, and though she still loved the sight and thought of him, it was best to steer clear from him. 

If only he understood that - stubborn man!  

The Hall of Remedies was currently full of partygoers suffering from hangovers or small injuries caused by uncoordinated movements due to inebriation. Several Healers were wearing their veil, to shield themselves from the unpleasant smells and states of undress from some patients. As casually as she could, Lothíriel walked up to where a middle-aged man was lying on a cot, groaning ever so often.  

“Good morning, sir, what seems to be the problem?” She kept her voice down, knowing that her Dol Amrothian accent could betray her. As he answered, she kept her eyes trained on the hallway, anticipating the horse-lord’s arrival.  

True to his tracking skills, Éomer appeared at the main doorway of the Hall of Remedies not a minute later. With a scowl he surveyed the space, focusing on each Healer for a few seconds before moving on to the next.  

Lothíriel forced herself to breathe normally to keep her nerves from fraying. While she tended to her patient, she remained aware of the King as he slowly walked around the hall, his loose blonde hair swaying gently with every step. 

“Your symptoms indicate that you are dehydrated,” she softly said, “I recommend you have the herbal drink the Warden has prepared, and it is best that stay away from wine, ale and mead until you have recovered. Have a hearty luncheon as well, to ease your recovery.” 

When she turned back after fetching a phial of the hangover cure, Éomer had disappeared. Tensed, she peered around the Hall of Remedies and when she realized he was truly gone, she released a sigh of relief.  

He had been very close to discovering her and if it were not for her extensive time spent wandering and working in these Halls, he would have caught her.  

Caught her and then what? A thrill went through her body as her imagination offered up images of their passionate embrace just last night. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the visions in her mind.  

“Milady, are you well?”  

The man was looking at her, slightly concerned.  

She nodded her head and thanked him for asking. “I suppose I am feeling a bit warm.” 

After giving two other people their hangover potion, and tending to the bruises of a young nobleman, she decided to refresh herself by the drinking fountain situated adjacent to the Chief Healer’s office. Trying to escape from a Rohirrim King while wearing more than the usual layers could make one feel quite overheated.  

With an appreciative hum, she washed her hands and moved aside her veil. Cupping her hand, she drank her fill and then washed her face and neck, enjoying the cool sensation of fresh water. After drying herself, she pulled the veil back over her face.  

And then it happened.  

As she was walking away, a large hand wrapped itself around her elbow and pulled her backwards and into the Warden’s private office. The door was slammed shut and locked, and she was pushed against the door. In the next moment, a rough hand took off her entire head cover and she was forced to look up at her captor.  

Breathing heavily, Éomer King was leaning over her, his hand and lower arm resting his full weight on the door. His nostrils were flared and his jaw was set. His exhalations fanned on her forehead while she gaped at him, perplexed.  

“What on Arda,” he said through clenched teeth, “has possessed you to flee from me, Lothíriel?” 

She was unable to form words, so overwhelmed was she by his proximity, his scents, his sounds and the sheer heat that radiated through his velvet tunic. It was as if she had been thrown back into the pool of attraction and desire that she had climbed out of yesterday night with great difficulty. Was she so truly weak for him, that his proximity made her lose control of all her good senses?  

Whenever she tried to look away from his hard gaze, he insistently met hers again. She opened her mouth and closed it again, still scrambling for the right words to say. Or any words at all, because her mind was blank.  Yes, for all her pride and wilfulness, she had become quite content with being hopelessly in love with him.  

“Well?” He demanded. “I know you saw me coming in the herb garden, Lothíriel. You turned and ran from me like I was a band of Orcs.” 

Even though her position was quite precarious, the unintendedly amusing vision he had conjured caused her to bite her lower lip to suppress a smile from blooming on her already pink face. His eyes flitted to her mouth and back up, and longing mixed with frustration in the hazel-green gaze under his furrowed brow.  

“I, ah...” Her voice was small, though it was a marvel at all that she was able to speak. “It is best I stay as far from you as possible.” 

“Why?” 

“Because of how you make me feel.”  

“And what is that?” He moved his body closer to hers, leaving only a few inches of space between them, as he loomed over her with a peculiar expression. “How – how do I make you feel?” 

She let out a strange sound – a mix between a sigh and groan, unable to believe that she was once again stuck between a door and a hard man, being questioned about her feelings for him. “Insufficient.” 

It was his turn to stare at her in shock, his eyebrows raised high. “No, Lothíriel, you...” 

Éomer moved away from her and rubbed his face with both hands, his frustration tangible as he paced a few steps here and there before turning back towards her.  

Then, much like he had in the herb garden a long time ago, he took her hands in his and he spoke, softly and imploringly.  

“To me, you are the finest woman in all of the West. There is none like you. Indeed, if anyone is lacking, it is me, a makeshift ruler chosen by chance, with little education and  –“  

“No,” she interjected, annoyed by his tendency to put himself down. His praise of her meant nothing if it was followed by his own, unjust disparagement. “Do not speak ill of yourself, you know that I cannot stand it.” 

And again he silently stared at her, no doubt turning over and examining his words before saying them like had always done when they were alone. As if impulsive words would bring him nought but a dishonourable death – felled by the blade of his own tongue.  

It seemed as though an age passed when he spoke once more, his voice gruff and low. “Please. Might I be so bold as to hope that your affections toward me are yet unchanged?” 

Enough about her feelings. Could he not speak of his own?  

“Éomer, do not be cruel to me. You desire reaffirmations, but you have no qualms  – “ 

“Please, Lothíriel! Just - forgive me?” Éomer exclaimed as he squeezed her hands, meeting her gaze earnestly.  

The intensity made her mind stutter and she had to take a deep breath to stabilize herself. “For what?” 

“For everything. For taking from you without giving a thing in return, for denying your feelings,” he had started rambling, a mannerism that never left her foolish maiden heart unaffected, “for my indecisiveness, for – for being a fool! For taking advantage of your intoxicated state-“ 

“You did not take advantage of me,” she protested immediately, “I was a willing – an eager participant!” 

He did not heed her words, though. “ – And then I left you so abruptly afterwards. Lothíriel, I could go on forever naming how I have wronged you, and you may defend me or punish me however much you wish to - yet I must know right now if I have your forgiveness for all of it.” 

His barrage of words had been passionate, and Lothíriel, as soft as she was despite all her frustrations, had already forgiven him. Only she did not understand why he needed her all-encompassing benevolence.  

So instead of answering, she studied him for a moment. His hair was half-tied, his maroon clothes were luxurious and soft-looking, and his beard was neatly trimmed. There were bags under his eyes, though, as if he had not slept at all, and the strain in his face spoke of urgency and desperation.  

Lothíriel’s hand twitched with the need to caress his cheek and to rub the frown from his brow, but it was still being held in a firm grip by his hands. Pressing her lips together, she cast her eyes to the ground. Surely he would have understood by now how much she loved him and just how willing she was to do anything to make him happy? To beg for forgiveness was not necessary. What she truly wanted from him, was -  

Her train of thought was interrupted by his pained and confused voice. “Does this mean you will not forgive me?” 

Affected by his apparent hurt, she hurried to assure him. “No! I mean, yes. Yes, I forgive you, Éomer.” 

She could see the tension ebb from his body as he took a large breath of relief, before tightening his grip on her.  

It was apparent that he valued her goodwill, given that he had begged her forgiveness many a time for matters big and small. Yet to what end? 

Lothíriel sighed as well as she gazed at their enjoined hands, unsure what to think or feel at this point.  

“Marry me, Lothíriel.” 

Instantly her eyes snapped onto his, unsure whether she had heard him or whether it was a figment of her imagination.  

“What?”  

With a gentle tug, he pulled her close and replied, impatient and keen, “Tell me you will marry me, quickly now.” 

This was real?  

Lothíriel could only gape in silence as it dawned on her. Then a single word managed to break through the bubble of her astonishment.  

“Why?”  

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily before pulling her even closer, his face now only inches away from hers. Then he placed a hand delicately just below her ear and caressed her cheek with his thumb.  “Lothíriel, please. I shall happily spend the rest of my life explaining to you why, as long as you agree to spend it together with me.” 

Éomer’s frown deepened with desperate hope as he searched her face for a hint of her thoughts, suddenly looking young and vulnerable.  

She saw then that he was holding out his heart to her, almost fearfully. His glass heart – artlessly transparent and unexpectedly fragile - was chipped, scratched and fractured in a few places. It was for her to have and – if she wished it, for her to shatter this very moment.  

When all she truly wanted to do was carefully repair the cracks and polish the glass so it would shine anew. 

And he finally would allow her to do so.  

At this realization, Lothíriel’s tempered bosom clenched with gladness, and then it pushed out the words in her throat with great violence - as if it feared that Éomer would lose his patience and change his mind about her.   

“Yes.” She said, firmly. “Yes. If you shall have me, then I shall marry you, Éomer Éomundson.” 

A large, disbelieving grin broke across his handsome face and he rested his forehead against hers as he softly laughed, his breath fanning over her face.  

“Lothíriel,” he muttered under his breath as he studied her face, “my beloved Lothíriel.” 

Then, before she could react to his endearment, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck and breathed deeply into her hair. His sudden weight on her made her shift in place before she tentatively wrapped her arms around his shoulders.  

The hair of his beard tickled her skin and she was not able to suppress a giggle. Did this beautiful, formidable man just say he wanted her with him for the rest of his life?  

After months of trying to convince herself that she could bravely carry the weight of one-sided love, she no longer needed to uphold that farce.  She was his to have and he was for her. Indeed, there was no sweeter victory than this, no greater joy and no brighter day.  

Éomer wrapped an arm around her waist, very gently. She sighed again as she rested her head on his shoulder.  

At last, he was hers.  

For a few minutes, they stayed in that clumsy and sweet semi-embrace, their senses heightened and their hearts beating rapidly as they absorbed the reality of their futures henceforth entwining.  

And it was a delicate embrace, warm and comforting. Nevertheless, Lothíriel had been anticipating something more after agreeing to marry him. It seemed that she would have to be a bit more assertive.  

“Éomer.” 

He lifted his head to meet her gaze with curiosity. His skin was pink and his brow was relaxed.  

“Yes?” 

She wanted him to kiss her, but outright asking for one seemed rather embarrassing, so she glanced at his lips meaningfully in the hope that he understood.  

He brought his face close to hers and when he saw her eyes full of love, he swallowed hard. The hand that had been at the back of her neck was again now cupping her face. “You have my heart, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.” 

The Princess pressed her lips together before giving him a brilliant smile. “And I shall gladly keep it, Éomer of Rohan.” 

She moved her hands to his hair to ever so gently bury them in his golden waves. She then pressed his forehead against hers, noses bumping into each other, and she was pleased at how she was only a few inches shorter than him. It was quite convenient for kissing. However, he did not seem to realize that.  

Again she stole a look at his lips but in a more obvious manner than before. Fortunately for her, this time he understood her gesture and with a small grin, he quickly pressed his lips against hers.  

Lothíriel hummed in enjoyment as his moustache grazed against her mouth. There was no better feeling than kissing one’s future husband, she decided as her eyes fluttered shut.  

It was thrilling and comforting at once, knowing that she would get to do with him as often as she would like. And perhaps he felt the same way about it because he tightened his hold on her waist. But perhaps it was too comforting for him, for as she leaned forward to deepen it, Éomer moved his head back and yawned. 

“Forgive me, I was not able to hold back,” he said and he blinked rapidly a few times. 

The poor man was exhausted. 

“Did you not sleep well?” Lothíriel noted that though he seemed at ease, the bags under his eyes had not lessened. “Did you sleep at all, Éomer?” 

“Hmm?” He had placed his head back on her shoulder, careful not to burden her with his weight. “Barely slept a wink.” 

“You should not neglect your rest, mil – I mean, Éomer.” 

Éomer’s breathy chuckle hit the skin of her throat and she closed her eyes.  

“I could not help it, time was of the essence.” 

“You were in a hurry last night after our – “ she paused to search for the right words, “after our moment alone together in the storage room. What was so urgent?” 

“Yes, ah…” Éomer straightened up and relinquished his hold on her. He cast a look around the Warden’s Office. “I forgot about it, again.” 

Curious as always, Lothíriel watched him pick something up from the desk of the Warden and then he gestured for her to sit down on a chair. Obediently, she sat down and he crouched down before her, holding out the item – a small but beautiful wooden keepsake box. 

Nimbly she took hold of it, but instead of opening it, she looked at him expectantly.  

“Go on. It is yours.” 

A gift for her from Éomer!  

Eagerly she undid its latch and pushed the lid up. Nestled in green velvet lining lay a beautiful gold and silver hair ornament and Lothíriel uttered a gasp at the sight of it. The fastening was round, with Rohanese motifs surrounding the fashioning of the horse emblem of the Mark. Its pin was a miniature of a sword of which the hilt was shaped like the Rohanese Sun.  

“Oh, Éomer. It is beautiful.” 

Connecting the two parts were three fine chains, each distinct in their design.  

Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized one of them.  

“But... But that is Amrothos’ bracelet!” whispered she as she glanced at Éomer. “How comes it here? I do not understand.” 

“It is the ceremonial hair ornament worn by the betrotheds of the Kings of the House of Éorl. Morwen Steelsheen was the last one to receive it but she refused to wear it and had Thengel King return it to the Treasury. There it lay forgotten until Éowyn found it and sent it for me to give to you. Last night, after you left, I went back to my room to get this box brought to me from Edoras by Faramir.” 

She thought back to when Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith. “That was the day of the Closing Debate. You had already decided to propose to me then?” 

With a sheepish grin, he shook his head. “No. As far as I knew, you were the one who would be engaged soon, not Erchirion. Therefore I had no expectations – “ 

Hearing this, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait!”  

“Yes?” 

“Is that why you looked so upset the entire time? You thought...” Her voice trailed off as she sunk into her thoughts. His surly moods and heated glares had been because of his misunderstanding. No wonder he had looked so stunned after Erchirion’s engagement ceremony.  

“Oh, you sweet soul!” Lothíriel pressed a hand against her mouth to stop herself from laughing at him. She tried to choke back the sound, but when she met his timorous gaze, she was unable to contain it. “Poor, poor Éomer King!” She said between giggles.  

She needed a minute to collect herself. To his credit, he took it in stride, opting to regard her with lightly raised eyebrows. When her laughter had subsided, she touched his bearded jaw affectionately. “Erchirion took us all by surprise, I shall tell you that. Come, do not kneel. Sit with me and go on.” 

He moved a chair facing hers and sat down. “To call it a surprise is to put it mildly. I thought that I had no chance at a future with you, but Éowyn insisted that I keep it with me. So after retrieving it, I went to Aragorn and I showed it to him – “ 

“Was this to get his approval of the union?” 

He nodded. “All courtly unions need to be approved by the highest authority. Yet another matter complicated it... Back in Edoras, several nobles have been insisting I marry their daughter, sister or ward. To waylay them, I told them I could only marry someone approved by the High King of Gondor himself. Now that some of these nobles have come with me to Minas Tirith to attend the Feast – no doubt they hope to petition for their own matches - I had to ensure his approval before asking you – “ 

“So that is why you had to leave so suddenly?” 

“Yes, I am afraid so.” 

Sweet, foolish man. He could have easily avoided distressing her so by simply explaining this to her.  

“I could have,” he agreed, “but it is apparently against Gondorian etiquette to have imbibed while proposing. I did not want to risk any accusations against either of us.” 

“You could have explained that to me as well. I was drunk, not stupid.”  

Not entirely stupid, no. But she had been behaving outside of what was considered proper, and though she had no regrets, if Éomer had shared with her his intention to marry, she probably would have crossed some boundaries with him in that storeroom.  

“Aye, but...” He paused. It was a strange sight to see a powerful and revered King chagrined. “I was not sure if you would be receptive to any of my explanations.” 

He required some reassurance from her, which was silly, considering the intimacy of their kissing last night. She wove her fingers with his and squeezed them gently. “What gave you that idea?” 

He did not reply for a long time as he stared at their interlocked hands. Then his reply came, soft and sullen. “My insecurities, I reckon.” 

“You could have relied on me to understand court politics. And as for receptiveness...” Lothíriel paused meaningfully. “I would have listened. I recall vividly that I was quite receptive to all your other attentions last night.” 

“Huh.” Éomer had been looking vulnerable only moments before, but now he gazed upon her in awed amusement, unable to form a coherent reply to her bold statement.  

So she took hold of his collar and pulled him into a kiss.  

A grin broke against her lips, causing her to smile as well. When they moved apart, both their faces were flush with happiness and love. 

His golden eyelashes looked especially charming against the pink of cheeks. Just as she was now admiring his handsome facial features, he too raked his eyes all over her face, taking the time to study the curve of her mouth and the shape of her brow. After staring at one other quite foolishly for a spell, they once more turned their attention to the contents of the box.  

One of the chains was of delicate silver and had seven tiny stars linked to it. Gently she picked it up and held it between her fingers. “This is from High King Elessar then?”  

“Yes, High Queen Arwen fastened it for me, it represents the blessings of the House of Telcontar.” He then pointed at the golden and silver chain from which a small golden horse pendant hung halfway. “This is from the House of Éorl.” 

“From Éowyn?” 

“Yes, she had this arranged very quickly, as she had been trying to convince me to ask for your hand for the past few months.” 

“Truly?” she asked, with eyebrows raised. “So she succeeded where I failed?” 

 Éomer laughed softly and he shook his head. “No, though her efforts were valiant.” 

“She shall be glad to hear the news of our betrothal, then.” 

“Indeed.” He lifted their enjoined hands and pressed a kiss on the top of her hand.  

Her stomach fluttered happily.

“So how did you come by Amrothos’ bracelet?” she asked, still rather breathless.  

“After my visit to Aragorn, I went to speak with your father - ” 

“This was last night?” Imrahil was very particular about his sleep. “He was awake?” 

“Aye, he was just about to retire when I went to ask for your hand.” 

Lothíriel cast her fiancé a playful look. “I am surprised you felt the need. He never once pretended to deem anyone superior to you. Not even Lord Forgammon.” 

She could tell that he was gratified by her remark, yet he rubbed his beard with a rueful smile. “He is my dearest friend to whom owe a debt beyond my life. As for Amrothos, he was there when I went to meet him.” 

She winced. “Did he give you much trouble?” 

But Éomer merely stared at her in surprise. “None at all. When I asked for a token to add to the hairpin, he immediately took off this bracelet and attached it himself.” 

If Lothíriel had not known that Éomer was an honest person, she might have denied his words. A lump formed in her throat and she let out a small sigh. For Amrothos to agree to this match so willingly, he truly was her fiercest protector and greatest ally.  

“To be fair, I was not expecting any trouble when he was one of the people who tried to convince me that you were better off with me than with Forgammon – “ 

“He did what?” Lothíriel interrupted him again, unable to contain her shock. She had been interrupting Éomer a lot, but he did not seem to mind it at all.  

“Yes, he came over with drinks, got too quickly in his cups and then cried himself to sleep after complaining about Lord Forgammon. That was the night before yesterday.” 

A wave of love and sadness crested in her chest and she pressed her hand against it as she sought to reconcile her brother’s recent actions with the ones roughly a year ago. He had been shouting, kicking and moping then. Yet the same young man had willingly given his mother’s bracelet as a blessing of his sister's union with the King of a distant land.  

Again Éomer brushed his lips against her knuckles and she stared at him while she gathered her wits about her. To think that he had been smirking and gossiping with her this morning, keenly well aware of the imminence of what he had been fighting against tooth and nail the past few years – Lothíriel marrying and moving away. 

“The drinking,” she eventually said after clearing her throat, “that occurred when the Warden I found you and him, hungover in the Rohanese commons.” 

“Yes, the very same morning you made me drink that horrid potion. Despite your gift with herb lore, dear Lothíriel, I am afraid that one was neither effective nor palatable.” There was accusation in his voice, but the grin on his face was evidence of good humour.  

“I am well aware.” A smug smirk accompanied her reply and Éomer laughed out loud.  

And how she loved the sound and sight of it. After another smile, she lifted the ornament from its container and held it out to him. “Will you help me put this in my hair?” 

Swiftly he stood up and stood behind her chair. Then he took the pin and carefully affixed it at the beginning of her braid. The tips of his fingers lightly grazed the skin behind her ear. She shivered at the touch.  

With a coy smile, she looked up at him. “How do I look?” 

Though he did not smile back, she could tell from the squint of his eyes that he was pleased. Gently he rested a hand on either of her shoulders and leaned over to press a kiss on her temple. “Like you are my bride.” 

His simple and earnest acknowledgement made her blush fiercely, and she looked down at her hands, the prospect of being his bride both frightening and wondrous.  

Then Éomer yawned again, a loud one that ended with a grunt.  

Lothíriel stood up to look at him with the eye of a Healer’s assistant. “Have you not slept at all, Éomer? Not even after meeting with Ada?” 

He rubbed his eyes and then shook his head. “Nay, I could not. I lay in bed tossing and turning awaiting the news of your waking. You are an early riser and I wished to speak with you without delay.” 

“Oh!” The young woman pressed her hands to her mouth in mortification. “And to think, today of all days, I overslept!” 

And then she gasped once more. “I kept you waiting and everyone knew! They knew you were intending to propose to me.” 

Her consternation was entertaining to him because Éomer was regarding her with a small grin. “Your brothers were quite cooperative. Amrothos notified me the moment you awoke and Elphir told me that I could find you in the herb garden.” 

“Oh.” 

“And I did...” 

“Oh, no!” 

“Until you fled at the sight of me!” The young King of the Riddermark let out a soft chuckle. “Running away like that? You were faster than I expected.” 

She hid her face in her hand. “What a fool I must look.” 

“No bigger fool than I.” Éomer took her free hand and kissed it. “A well-matched pair in more ways than one, as Éowyn would put it.” 

It would take a while for her embarrassment to subside but she was glad that Éomer was not upset with her. Gladly she pulled his hand towards herself and kissed the top of it in kind, earning another fond little grin from him.  

He then glanced at the desk. “Which reminds me, I should write to her immediately. And Imrahil as well.” 

Without relinquishing his hold on her, he moved to the desk of the Warden. There he quickly penned a letter, and then another.  

As he wrote, Lothíriel took the opportunity to look around the office. She had been here often enough, studying or assisting the Warden, thus she felt quite at ease in the room. 

Her gaze then fell on the cot near the window, causing the memory of tattooed skin and blonde body hair to resurface. Heat crawled up her cheeks and she looked back at Éomer. He looked perfectly handsome dressed as he was, yet she was unable to stop herself from recalling the sight and the feel of his bare upper body. 

Unbidden, a thought came to her. As his wife, that view would be solely for her to enjoy - and hopefully often, too. It was a riveting prospect, no doubt, and one quite unwise to consider it in this particular situation. He was hers, yes. But not yet to that specific capacity.

She clenched both her hands in an attempt to dispel the thought. However, one of them was still interlinked with Éomer’s, and she advertently roused his attention.  

He glanced up, his frown momentarily giving way to a smile just for her. “Yes?” 

With a wordless shake of her head, she motioned for him to continue his task. Quietly she watched him finish writing the two letters, after which he put them in their respective envelopes, and then sealed them before stamping them with his signet ring.  

Tucking the letters and the empty box into one of his pockets, he gestured towards the door.  

“We should leave from here. The Warden shall want his office back and I do not wish to see him gloat like he did with Éowyn.” 

Agreeing with him, she walked up to the laundry basket in the corner of the room and took off the shapeless grey upper gown, which she then placed inside the basket. After she had adjusted her dress, she checked her appearance in the small looking glass hanging near the basket. Absently Lothíriel cast a glance at him through the mirror and froze when she met his gaze.  

He had been watching her very closely with a heavy, heated expression. She had seen that look before, countless times, yet seeing it now in the light of their engagement, its meaning ran deeper and wilder than before. A current shot through her body before it liquefied and pooled deep in her belly. With a shaky breath, she tucked a curl behind her ear and then turned to him, smiling nervously.

“Come.” He bid her, his voice warm as he held out his hand to her. She wasted not a second in taking hold of it.  

Swiftly they went out the door, and before long, Éomer had found a messenger to deliver his letters. 

Then he surreptitiously led Lothíriel out of the Houses of Healing, through the herb garden and up the stairs of the Apothecary wing into the familiar old stillroom. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

It was no secret to anyone in the Houses of Healing that something substantial had occurred in the Warden’s office that morning after the Remembrance Feast. In fact, it was Warden Bair himself who had offered his workspace to Éomer King so that he might have some privacy for something long-anticipated by many observant staff of the Houses. The young man had gladly accepted it, his eyes never wavering from the tall figure tending to a patient on the other side of the Hall.

Éomer had been successful in his pursuit, as a little while later he had been seen leaving the office with the hand of the Dol Amrothian Princess of his affections firmly clasped in his. Though a few staff members would have been able to surmise where they had been sneaking off to now, they had all been too busy exchanging coins and knowing smiles, having bet on the particularities of the success of the suit. The sudden change in mood and the appearance of coin purses had been a curious sight for the patients present, yet when they had asked just what monumental event had warranted such a lively response, all the Healers and their assistants had shrugged and claimed ignorance.

The staff of the Houses had always kept the young woman of Dol Amroth in their benevolence, answering in kind the vivacious and considerate care she had bestowed upon them as their ward and apprentice. And it was not just her personality that they valued. Since she had started caring for the herb gardens behind the Houses of Healing, the yield and quality of the plants and herbs had improved significantly over time. Some attributed it to her hard work and diligence, while others said that it was her Elven heritage that had made the gardens flourish like never before. Still, no one had dared to speak of this with Lady Lothíriel herself, as Warden Bair Nestad had strictly forbidden them to unnecessarily flatter his young charge. She was not yet proud to a fault and he did not wish to close that final distance.

As for Lothíriel herself, she had no inkling of the commotion erupting in the wake of her escape, for all her attention was fixed upon the tall blonde-haired man who had his fingers tangled with hers. Éomer had asked her to marry him. She could barely believe it even now, but the feel of his hand – the warmth of his skin, the texture of his callouses and the coolness of his rings – was a solid reminder that he indeed wished to have her by his side as his wife.

Something fluttered and twisted in her belly - not nearly the first or the last that day, and Lothíriel squeezed his hand in gladness. At once the Rohir looked back at her, brows raised questioningly, and she rewarded him with a big smile.

He chuckled under his breath and pulled her closer as they zigzagged their way through the many squared patches of the garden. Plants were abloom in abundance, welcoming all insects and other critters to visit their colourful and fragrant flowers, aptly reflecting the array of bright feelings the young couple were having for and because of one another.

Upon arriving at the small tower of the Apothecary wing, Éomer did not slow down and continued to lead her further until they were inside the very room that Lothíriel had kept herself secluded in during and after the Siege of Minas Tirith. Without a second thought, Lothíriel closed the door behind her.

And so they were alone again.

This was not the first time, but for some reason, Lothíriel felt nervous. Yes, they had spent enough time alone, as two people who enjoyed each other’s company.

However, now the atmosphere was charged with heady feelings and nervous expectations. Their relationship was now clearly defined, tangible even, by the hair ornament he had carefully put in her hair.

To dispel the awkwardness, she leaned against a workbench and asked him: “What did you write Ada?”

Éomer was standing in the middle of the room, arms folded as he observed the many little things in the room. “I informed him that you have agreed to marry me and I have requested him to have our wedding within a month or two after Éowyn’s.”

Lothíriel laughed as she idly moved about a few empty phials on the table, but then sobered when she glanced at his face. “You are serious.”

“Why would I not be?”

He was right. He would never joke about any of his commitments. He was looking at her expectantly, his brow furrowed once more. The sight tugged at her heart – because he was just that incredible to look at, and she walked over to him.

Immediately he spread his arms and wrapped her in a gentle embrace. Though the hug was light, she could feel his warmth radiating through his clothes accompanied by his scent of horse, hay and leather. Her skin was already flushed in the victory of love requited, but she felt it grow even pinker. The thrill of being able to wrap her arms around his waist was something she hoped she never would lose. With a satisfied sigh, she rested her cheek against his chest, the crown of her head brushing against his bearded chin.

Lothíriel then remembered that she had to give a reply. “Ada shall not accept a hasty wedding, Éomer, and we have always had long engagements in Gondor.”

Displeasure rumbled in his chest. “If Prince Imrahil loves me as you have often proclaimed, then I am sure that he shall make an exception. I am the King of Rohan after all.”

“Beloved King of Rohan,” Lothíriel said teasingly, running her hand along his bearded jaw. “This is the first time I have ever heard you intending to use your title for your personal affairs.”

“Personal? Nay, getting the Queen to Edoras is a matter that concerns all of Rohan.” He closed his eyes and revelled in her touch.

“We shall have to wait and see if Ada agrees with that sentiment.”

“His response will not arrive until dinner time.” He bent his head to look at her face, his eyes squinting slightly. “Lothíriel.”

There was a sweetness in the way he spoke her name which made her heart skip a beat.

“Éomer.”

The corner of his mouth lifted and then he captured her lips in a gentle kiss. His moustache tickled her skin as he moved to deepen it, causing her knees to weaken momentarily. To be kissed unprompted by none other than Éomer. It was the stuff of dreams.

Just as those dreams ended so too he ended the kiss - far too soon for her liking. Yet as he held her gingerly in his arms, she found no reason to complain. He was looking at her intently as if he wished to memorize her face. As well aware of her beauty Lothíriel was, she could not help but feel nervous. What if he saw something that he did not like?

She had not put in a lot of care in her appearance this morning and she had even worked in the herb gardens. Not to mention, the whole chase in the Houses of Healing must have made her look quite a mess.

Nevertheless, she could glean not even the slightest displeasure in his noble face and her stomach swooped again in rejoicing. Her nerves were unravelling though, almost unable to bear the profound weightiness his gaze put upon her.

With a flush, she looked down and then said the first thing that sprang to mind.

“So we are back in this room then?”

Éomer frowned apologetically and answered, “This was the only place I could think of. I… was hoping we could spend some more time together before declaring our troth plight at court.”

No doubt the announcement of their troth plight would send the entire court into a frenzy. And even before that, there was little privacy in any of the Southern Guesthouses and certainly none in the public spaces of the Sixth Circle and the Citadel. This stillroom was indeed the best-secluded place for them to be.

“You are right, milord – “ His sharp look made her giggle despite her nerves. “I mean, you are right, Éomer. Before we submit ourselves to the scrutiny of the Gondorian court, let us treasure this moment as simply Lothíriel and Éomer.”

He muttered something under his breath, and in the next moment, she felt one hand move to the small of her back and the other to her cheek. Then his mouth was on hers, hard and insistent, before she felt the tip of his tongue sweep across her lower lip. With a gasp she opened her mouth and boldly chased it with her tongue, dipping past his lips. This did not leave him unaffected. A groan vibrated from his throat. Encouraged by his response, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his hair.

Their bout of affection showed no signs of slowing down, and Lothíriel revelled in the ardour in which he explored her mouth. His grip on her had tightened, leaving no space between their bodies now despite his particular care to do so only a little while ago.

It was nothing short of heaven. She could feel his body through the multitude of fabrics between them. A strange, ticklish heat spread through her body as she became aware of his arousal pressing against her abdomen. Her knowledge might have been limited on purpose because of her station, she was not entirely ignorant of such matters.

And her body seemed to react instinctively as well, for her hips shifted against him seeking for something she did not wholly understand.

Éomer did, however, for the groan that was ripped from his throat was particularly guttural. She did not relent and instead put more of her weight against him as she continued to assert her affection for the tall blonde horse-lord.

“Lothíriel!” He gasped as he took hold of her shoulders and stepped back, his eyes dark with hunger and his skin pink. “My love, we must not – “

He did not finish his sentence, unable to find the right words to say to a Princess. She understood it, and while it was wise not to continue the physical expression of their attraction, it frustrated her immensely.

He loved her and she loved him. They would be married, soon hopefully. That should be reason enough to let her kiss him as much as she wanted. For all her patience and pining, it was her right to do so! Indeed, it was only a just compensation, thought Lothíriel as she glared at the door – one that represented the faceless Gondorian court that had determined which liberties she was allowed to take – which were none, apparently.

The same court that had seemed to turn a blind eye to Faramir and Éowyn kissing in front of the entire White City. The same court that condoned Amrothos’ and Erchirion’s dalliances with the widows and daughters of lesser nobles. Undoubtedly other liaisons had been taking place hidden in the niches and shadows formed by the stonework of the White City, yet somehow it was only Lothíriel who had been warned and guarded against such behaviour. And it frustrated her to no end.

She huffed and folded her arms, causing Éomer to chuckle under his breath.

“Come, do not look so sour,” he said as he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands still at her upper arms, “I wish only to treat you with the highest of honour like you deserve.”

She watched his lips as he spoke. They were slightly swollen and the blonde hairs around them shone because of their eager kisses. His hair was messed up and he was still breathing heavily.

Her stomach swooped with sweet satisfaction. He was like that because of her.

Mollified by that thought, she sighed. “Very well.”

Éomer then pressed his lips against her brow with such sweetness that she could not help but quickly steal another kiss before moving away.

“Considering that you have limited my affections after begging them from me in the first place,” she said as she walked to the cupboard near the door, “let us do what we do best... Talk and eat. Have you eaten?”

“I had an early breakfast, but I have no appetite.”

She looked over her shoulder at him just in time to see him yawn. Then she pulled open the lower drawers and began taking out a variety of things as he quietly watched her.

A few minutes later, Lothíriel gestured towards the cosy arrangement of pillows and spreads opposite the fireplace. “Make yourself comfortable, Éomer.”

He stared at her for a moment with an unreadable expression before he settled down on the pillows with an appreciative sigh.

Lothíriel then lit the fire and hung a kettle over the hearth after filling it with water and a generous helping of tea leaves. As the heat spread through the little room, a similar pleasant warmth unfurled in her heart. She was allowed to look after him again.

Biting her lip to suppress her smile, she looked back at him to see what he was doing.

His large body was leaning against the cushions with his legs stretched out towards the side and his hands folded on top of his abdomen. His eyes were half closed but he remained watchful of her every move.

The wholesome silence was punctuated by the light bubbling of the water and the cheerful crackle of the burning firewood. The young woman and her beloved were quite content in this little world of theirs. At this moment, they wanted nothing, for they could finally say that they had each other.

The Dol Amrothian woman checked the kettle and found the colour of the tea to her liking. After fetching a thick mug from the cupboard, she filled it and gently set it down at a safe distance but in his reach. Then she doused the fire, tidied the workbench and finally sat down next to him, their thighs touching.

“Are you not going to have some yourself?”

She shook her head with a slight smile. “The tea is to help you relax. I have had plenty of rest this morning, as you may recall, so I do not need it.”

His brow twitched, but he remained quiet, content to keep looking at her for a spell. Then he gently touched the hair ornament nestled at the top of her braid and adjusted its three chains. From there his hand moved to her ear and he lightly grazed the golden earcuff she was wearing at its helix.

Sensing his curiosity, she took the cufflet off. “Hold still.”

She pushed back his hair from his ear and clipped the jewellery there. “There. It is of a pair. The other ear cuff is at this ear.”

She turned her head to show him, earning a small smile from him as he gingerly touched it. “Does it mean anything?”

“It does now,” she replied softly, “for it is yours.”

Their faces were close and she felt the urge to kiss him again. However, noting his tired eyes, she did not make a move.

“Thank you for the tea and this ear cuff. I am not good with jewellery though,” Éomer murmured, his eyes fixed on hers, “I shall keep it somewhere safe so I do not lose it.”

He was adorable, she thought to herself, and then slipped her hand in his. “No, I insist that you wear it as often as you wish to. If you do happen to lose it, then I shall gladly replace it for you.”

He grunted softly, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Or,” she continued, “you could have your ear pierced and wear a ring instead of a clip.”

“Hmm.”

“Like this.” She shifted even closer to him and pointed out the piercing holes in her ears. “Amrothos has these too.”

“Is that so?” He took a moment to study her, his breath tickling the skin of her neck. “I never did notice him wearing anything like this.”

Lothíriel gestured for him to drink his tea as she replied, “Ada and Elphir do not like it, because they say it is against the traditions of Gondor. It is not an issue in Dol Amroth, however. The fashion there is quite different. You shall visit me in Dol Amroth, shall you not?”

“But of course,” his reply was soft but firm, “I shall come see you as soon as I can.”

Lothíriel smiled widely at him, the prospect of being able to share her South Gondorian lifestyle with him was very exciting. Catching on to her enthusiasm, he asked her a few questions which she then answered extensively.

Though she knew that women’s fashion was not a particularly compelling topic to a warrior King, she could tell that he was listening intently to her.

He was so sweet.

“ –  so, we are much more at ease with the use of colours, accessories and patterns compared to East Gondor. This is also visible in our architecture and handicrafts. Such as that letter box that I gave to you, do you remember?”

Éomer’s shoulders stiffened and he hastily finished his drink, carefully avoiding her eye. Of course, she caught on to his distress at once.

“Have you thrown the box away?”

“No!” He shook his head slightly, guilt knitting his brow. “No, I could never. I, uh. I broke the box in a fit of anger.”

It was clear that he was ashamed of it and it endeared him further to her. Wordlessly, she entwined her hand with his again, the remnant heat of his teacup just barely palpable on his skin.

He did wish to talk about it because he squeezed her hand gently before elaborating. “Faramir had just sent Éowyn the news of your courtship with Forgammon and she immediately noticed my upset. She then somehow found the box that had all the things in it, looked at every one of them – “

“Éowyn read our letters?”

He tilted his head apologetically.

“She said it was obvious how you and I cared for one another. She is not wrong though. Lothíriel, I do not think I have ever longed so much for a woman’s good opinion as I have longed for yours.”

Éomer sent her an earnest look before he pressed a kiss to the top of the hand that was entwined with his, and her heart clenched with happiness. 

“Indeed, now that I think about it, I have done a great many things for your sake that I would not have given a second thought in past. And Éowyn realized this and told me to marry you. But I was not ready to hear it.”

Lothíriel pressed her shoulder against his to comfort him.

“We let our tempers get the best of us and... Without thinking, I, uh. Threw the box at a wall. The letters and the Herbarium were fine, but the box and one of the shells – “

“They were damaged beyond repair?” She supplied, ducking her head slightly, hoping to meet his gaze.

“Yes.”

“You love me so dearly that you worry about such trifles?” Her tone was light and teasing, but her heart was pounding fast in elation. Here was a famed and feared King, remorseful because of a dime-a-dozen box and seashells that were overly abundant on the shorelines of Belfalas Bay.

She would have laughed out loud her amusement if he had not finally raised his hazel-green eyes to meet her searching grey ones. “I do, Lothíriel.”

“Oh.”

If the man was going to talk like that, then she had no choice but to kiss him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close as she eagerly pressed her mouth against his. In the next moment, they were once again in a fervent liplock. It was only when Lothíriel’s back hit the cushioned floor that Éomer seemed to recall himself. With a mutter of Rohirric, he sat back up and pushed aside his hair, looking exasperated.

“That is… we should not – “

“I know,” she replied as she too sat up, feeling light and heady from his touch, “Though I protest it, I know.”

A bit awkwardly they sat side by side, their shoulders and thighs grazing against one another, before Lothíriel took hold of his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “Where is the Herbarium now? And the letters?”

“Éowyn has taken the Herbarium and kept it in the treasury next to Uncle Théoden’s work. She says she wants to preserve it so it can be finished at a later date. And the letters are in another box in my study.”

“So no harm done.”

He sighed softly. “That is true except that I broke my favourite shell.”

“Do you mean this one?” Lothíriel dug a hand into her skirt pocket and fished out a small white spiral, which she then placed into the hand she was holding.

He held it up in his thumb and index finger and studied it for a moment before giving it back.

“Keep it,” she said, folding his hand around the shell, “I insist.”

Éomer shook his head slightly but he relented as he stared at the white coil. “You give me so much, Lothíriel. I am not sure what to give you in return.”

The gravitas in his voice tugged at her heart, one that was already moved by his earnest and simple gentility, and she longed to embrace him without reservation, but she could not.

“For an ear cuff, a cup of tea and a seashell?” she murmured with a warm smile. “Well, you do intend to marry me, so I suppose that makes us even.”

To her utter delight, Éomer let out a short laugh, filling the small stillroom with its melodious sound, and filling her heart with pride at amusing the serious Warrior King of Rohan. Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed her side against his. Pulling her close, he buried his nose in her hair and remained there for a pleasant stretch of a time. Then came a great yawn from him and he moved away to cover his mouth.

She looked at him in fond amusement as he cleared his throat and blinked a few times.

“Forgive me, Lothíriel, I do not understand why I am yawning so much. Usually my endurance to stay awake is greater than this.”

“You should lie down for a while,” she kindly said and she began adjusting the pillows to facilitate his comfort. She sat down again at one end and patted her lap. “You may rest your head here.”

Éomer stared at her, perplexed, and she felt a thick blush spread on her cheeks. Yes, it was a very intimate gesture, but they were to be married and he was beyond exhausted.

Again she patted her thighs and looked at him expectantly.

With an uncharacteristically shy expression, he turned in place and lowered his head gingerly on her lap. Lothíriel immediately pushed his hair aside so it fanned out like a halo.

“Is this fine?” He asked as he looked up at her with a small frown. “If you are not comfortable – “

“I am fine, please be at ease, Éomer.”

Fine was an understatement - Lothíriel thrilled. She had not even dared to imagine having him relax on her like this. His hair was so soft, his eyes were so bright and his face was so incredibly handsome. She glanced at his body, which was stretched out over the makeshift sofa. There was no apparent discomfort there.

Their eyes met and they shared a shy smile. He reached up and caressed her face, his thumb rubbing gently across her cheek. The heat of his touch only added to the sweet incandescence of their proximity and again she felt the urge to kiss and kiss him and then to kiss and kiss him more. Instead, she pressed her lips on the inside of his wrist, not unlike how he had done so himself once upon a time in the herb gardens of Minas Tirith.

He sighed softly, his eyes crinkling as he too thought back on their early meetings - those precious stolen moments that had shaped their hearts for one another.

Their time together was steadily running out. Even if her father would miraculously agree to a hasty marriage – he would not, he would never – she was still to return to Dol Amroth tomorrow and Éomer back to his Golden Hall atop Edoras. They would not see each other for two months at least, and though those two months were nothing compared to the five months of utter heartache she had gone through, it seemed all the more bitter to part from him after knowing his heart and having his word.

“Béma, Lothíriel,” his low voice snapped her out of her spiral, “if you are going to stare at me like that, I am going to put you on Firefoot and steal you away to Edoras.”

His brows were furrowed but his lips were curved and the young woman could not help but giggle. “You would not do that to your dear friend Imrahil.”

“Let us not challenge that thought, nonetheless.”

“You cannot tell me not to dread being apart from you, Éomer.”

“I shall not, for I too am not eager for our impending parting. But after having upset you for so long, I wish to see you in higher spirits.”

His hand rose to the crown of her hair and followed it down past the hair ornament to the tip of her braid, which he then brought to his lips and kissed it.

“I am not good with relationships, Lothíriel. Having spent most of my life on horseback, I fear that I am inept when it comes to dealing with women,” he said, “I even neglected my own sister because it was simply easier to slay Orcs than to talk about our parents.”

She did not reply and instead began caressing his cheek. His eyes fell shut, but he continued to talk. “Never had I felt the need for emotional connection with any woman until our meeting in your herb garden that one evening – when you fell and cursed like Amrothos – “

She huffed in exasperation. “One does not easily forget such embarrassment – “

“There is no need for any of that. My love, you have no inkling of how you settled into my mind and made me long for your continued presence in mere minutes. I still do not quite understand it myself.” He had opened his eyes again and was looking at her intensely. “Your kindness to me, Lothíriel, I – I honestly became fearful of how I desired it. Mind you, I was still grieving because of my Uncle, Théodred and the damage done to Rohan. All of that was pushed to the back of my mind when I thought of you when I saw you. The guilt – I felt so selfish, letting my heart lighten because of you when it was heavy because of its rightful burdens.”

He took her hand and kissed it before looking at her most imploringly. “In hindsight, it would have been best if I had just listened to Imrahil and made you mine immediately. Please forgive me for making you wait and suffer. And… Thank you, Lothíriel, for bestowing upon me your grace.”

With a heart running amok with affection for him, she held his hand to her chest and shook her head. “You were not ready,” she whispered, “we were not ready. Ulmo, when I think of what a child I was then, even if it was only a year ago, I think it has been for the best.”

“I have a lot to learn still, my dear Princess.” His hazel green eyes were serious.

“As do I. Let us learn together. Teach me what you can and I shall do the same.”

He hummed his agreement and raised his eyebrows fondly before pulling her down for a kiss. With a soft chuckle, she obliged and brushed her lips against his.

How she loved this man, she thought to herself as they parted. What a privilege it was to have him to herself like this.

Once more they were observing one another in silence. She could feel his eyes roaming over her face and she pressed her lips together happily. She then ran her fingers through his hair and undid the tie that held back half of his hair. Its blonde colouring was beautiful, with dark golden strands being highlighted by lighter ones. It smelled of soap and hay and its texture was smoother than she expected. She combed through the locks, running her fingernails over his scalp, and Éomer sighed deeply. He was enjoying her gentle ministrations.

Glancing back at his face, she saw that his eyes had fallen shut once more and his brow was completely relaxed. Then he placed a hand over his mouth and yawned.

“You should take a nap.”

“What? No, that is – “

“Go ahead,” she insisted, “you might not have another chance again today.”

He blinked a few times and then cleared his throat. “Lothíriel, are you sure? It might tire you.”

“Nonsense, I am quite comfortable like this,” she said, well aware that he was interested in taking up on her offer, just as much as she wished to continue playing with his hair. “May I braid your hair while you rest?”

“Go ahead.”

Pleased with his response, she ran the pads of her fingers over his brow before letting them wander all over his face. There were some scars here and there hidden away in the freckles and hairs. His beard was darker compared to his hair and it emphasized his sharp masculine features most handsomely. And how lovely were his eyelashes, now resting just above his cheekbones. She was looking forward to taking her time in memorizing his fine features from up close.

“Ah.”

Lothíriel felt him relax in his place and he shifted his head closer to her abdomen before he closed his eyes again and murmured her name under his breath.

Taking a couple of strands of hair she began her braiding with great care to not jostle him out of his rest. In the distance, he could hear the people of the Houses of Healing walking about, busy with their tasks of providing care and comfort to their patients. A mellow spring breeze swept into the stillroom from the open window carrying along the scents of the herb garden and the smell of whatever was being prepared in the Kitchens not too far off.

Eventually, Éomer King’s breathing evened out as he finally fell asleep, his head resting in the lap of his beloved Princess of Dol Amroth. Her heart was full of contentment and bliss, not just because he was able to find slumber so easily with her, but also from knowing that in the future she would have plenty of opportunity to look after him like this again.

Chapter Text

Elphir's Interlude

He had been sitting in the High King’s Council when a messenger entered the room profusely apologizing, proclaiming that the letter from Prince Imrahil had been of the highest urgency.

High King Elessar beckoned the young man to approach, who then gave the liege and Elphir each a letter sealed with blue wax depicting a ship and a swan. A third letter addressed to Éomer was also offered to Elphir, who understood his father’s instruction for it implicitly.

At once the Prince Heir opened his and read his father’s writ. He then blinked in mild surprise and met Aragorn’s amused gaze.

He knew of the imminence of this message; he was merely taken aback by the speed at which it had occurred. But then Éomer King had been uncharacteristically agitated this morning while waiting for the Princess of Dol Amroth to wake up. He supposed that enough time had been wasted by Éomer already on reaching the emotional capacity to be married in the first place.

No, the Dol Amrothian corrected himself as he gathered the two letters, tucked them inside an inner pocket and stood up. Becoming mentally ready for marriage was not time wasted, it was a requirement for happiness. He knew this better than anyone else.

“Your Majesty – “

With a smile, Aragorn nodded and gestured towards the exit. “Go on, milord. Your brotherly duty awaits.”

After muttering an apologetic greeting, he set off towards the Houses of Healing.

Indeed, if he compared Lothíriel’s situation to his own, matters had progressed rather rapidly from acquaintanceship to an impending formal agreement between both parties. It helped that Éomer and Lothíriel were undeniably interested in one another. That had certainly not been the case for Siloril and him. If it had been up to him, he would have waited another five years to marry, as it was not uncommon in their family to have long engagements. Yet his mother’s demise had urged Imrahil to push for a wedding sooner rather than later. And while Elphir had reconciled with it and held no regrets – for now he had Alphros and the babe in his life – it had certainly been tough on Siloril.

He knew that he was not a considerate husband. Elphir had been forced to acknowledge the extent of his shortcomings at the event of Alphros’ birth. If Fate had decided differently, he would have lost his wife and his son that day. Humbled, he had resolved to do better. But then Fate had flexed her cruel streak anyway.

His pace faltered at the thought, and he lingered a few seconds in the High Hall of Healing, then he cast a glance towards the entrance of the House of Remedies. With a sigh, he crossed the High Hall and entered the hallway leading to the herb gardens.

Though Elphir thought himself to be a good brother at least, he had learned to value Gondorian propriety greatly. As the first son of Imrahil, a lot of burden was placed upon him from the earliest time he could remember, and it had been made clear to him that he would be following in his father’s footsteps. With that title came the expectations that he would learn all that was needed to rule, that he would have a politically advantageous marriage and that he would have to ensure at least one male heir. The burdens he bore were heavy, but he did so valiantly. With responsibility came privilege, and there had been a specific and private sort of privilege for which he was willing to shoulder those burdens without complaint.

After all, who would have dared to suspect the strict and principled Prince Heir Elphir of any indiscretions?

Furthermore, as he was groomed to be the future ruler of the Belfalan fiefdom, he saw that his younger siblings were given more freedom and less responsibility. And he did not envy them the imbalance of the scale, because he hoped to be able to rely on them during hardships.

And Amrothos and Erchirion certainly knew how to keep attention on themselves.

The least strict he was with his sister, who bore the likeness of his sweet mother. Like Amrothos, he too had hoped to keep her near him, even after marriage. Now he knew for certain that this wish would remain unfulfilled.

Just like he knew right now where he would find his sister and her intended. Curiously, it was the same place where he had happened upon her, staring through the window at the young yet-uncrowned King of the Riddermark. Curiouser was the feeling that had grown in his chest as he had observed her peering down. Whether it was the fabled Numenorean premonition or his brotherly instincts, he had sensed that Lothíriel and Éomer would be connected to another beyond her benevolence for a stranger.

Or it was indeed that natural care she held for others that had entwined her fate with that of Éomer King.

Quietly he kept himself informed of the blossoming of their relationship, the stolen glances and the frequency of letters, the gifts, the pointed avoidance and the unguarded moments of sincere emotions. Even when she returned home from Minas Tirith in November, broken-hearted, he knew that the paths of Lothíriel and Éomer would keep crossing.

And only once he had gotten involved. Only once had he casually pointed out to his cousin-in-law, Lord Forgammon of Lossarnach, that his sister seemed ready for matrimony. That was all that had been needed.

At the end of winter, he had received a letter from Éomer in which he had indirectly asked Elphir if it was true that Lothíriel had accepted a courtship from Lord Forgammon, attempting to disguise it as a request to know when the Dol Amrothian Princes would be in Minas Tirith the coming year. For the sake of counsel, of course, had Éomer written. Elphir had laughed at the clumsy and endearing attempt, alone in his private office in Dol Amroth, and then he had drunk two whole goblets of wine and fallen asleep at his desk.

In any case, she was now alone with him – most probably in that stillroom in the Apothecary tower – and Elphir had the duty to chaperone. Especially because the passion of the Rohirrim was evident in the presence of many a blonde and ginger child born in the past two years. Though he did not doubt Éomer’s character, his sister’s effortless charm and naivety might test the limits of the young man’s self-restraint.

The Prince Heir of Dol Amroth had made his way to the furthest side of the gardens of the Houses of Healing and hastily approached the tower. Elphir braced himself for whatever scene he may happen upon, and up the stairs he went until he reached the door of the stillroom that had been assigned to Lothíriel. He opened it then and saw something that he had not expected.

“Elphir! Hush!”

Nestled quite comfortably upon cushions, rugs and blankets were Éomer and Lothíriel. Specifically, Lothíriel was sitting with her legs stretched out, leaning against a cushion, while Éomer was resting his head on her lap, his eyes shut.

Though the sight was quite innocent, it implied that the nature of the relationship between the two was anything but. For a moment Elphir merely stared as he remained standing in the doorway, glad though that he had not happened upon them in a fervent embrace – or worse, he could not have predicted this.

Lothíriel had been braiding Éomer’s hair and he in turn seemed to be in deep sleep.

“Do not wake him,” she whispered at her brother, her brows knit in warning, “he needs his rest.”

He quietly closed the door and sat down on the solitary chair in the room. Something niggled at his heart as he looked at his little sister and her intended.

Impropriety aside, there was a disquiet in his chest that impeded his breathing.

It had been dancing on the periphery of his mind all day. Then when he folded his hands together, he felt the coolness of his rings and he finally saw it for what it was.

Nemir.

It happened almost eighteen years ago when he had officially joined the ranks of the Swan Knights after graduating from Swan Knight Academy. After a particularly gruelling sortie, he fell asleep against a tree after tending to his horse. He was not alone in this, however. Leaning on his shoulder had been his sole friend and companion, Nemir, the fourth son of Sir Amandir the Second, of the House of Serni from Anfalas. They had become friends in the first week of being Swan Cadets when they had been twelve. Unlike Elphir, Nemir had no title or land to inherit, and his father had thought it best that he would become a Swan Knight instead. The apparent mismatch in station had not mattered, as they had found consonance between their personalities. Both boys were of reserved nature and were hesitant in forming coalitions beyond the formal necessities, yet they quickly discovered that there was ease and peace between them that they could not cultivate elsewhere.

As a result, Elphir and Nemir hardly left each other’s side from then on, glad to train, study and repose together. Elphir had even begged his father to ensure that the two young men would always be placed together, and Imrahil – surprised at the first genuine, selfish request his eldest son had made – had been happy to oblige him. Thus they had ended up leaning against that tree that night after fulfilling their duties as juniors to their company.

While that setting might not have been something out of the ordinary for two young men, Elphir opened his eyes to see the brunette crown of Nemir’s head resting on his shoulder. And in the solitude of the evening, his heart warmed in a peculiar fashion, because of a sweet and fragile comfort that he had never experienced before. Not for a second did he feel like pushing him away. Rather, he was not able to stop himself from studying his friend’s face, taking note of the thin teenage moustache that was typical for young men who were not of Numenorean descent. In fact, there was a scattering of fine light brown hairs on Nemir’s jawline as well. If the light of the nearby torches had been brighter, he would have been able to see the few freckles on the bridge of his nose as well. Before he could dwell longer on his companion’s complexion, however, Nemir shifted and opened his eyes, meeting his instantly.

“Elphir.” He sheepishly said, his voice cracking. “Sorry to bother you.”

Though his name meant Sea Jewel, Nemir’s eyes were brown, and despite their ever-present warmth, Elphir was startled by them. And more, he was startled by the giddy feeling that had started dancing in his belly upon their eye contact.

“It is fine.”

Nemir was about to move away when Elphir placed his arm around his waist to keep him there. “Do not move from here.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, faces so close that they had felt their breaths collide. Then Nemir closed the gap between them and grazed his lips against Elphir’s, his moustache tickling his skin. As they parted, they looked at each other with apprehension, unsure how to proceed.

All he knew was he did not wish to – he could not lose Nemir.

And he allowed himself to lean down and return the kiss firmly yet carefully, keenly aware of what it meant.

Finally, Elphir squeezed him closer to himself and whispered. “Take your rest.”

The smile on Nemir’s face was light as he leaned against his shoulder once more, and he too understood that – ever undefined - the nature of their bond had changed into something more.

“Elphir… Elphir!”

Lothíriel’s whisper finally roused him from the reverie. She was done braiding Éomer’s hair and she was now staring at her brother with both confusion and interest.

Elphir cleared his throat and tugged the end of his tightly braided hair. “Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Are you worried about Siloril?”

Guilt twisted his stomach, as it always did whenever he thought about Nemir when he should have been concerned for his wife instead.

“No,” he replied honestly, for Lothíriel knew him well, “I was reminiscing. And Siloril, she is well and resting in our rooms.”

She nodded in understanding as she glanced down at the blonde man, still sound asleep in her lap. “You were thinking about Sir Nemir.”

There had been four people who knew about his singular attachment to Nemir. His late mother Celairwen and his younger brother Erchirion had come to know of it early on, while Lothíriel had realized it days after Elphir and Siloril had married. And Siloril herself…

According to her, he should have told her about it before their nuptials. Clumsily he had tried to conceal the truth from her, fearing that she would refuse to marry him if she would have known, despite the assurances Celairwen had given him at the time of the betrothal that Siloril would understand.

He had not been able to muster the courage until it had been too late. And so his cowardice had negatively impacted both his marriage and his relationship with Nemir.

“Brother?”

“Yes,” replied Elphir, once more torn away from thoughts, “yes, I was. You shall have to forgive me. Seeing you like this brought up some memories.”

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes while she studied him – a habit taken from their Ada – taking in his face first, then the positioning of his arms and then legs, followed by another look at his face. No doubt she was trying to assess his mood so that she could try and say the right words.

“You seem… better than before. Are you well, Elphir?”

“As well as I might ever be. I still feel like I am missing a limb.” Elphir leaned back in the chair with a sigh.

“I assume that you have been able to talk it through with Siloril?”

“Hmm, yes. We did. It was tough – “

“But necessary for you both.”

He nodded. “She visited his grave with me. Her guilt still lingers, despite his assurances while he was still alive.”

“Sir Nemir was a good man. The best. Siloril also knows this and that is why I told you to go to her.”

His little sister certainly clung to the pride of having her wisdom reaffirmed, he thought to himself wryly.

But she was right.

Ironically, it was only when Elphir had wept in his wife’s arms – mindful of her rounded abdomen naturally – that he had finally felt himself coming to terms with the passing of the person who had been his true other half.

It had been about a year since he had sat on Nemir’s side and had witnessed him take his last breaths. He had been stung by poison arrows early on in the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but he had not sought help for himself, for Nemir had not wished to leave Elphir’s side while the Battle raged on. In the chaos, the Prince Heir had not even noticed the increasingly sluggish movements and discoloured face of his companion until he had fallen down against him during a spell of momentary peace.

With much difficulty, Elphir had borne him on his horse to the Houses of Healing where, tucked away in the corner of one of the wards, he had watched the Healers attempt to stave off the effects of the poison. Eventually, though, they had lowered their gazes and shaken their heads solemnly.

“The poison has spread too far, I am afraid. I am sorry, Prince Elphir.”

Though those words had been delivered with the utmost kindness, to Elphir they had been no less harmful than the very arrows that had pierced Nemir, and he could not do anything except hold his hand and stare at his face. Aside from a light frown on his pale brow, it had seemed as if Nemir had been taking one of his habitual naps.

Yet this time his companion had known that his eyes would not open to meet with his. Nevermore would his thin lips curve into a smile just for him, nor would he ever hear him say his name again.

All he had been able to do was clasp his hand in both of his and kiss it while staring at his face, hoping for a sign of life.

It had been hours later, as Elphir had distinctly heard the sounds of trumpets and cheer echoing from the fields, that the young man from Anfalas who had never strayed far from his side the last twenty years, had taken his last breath. Elphir had not realized it at first, but when indeed he had seen his chest no longer rising and falling, a wretched sound had pushed passed his lips, clinging to Nemir’s motionless body in devastation.

“Nemir, Nemir! What victory is this?” He had uttered between sobs. “Where is peace if not at your side, Nemir? Wake and do not leave me!”

But Nemir had left him, drifting from feverish dreams to unencumbered and endless sleep, unable to wait any more for the healing hands of the King. The only consolation tempering his agony had been that Nemir had not died alone.

Not long after that, Elphir had been forced to relinquish Nemir’s body to the Healers, who had promised him to look after him well and inform his kin. And Elphir had been summoned to his duties as his father’s right hand. Before he had left, he had taken off Nemir’s rings – he had been utterly fond of those rings – and slipped the four on his hand. In exchange, he had put one of his own on Nemir’s cool left hand. Physical reminders of their private, precious love. It was all that they had allowed themselves.

The aftermath of the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the subsequent Battle of Morannon had scarcely given Elphir the chance to grieve. By the time all duties had been resolved, it seemed as if he had lost the ability to mourn at all. This had not gone unnoticed by both Lothíriel and Siloril, yet the latter had not addressed this and he had known why. The recent loss of her uncle, Lord Forlong had closed her off even further. And he could not blame her for her reticence, for he had been faint-hearted as well. 

Indeed, if it had not been for Lothíriel’s meddling, he and Siloril would have not been able to resolve their issues even today. And here that young woman was sitting now, boldly caressing the face of the man who had settled himself quite fixedly in her heart and on her lap.

Much like Nemir had done on his shoulder and in his heart – nearly twenty years ago.

A sickening mix of envy and sadness rose in Elphir’s chest at that thought and he had to clear his throat and shake his head before he could gather about his wits once more.

It seemed a lifetime of longing would persist. The loss of his beloved Nemir still bore on him like a lead weight on his heart, though the sting of his absence had dulled considerably. If Siloril had not allowed him to grieve in her arms…

His debts to her were never greater.

And he said just that to his sister, who had been patiently watching him cycle through his sorrow once more.

Éomer was still asleep.

“Is that right?” Lothíriel replied looking down thoughtfully at her intended. “Are there debts between husband and wife?”

“Not between husband and wife in general, but between Elphir and Siloril, yes.”

This was not the conversation his father had told him to have with his sister. In fact, Elphir questioning the nature of his marriage was not beneficial to his sister at all.

“You need not worry about us,” he said hastily, “from here on, you should only concern yourself with your own marriage. I gather you have agreed to be the Queen of Rohan?”

Just like that his sister was effectively distracted from his woes, for she nodded and blushed, pressing her lips together as she did so.

“Even so, it is improper for you two to be alone like this – “

“I doubt if anyone dares to complain about it,” at once his sister fixed him with a fierce look, “and it cannot be helped. He is exhausted after being awake all night and all morning.”

“Yes, Ada had mentioned it to me when we met for breakfast.”

“You do keep yourself informed of everything, do you not?”

“It is my duty – “

“As the Prince Heir – “

“As your eldest brother, Lothíriel.” Elphir curtly replied, his eyebrows raised. “I am the one who is supposed to compensate where Ada falls short.”

It was an odd thing for him to say, and his sister evidently thought this as well. Elphir had always been mindful of keeping his complaints to himself. Fearing that his sister would want him to elaborate – she was quite inquisitive though she always claimed otherwise, he quickly changed the topic.

“It is an amusing coincidence, you know…”

And she took the bait. “What is?”

“Last time I was here I found you spying on Éomer King through that window over there – “

She looked away, embarrassed. “By Ulmo, Elphir!”

And Elphir could not help but sigh softly.

That day, mere hours after losing Nemir, he had thrown himself into his duties. The Captains of the West had had their Debate and he had been assigned to manage matters in his father’s stead – including looking after his sister. They had been set to leave in two days, leaving him without a real chance to process his loss. 

His grief had been unbearably heavy and he had thought he would asphyxiate soon while seeing to his father’s affairs, but then he had pushed open the door to where she was, and the sight of her had frozen him in his steps. It had been the guilelessness in Lothíriel’s manner – so very like Nemir when they had first kissed - as she had peered at the hulking figure of the King of the Riddermark.

It had been the first inkling of light he had felt in what felt like days.

Could Nemir live on if Elphir sought him in others?

In Lothíriel he had seen a glimpse.

A kindling of hope. And instead of acting on his instinct of adhering to Gondorian propriety, Elphir had allowed himself to fan the spark in his sister and he had let her in on one of their father’s plans for the future. It had been a way to give himself and her hope, a delicate thread to hold onto while the Shadow persisted.

But more than that, he had allowed himself to spare her – for the news of Nemir’s passing could have clouded her maiden heart and rid her of any burgeoning feelings for someone.

He had wanted her to be able to love freely, because though he did not regret his feelings for Nemir, the restrictions put upon him through title, rank and gender had made Elphir feel that he was wrong to love Nemir.

And as naive and pure as his sister had been, she would have stopped herself from feeling anything at all if he had made her feel guilty about loving someone in a time of death – an irrational sense of self-sacrifice that he recognized in her as much as he saw it in himself.

“I do not intend to tease you, dearest little one,” replied Elphir as he fidgeted with the rings on his left hand, “You looked after him that day and fortunate man that he is, I suppose once you started caring for him, you never stopped.”

Lothíriel stayed quiet and stared at him, in awe of his words.

“Remember that time in the Citadel Courtyard, where we were wondering how you took after me?”

She nodded.

“I suppose you love like I do – like I did.” His voice cracked on the last word and he looked away, finally overcome by the sheer amount of reminiscing he had been doing that day.

“Oh, Elphir!” He heard her whisper, but he could not meet her gaze until the lump in his throat went away.

When it did, he cast a glance at the pair and attempted to smile. “It is a good thing, yes? Especially now with you and him.”

“It was a good thing in your case as well, Elphir.” The steel conviction in her voice as she referred to Sir Nemir left no space for a rebuttal, and he nodded wearily.

Then he stood up, exhausted by his own emotions, and took out the letter addressed to Éomer. “Ah, to think how you shall be so far removed from us. What a price to pay for the good of Gondor.”

Lothíriel bit her lip and her eyes watered, and Elphir wondered just how much thought she had truly put into her move to Rohan. To know and to realize were two different things, and he supposed his sister had a lot of realizing left to do.

He placed the letter wordlessly on her outstretched hand and then he bent further forward to kiss her brow.

“Elphir?”

He sucked in a deep breath, wondering what her inquisitive nature would cause her to ask next. He was quite done talking about his feelings.

“Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to arrange for a meal?” asked she. “I am thinking he might be hungry when he wakes.”

A part of him wished to make a scathing remark about Éomer’s choice of resting place, but he found that he had no energy left to spare. Instead, he nodded. “I shall have something arranged at our quarters. Come as soon as he wakes. We shall need to talk.”

As Lothíriel thanked him, he heard a sound from outside. A glance out the door told him Sir Angrenor had arrived to perform his duty.

“There you are. Finally ready to do your job, Sir?”

Angrenor may have been older than Elphir, but the latter still outranked him, and he had the decency to look embarrassed. “Beg your pardon, milord.”

Elphir nodded curtly and then turned to his sister once more. “Leave the door open, Lothíriel.”

After kissing her brow, he left the pair and their guard and made his way to the Dol Amrothian quarters in the Southern Guesthouses.

They had their own residence on the Fifth Circle, but Siloril’s high-risk pregnancy made Elphir insist on them staying close to the Houses of Healing. He did not wish to risk losing her again.

When he entered the main sitting area, he saw that she was sitting outside on the balcony, talking to her cousin Forgammon. As he approached them he could tell from their faces that the Lord of Lossarnach had come to inform her about his failed suit.

True enough, the moment that he was in earshot, the bearded man fell silent and stood up.

“Well met, Forgammon,” greeted Elphir, hoping to keep the mood light, “how are your sons?”

But he was not willing to keep up any pretences. “They are delighted by the news, of course. I am leaving tomorrow to make alternative arrangements for their future.” There was a scowl on his face, though it was less disdainful than usual.

“Cousins.” He bowed performatively. “I must take my leave. Good day.”

The couple watched him leave before they turned to one another. She gestured for him to sit down next to her and he did. His eyes lingered on the swell of her stomach and the dull ache of his heart lessened.

“He has just told me about Lothíriel’s decision.”

“Which one?” Despite himself, he smiled as he met her questioning blue gaze.

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Lothíriel has not only refused Forgammon, but she has also agreed to marry Éomer King.”

Siloril was not easily shaken - indeed her person was of a stronger constitution than his. Seeing sheer surprise colour her face, Elphir pressed his lips together to hide his grin.

“That is – when did that happen?”

“About two hours ago.” He replied and then relayed to her all that had happened since the night before.

Siloril rubbed her abdomen absently as she processed the information with a thoughtful expression. “That does explain a lot,” she eventually said, and then sighed, “I am happy for them, even if it seems rather rushed.”

He hummed his agreement before adding: “Ada wants a two-year engagement.”

“Éomer King is not going to like that.”

At this, he tilted his head and stared fixedly at the marble paving the balcony. While he did agree with his wife, he also understood Éomer better than ever.

“Yes, and I am sure that he shall make known his displeasure when he joins us for a light meal here in a little while.”

“And it is up to you to manage him, as the three other Princes are at Osgiliath.”

Elphir shrugged slightly, his sight set upon her belly once more. She was resting her hand upon it as she looked out over the Pelennor Fields.

Siloril had always stood by his side, supporting him in his role as his father’s right hand and their future roles as the ruling Lord and Lady of Dol Amroth – despite all his failings and shortcomings. No one else could take her place – not even Nemir. Was she aware of that?

“Indeed. You and I…” Despite being married for so long, Elphir still was not one to reach out and touch her without her explicitly inviting him to. Yet now he could not help himself, so he tentatively placed his hand – the left one with all his and Nemir’s rings – over the one placed on her abdomen.

With a slight start, she looked at him before looking at their hands. Then she slipped her other hand over his, encouraging him to try and feel the baby.

Though he detected no movement, he still smiled and continued what he was saying. “I think together we shall manage just fine.”

Her pale hand was soft and small, only partially covering his, and he was unable to stop himself from comparing it to that of his fallen companion from Anfalas.

Elphir did not like being touched, but he could bear holding hands. And he realized that Siloril’s hand had always been easy to clasp. He just had not paid attention to it.

Which was foolish, because in her hands she had always kept his family’s honour, future and legacy. Why had he not paid attention to them before?

He stared at them in awe.

These hands had accepted him in marriage, despite knowing his lack of interest in women. These hands had laboured hard alongside his for his future office. They had given him Alphros and supported his siblings when they had needed kindness—the kindness they had bestowed upon him as well.

Noble, loving, earnest hands, that would keep him grounded in life and reality.

Though the pain of losing Nemir would never go away, Elphir would cherish what he had when it was still his to claim.

“Are you alright, Elphir?” Her voice broke through his reverie and he looked upon his wife’s face soberly.

“I am doing better, because of you.”

“Oh.” The dear woman seemed to be at a loss for words. He supposed he had not expressed his thanks often enough, for her to be so unused to them.

“I have… been missing Nemir all day, but it is easier to bear it... Knowing that I have you. And Alphros.”

With the hint of a smile, she supplied: “And the baby.”

“Yes, and the babe.”

She squeezed his hand lightly and, catching her fingers in his, he returned the gesture just as gently.

End of Elphir's Interlude

Chapter Text

Many faces and moods Éomer King had, and she loved every one of them. Desperate and insistent he had been when she had seen him at first chasing after her and pleading his case. Then he had been as sweet as pudding and shy as the sun during a storm, before his pride and tenderness had wrapped her into his embrace. Finally, calm and relief had relaxed his brow as he had allowed himself to be doted upon by her.

And so, for the past two hours, his head had been in her lap, and she had enjoyed studying his sleeping visage, counting the freckles, tracing the scars and caressing the hair on his jawline. And he had not stirred under her ministrations, not even when she had tugged a bit too hard on his hair while braiding it. This reprieve, this spell of peace had to come to an end, nonetheless. When she had stirred her legs to stave off the tingly discomfort in her calves, he had immediately opened his eyes and stared at her in plain wonder.

She had held his gaze with a fond, apologetic smile until he had murmured her name, disbelief colouring the susurration. “Lothíriel?”

“Éomer?” She had copied his tone lightly, unsure about his confusion.

There had been no reason to worry, however, for a pleased little grin had curled a corner of his mouth, revealing a dimple in his bearded cheek. “Nis him wilna gad, he meara ne maðma ne meododreama, Ænges ofer eorþan eorlgestreona, Þeodnes dohtor, gif he þin beneah.” (1)

While she had recognized that the words he had spoken were of the Rohanese language, but aside from the word meara, which meant horse, and dohtor which was daughter, she had not discerned what he had recited. The sonorous beauty of his deep rumbling voice paired with the foreign intonations of his mother tongue struck the chord of her curiosity. 

“What does that mean?”

He had not replied, not at once. With eyes squinted, he had risen then from his repose and settled next to her, resting his weight on the arm placed flush against her back. Looming over her, he had cast his eyes upon her, slightly squinted with adoration. Éomer’s proximity had already affected her, yet his gaze had further coaxed her face closer to his, promising the gentle brush of lips against lips, and more.

“Should I tell you?” he had asked, gently bumping her nose against his.

Her breath had been shaky. “Yes.”

“As you wish,” he had replied, further decreasing the distance between their lips until a hair’s breadth had remained. “He has no lack of joy – “

Here he had pressed a light kiss before moving back fractionally.

“ - Nor of horses, nor treasures – “

Again a kiss.

“ - the pleasures of mead – “

And another.

“ - Any of the noblest riches upon earth… “

Then he had stilled and met her eyes briefly yet meaningfully, before whispering the final line against her lips. “… If he has you, prince’s daughter.”

Though Lothíriel had attempted to gasp in awe of his impromptu poetry, he had been quite resolute in meeting her mouth with his. One hand had slipped to the nape of her neck to cradle her while she had wrapped her arms around his neck – only to spring apart when a loud and clear cough was heard from just outside the door.

And the world had folded them back into her planes. 

Realizing that it had been Sir Angrenor lurking just outside the door, Éomer had known at once that Elphir had found out about them. That had meant Imrahil had been in contact with his eldest son, and so a reply had been waiting for Éomer as well. 

Éomer had kissed his fiancée a last time before standing up, and sure enough, his eyes had fallen upon the letter from Imrahil next to her on the makeshift seat. And not seconds later after tearing the letter open, Éomer’s brow had furrowed, his jaw set and his nostrils aflare.

Truly he was magnificent, had thought Lothíriel as she had stared up at him, mesmerized.

Éomer had been too busy fuming to notice her admiration, for he had turned to her in barely restrained anger, he had growled. “Where the devil is Elphir?”

 The walls of the Dol Amrothian lounge were decorated with tapestries of sailboats and swans, and paintings of the shores of Belfalas Bay, while the blue and silver upholstery showed the rather hamhanded attempt to make the Princes feel at home. Lothíriel was sitting on her favourite chair, a veritable luncheon spread out before her on the table in the centre of the seating area. Elphir and Siloril had ensured a wonderful selection of cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, bread and pickles for Éomer to enjoy. 

But he was not having any of it, because he was not having any of it when it came to the contents of Imrahil’s letter.

Upon reading it, he had taken hold of her hand and hurried them to where she had told him her brother would be. Once there, Éomer had refused to take a seat and instead started pacing up and down. Lothíriel was not surprised by this. Her father was in no hurry to send her off, and though Éomer had improved a lot, his impatience was still part of his character.

Elphir and Siloril knew this as well, and they too were seated calmly as they watched the King of the Riddermark pace to and fro.

Then he came to a halt, rubbed his brow and sighed deeply before he finally spoke. “Elphir, I cannot accept this. In Rohan, there is no such thing as a formal engagement period. We have our handfasting ritual and that is it. I understand the difference in tradition, but nothing justifies a two-year delay!”

“Please sit down, milord,” Siloril kindly requested as she gestured to the blue and silver seat opposite her husband’s, “allow us to explain.”

Unable to refuse a lady, the young man obliged but sat down next to Lothíriel instead. Instantly his hand found hers and he squeezed it slightly. She squeezed back as she deftly avoided the disapproving look that her brother sent her, reasoning that he had already seen her do worse and Éomer needed proximity to calm down for this conversation.

Wisely, Elphir chose to stay on the topic at hand. "Gondorians have certain protocols to adhere to, my friend.”

“Aye, I am aware because of Éowyn.”

“So you know matters must be addressed before the wedding itself can take place. The announcement needs to be made, meetings must take place to discuss the alliance and all the bureaucracy and logistics that come with it.” Elphir paused and glanced down at the letter Imrahil had sent. “And we need to agree upon where to hold the engagement as well as the wedding. There is the dowry to discuss. Not to mention, your council will also want their say. Have you informed your sister?”

Éomer nodded curtly. “The messenger should be well on his way to Rohan by now. I expect a reply in about a week.”

“Yes, and that is merely to inform her about the match. As you can well imagine, the subsequent steps shall require significantly more time.” Elphir replied, his tone cool yet firm.

“I disagree. It is quite straightforward and all those meetings can easily be done afterwards. I urge you to recognize that the Gondor High Council makes affairs unnecessarily complex.” Éomer released her hand and stood up. “The relentless talks of trade and resource management – that are already taking up hours meaninglessly, mind you – they get easier, because of our marriage. Rohan is as cooperative and grateful as it has ever been.”

The Prince Heir stood up as well, perturbed by him towering over them – a clear act of dominance. “But Dol Amroth – “

“Whatever Dol Amroth wants from Rohan, Dol Amroth shall have it. If not immediately, then in time.”

Elphir stared at Éomer, taken aback. “Your counsellors are bound to disagree with you, acquiescing so easily!”

“They shall have the assurance of the High King Elessar himself. I have all trust that any demands made, from either parties, will be reasonable and agreeable.” He folded his arms, quite assured of his own words.

Lothíriel bit back a smile, not wishing the ire of her brother who was in truth advocating for her. But Éomer seemed unshakeable now. Though he had been too angry at first, he had managed to rein it in and instead remembered who he was.

The King of the Riddermark.

Her brother, however, was not at all happy with the power shift. “What about Lothíriel? She will need her time to immerse herself in the customs and laws of Rohan. There is so much she needs to learn.”

“Your sister has enough wit and experience to learn whatever is needed. And whatever she does not know by the time of our marriage, I know we can learn together.”

At this he met her gaze, his eyebrows slightly raised. A giddy feeling stirred in her stomach as she dared envision studying together one day.

Elphir was less amused. “All her possessions and assets need to be made available in Rohan. Dol Amroth insists that she shall have nothing lacking.”

“Anything she wants, she shall have, as long as it is within my power.” He turned to look at her again, this time with a small grin hiding under his moustache.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of his self-assurance. It was quite different from the indecisiveness she had to bear the past year, as well as the baffling ineptitude in communication he seemed to have suffered from last night in the store room.

Despite herself, Lothíriel’s thoughts then strayed to their affectionate behaviour, subconsciously comparing it to how it had been this early afternoon. There had been a dangerous kind of urgency last night that she had not felt today. What had been different?

She would have dwelt on this further if Elphir’s voice had not torn through her musings.

“Lothíriel.” Her brother was looking at her, a frown on his angular face, all the more emphasized by his curly black hair tied back. “Is there anything you would like to say? Any concerns?”

She looked down at her hands as she mentally cleared away the hazy cobweb of her intimate recollection. A pointed question like this from her brother meant that he expected a rational reply from her. “It… it would be good to sit and talk with Ada before I have to return to Dol Amroth and Éomer King to Rohan. Could you perhaps find a way to arrange that?”

It had been the right thing to say. He relaxed, placated that she was not showing the same impatience that Éomer was. Together with Éomer he then wrote a list of what they had yet to agree upon, as well as what Éomer’s response had been.

“I shall see what is possible in the little time we have before you both are set to depart in your respective ways homebound,” said Elphir as reached for another sheet of parchment to finish up the letter. “And I shall also meet with High King Elessar to make known to him the wish for an announcement, as it is apparent that time is of the essence.” There was a slight flicker of weariness that did not go unnoticed.

“Glad to hear you say that.” Éomer grinned and clapped Elphir on the shoulder, whose glare cracked and made room for a small smile.

Satisfied for now, he sat down next to Lothíriel again. “Lady Siloril. How is your health?”

With that segue into small talk, the four of them finally partook in the food and drinks set in front of them. As Siloril discussed the guidance of the Warden, Elphir sent the letter off and then made a plate for his wife and quietly placed it on the seat beside her near her hand.

Lothíriel had paused to look at their interaction, curious to see how matters were between her eldest brother and his spouse.

Despite each of them being disciplined and mature adults, they had had a frosty relationship for the majority of it, living as acquaintances instead of spouses. The passing of Sir Nemir had led to an even bigger chasm and Lothíriel had had to encourage them to seek each other out and heal together. But then she had gotten so wrapped up in herself that she had no time to check in on them – until this very moment.

And what she saw gave her hope.

Siloril looked up at Elphir and offered him a little smile in thanks before she picked up her fork and took a bite. With a slight nod, he sat down next to her and took a sip from his drink. Lothíriel could see that their postures were softer now than they had been before, their bodies slightly angled toward each other. Pleased with her observations, she turned her attention towards the tall blonde man sitting next to her.

Éomer was taking large bites but chewing them very deliberately as he was lost in thought, no doubt dwelling upon the letter that they had sent off to her father. Lothíriel always took great joy from watching him eat. There was something enthralling about the movement of his jaw, emphasizing his roguishly handsome looks and the quiet strength he exuded. It was no wonder that the private meals together in the herb garden had made her attraction to him grow. Just being next to him – even in the presence of others – made her insides tingle with rapture, now more than ever.

He met her gaze with a slight raise of his brow, wordlessly questioning her lack of appetite. To assure him, Lothíriel quickly took a bite from a slice of apple topped with cheese.

Siloril hummed slightly, the soft sound breaking the spell of their togetherness.

A look towards her sister-in-law told the young Princess that she had been amused by their affection. Elphir, on the other hand, had been pointedly focusing on his plate, unwilling to witness any intimacy that was so well-practised and therefore improper.

The result was an awkward silence. - Which then was broken with a loud noise.

The door had been flung open and in stepped a toddler with a storm of curly hair atop his head and thunderous discontent on his face. Following him was his governess, a weary-looking, middle-aged woman.

“Alphros, my dear.” Lothíriel sprang to her feet and beckoned for him to embrace her. As the boy walked to her and allowed her to wrap her arms around him, his attention was on the tall bearded fellow whom he had not met before.

Éomer returned his gaze with an unreadable expression, and Lothíriel felt Alphros’ grip on her tighten a bit.

When Éomer then offered his hand in greeting, the boy broke free from his aunt and hid behind the sofa where Siloril was sitting. In Sindarin, he then asked, “Who is he?”

Clearing his throat, Elphir stood up and made his son stand up straight opposite Éomer. “Alphros, this is Éomer, the King of Rohan. He is to be Nánig Lothíriel’s husband. Now greet him."

With a scowl on his round little face, the little boy bowed stiffly as he pressed a hand against his chest. “Well met.”

Siloril coughed slightly.

"Well met, King Éomer." He corrected himself with a clench of his jaw, unable to mask his incensement.

The King had little experience in dealing with children, but thankfully he chose to ignore the boy's tone.“Well met, Young Master Alphros. Your aunt speaks very fondly of you.” 

Alphros did not reply, but he continued to stare at Éomer, who then glanced at Lothíriel for help before trying again.

“Would you like to come to Rohan someday? The hills there are great for rolling down.”

Much to his father’s dismay, Alphros stayed mum and instead hid himself behind his mother’s seat. Elphir sighed and held his forehead for a moment before he looked at his friend apologetically.

“Forgive him, he is but a child. After hearing the news of his aunt’s betrothal with you and not with Lord Forgammon, his uncle, he has been quite upset.”

“I do not blame him,” replied Éomer empathically, “it must be tough to have a beloved family member move far away.”

“More than that, he had been hoping to see more of his uncle Forgammon because of the marriage.” Lothíriel shook her head wearily, but not unkindly.

Éomer looked at her, surprised at her words. “He prefers him over you?”

“He is very fond of Lord Forgammon.”

“I see.”

His expression had darkened a bit and he fell silent, and she slipped a hand in his to comfort him. She would remember to tease him about it later.

Alphros was eventually enticed to sit between his parents and have a plate of his favourites.

“When can we expect a reply from Ada, Elphir?”

“Not until the evening, I am afraid. Indeed, he and our brothers shall have their hands full with the taciturnity of former Captain Baranor."

“If that is the case, then I shall take Lothíriel to the encampment to introduce her.” Éomer stood up once more and nodded at Elphir.

Lothíriel stood up too, compelled by the firm grip on her hand.

“Wait.”

Éomer turned to her in mild surprise, and the flush of embarrassment spread on her cheeks.

“I cannot go in this state of dress.” She gestured towards her dusty skirts and then towards her less-than-perfect hair. “I must refresh myself and change.”

“I do not see the need,” replied he as he studied her appearance, “you look as lovely as always.”

Pleased with the candid compliment, she shot him a smile. Then she shook her head and released her hand from his. “Nay, you must wait, I shall not take long.”

After a quick curtesy to her company, she hurriedly made for her rooms, calling out for all of the maids to come help her get ready. After fifteen minutes of frantic maids hurriedly readying, Lothíriel reappeared in the doorway, dressed in her finest riding skirts, her most elegant cape and her Rohanese engagement hair ornament firmly secured in a refined hairstyle.

In her absence, the table had been cleared and Alphros had upended one of his toy boxes to play with his wooden figurines near the door. Éomer, who had been standing at the window, approached her with an appreciative look. He held out his hand and raised his brow expectantly. She shyly took it and promptly blushed as his lips kissed the top of her hand. “Princess.”

Just behind him, though, Alphros looked up and scrambled to his feet. Then he stomped his way to them and glared up at them. “Me too.”

Lothíriel looked at her nephew with apprehension, with his little frown and balled fists. “Do you want to meet the horse-lords?”

He nodded and he raised his arms towards her. “Carry, Nánig!”

“Is it possible for him to join us, Elphir?” She asked her brother, who nodded at Siloril to share what she deemed wise.

“He has taken his nap, so he should be fine,” Siloril said thoughtfully, still sitting on the sofa with one hand resting on her rounded abdomen. “You shall behave according to your station, Alphros. I expect no complaints about you.”

An indulgent grin appeared on Lothíriel’s face when the toddler put a chubby hand over his heart and bowed for his mother, whose strictness gave way to a smile. When he turned back to Lothíriel, she released her hand from Éomer’s and lifted him to carry him on her hip.

“Sir Angrenor will join you, of course.” Elphir stood up from the small writing desk in the corner of the room, and he folded his reading glasses into his inner pocket in his usual elegant manner.

“I assure you, she is quite safe with me.” The King spoke with a raised brow, folding his arms.

Elphir did not reply, but instead, he focused on helping his pregnant wife to her feet. When he was assured of her well-being, he took her hand in his.

“I am afraid I shall have to insist, my noble friend,” said he in a grave voice that forewarned any discussion, “The Rohirrim are a passionate folk and their King leads by example.”

The pointed look he gave his sister did not go unnoticed by anybody, but Éomer merely inclined his head in acquiescence. He knew how to choose his battles. 

 “As you wish, Prince Elphir.”

“I shall notify you immediately once Father replies. Shall we see you here afterwards, Lothíriel?"

And with that, Elphir and Siloril took their leave to retire to their rooms. Éomer led their ensemble to the High Stables where they mounted their horses, Alphros in front of Lothíriel on her mare Ferieth, and made their way to the encampment of the Rohirrim, just on the right side of the City Gate.

The camp was modest in size, as Éomer brought along only half of the King’s Éored. Some of these horse-lords were committed to learning from Gondorian craftsmen how to build traps and snares that would be placed throughout Rohan to keep the Orcs away. Others had wished to attend the Remembrance Celebrations that had been held throughout Minas Tirith, hoping to meet with their Gondorian friends and to reflect on the year past together.

When their party arrived, they dismounted and tied the horses to the post near the tree where Lothíriel had ridden Firefoot. From there they walked to the centre of the encampment, with Lothíriel holding Éomer’s arm and Alphros sitting on the shoulders of Sir Angrenor.

Despite his reservations, Alphros eagerly looked left and right, taking in every detail of clusters of the white and green tents that were arranged around doused campfires. Lothíriel too enjoyed looking about. Green and gold banners with the horse and the sun swayed gently in the wind, while the murmur of Rohanese floated up here and there as they made their way to a large tent that stood in the middle of the encampment. The large horses were allowed to roam the fields nearby while their keepers kept a close eye on them. In the distance, Lothiríel saw some of the horse-lords practising their skills, cheering and jeering at each other, their shouts intermingling with the clashing and clanging of their weapons.

The Rohirrim near at once noticed their King approaching and greeted him cheerfully. Of course, then their eyes fell on the Dol Amrothians, specifically on Lothíriel herself. The ones who recognized her from the Houses of Healing, took special care to bow to her. Those who did not know who she was, looked at her in awe or surprise and some of them even nudged a fellow soldier nearby to enquire about her.

Soon enough, Éomer King stood at the clearing adjacent to the royal tent, his men gathered in front of him in a sea of blonde, grey and ginger, looking both hale and curious. Lothíriel squeezed his arm nervously, which he responded to immediately with a pat of his hand. Éomer then cleared his throat and he spoke to them in their tongue. While she understood only a few words, she could surmise that he was informing them of their betrothal. The last sentence was the easiest to understand and her cheeks burned. She quickly found the ram's horn shell in her skirt's pocket and traced the spiral shape with her index finger.

“Riders of Rohan, I present to you your future Queen, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

She stepped forward and curtsied formally before them, deep enough for the sun to glint off her hair ornament.

There was a silence that was punctuated by the distant neighing of horses, but then one of the men - she remembered him, his name was Foltor - shouted something unintelligible (2), and soon enough the men started cheering and thumping each other's backs. The sheer ruckus made her laugh in surprise and she stepped back to Éomer's side, who quickly put an arm around her waist. Alphros looked around in awe, then he wiggled out of the Swan Knight's hold to observe the Rohirrim from up close.

However, not all men were happy, Lothíriel noted. Three older men, dressed in shiny armour and sporting elaborate facial hair, were standing together on the far right side of the crowd and they looked quite displeased with the news. Anxiety knotted in her stomach and she surreptitiously took a few soothing breaths, her hand once more finding the little seashell for comfort. Two young men began singing a joyful song and soon the rest of the men joined them in their merry melody. Éomer bore a broad grin as he looked here and there, enjoying the impromptu celebration of his match with Lothíriel. If he had seen the three men glaring at her, then he had decided to pay no heed.

Lothíriel and Alphros listened to the singing in amazement. The rolling sounds of the Rohanese language sounded even more compelling in song. No wonder the Rohirrim put so much value on their oral traditions. It was no less magnificent than the mighty structures of Minas Tirith or the endless and powerful sea shaping and shearing the Belfalan coast. Even a single horse-lord deserved a captivated audience - and Lothíriel knew now that when she had witnessed Éomer's lament that fateful day after the Battle of Pelennor Fields in the herb gardens, she would always cherish the audible heritage of Rohan. A small wish bubbled up in her chest. Would Éomer ever honour her with a private serenade one day?

Eventually, the crowd quieted down enough for him to share his instructions and to ask a few questions to the men who had been learning the skills of snares and traps. The same two men who had started singing, shouted something that made Éomer first look confused and then laugh out loud. It seemed that they were trying to convince him of something.

It was lovely to see how at ease these men were with each other, thought Lothíriel and she tried to follow what was being said. She kept hearing the word Cwen frequently, and it seemed that Éomer was trying to prevent something from happening. Meanwhile, the three men continued to stare spears and daggers at her. She glanced at Sir Angrenor and he met her gaze to let her know that he was very much aware of them, his hand near the pommel of his sword. Alphros was standing near him, still looking around with studious interest, especially at the helm of one of the men nearby.

“Princess Lothíriel.”

She turned to Éomer, who was looking at her apologetically. “May I kiss you?”

Pink-cheeked she then whispered. “Here, in this moment? Why?”

He nodded slightly with his head towards Rohirrim. “They expect us to, it is tradition to seal everything with a kiss.”

Lothíriel saw the men look at her expectantly. No doubt the Rohirrim had a different perspective on public display of affection than Gondorian. She bit her lip. Éomer seemed to have no qualms. She was to be the Queen of Rohan and she decided that the Queen would never object to any affection from the King of Rohan. Public or otherwise. 

She placed her hand on his chest and raised her chin expectingly. Immediately he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her firmly and extensively on her mouth. 

The men cheered again, voicing their approval of their King’s union, as they broke the kiss. He released her but he kept a hand at the small of her back. 

Blushing deeply, she smiled shyly at the men, meeting the eye of a few that she knew by face or even by name. Foltor put a cloth over his nose and mouth and then pointed at her. You are the Veiled Lady, he seemed to say.

Then Lothíriel’s eyes slid to the three men, and her body stiffened in discomfort. They no longer attempted to conceal their discontent. As the cheers died down, one of them stepped forward and he spoke to Éomer in a tone that was on the edge of both reverence and anger. Behind her, she sensed Sir Angrenor taking a step closer to her. The King however seemed to listen to the man calmly, though his grip on her was tightened.

When the man was done speaking, Éomer gave a reply that was ill-received by the three, because all three spoke up at once.

With a thunderous voice, Éomer instructed them to be quiet, and he glared hard at them, jaw set and nostrils aflare. Then in a dangerously low voice, he warned them to be careful of how they spoke. He then pointed at the King's tent and the three of them immediately entered it. Éomer then beckoned one of his men closer and they spoke quietly.

It was uncharacteristically silent and Lothíriel worried if perhaps she was the cause of it. The three men, with their elaborate armours and exceptional facial hair, held some sort of importance, and it was safe to say that they were unhappy with the union. The men in the crowd shared her distress, as they murmured and looked at one another.

"Oh. Ooo!" 

Then Lothíriel was distracted from her worries by her nephew Alphros. He had gotten hold of a helm and he was dragging it to where Lothíriel and Éomer stood. With a bit of difficulty, he put the helm on, heavy though it was. Having managed to balance the headgear, he gingerly pulled out a stick he had found. He took on a wide-legged stance, brandished the stick in the air and roared with his little voice. “Fo’ Ro’aaaa!”

Amused by his antics, the men began to laugh, and Lothíriel and Éomer smiled as well.

“Fo’ Ro’aaaa!” He yelled again and he began swinging the stick around. One of the Rohirrim echoed his call and he lifted a sword in the air.

Alphros flinched at first, but then he shrieked with joy and called out again.

More men joined him, all shaking their spears or brandishing their swords when he yelled.

Then he laughed a salvo of utter happiness, making the precariously perched helm fall of his head. Lothíriel picked him up and dusted him off, but he wanted to finish his spiel grandly.

“FO’ ROHAA!” He shrieked again, gesturing wildly, and all the Rohirrim echoed him one last time.

Éomer thanked Alphros in Sindarin and then thanked his men in Rohirric for entertaining the future Prince of Dol Amroth. He then told them that he would inform them of their return to Edoras by dinner time before he dismissed them.

“You have had your fun, little one.” Spoke the Princess to her nephew. “Do you like the Rohirrim?”

“Fo’ Rohaa’!” He replied cheerfully and waved his stick-sword about.

Éomer reappeared at their side. “Lothíriel, forgive me for making a display out of us just now. The Rohirrim are not a folk to hide their affections or their anger. It is something we shall have to be conscious of.”

Lothíriel’s heart gave a pleasant little squeeze at his consciousness of her. She shifted Alphros, who had put his head in the crook of her neck, to one arm. She held out her free hand for him to take, which he gladly did. “You are permitted to kiss me whenever... If it makes the Rohirrim happy, I mean."

A twitch at his lips belied that he was pleased with her answer, and as his eyes rested upon Alphros, Lothíriel knew that he had chosen to forgo a flirtatious remark for the sake of the toddler. 

“Indeed, the Rohirrim do not conceal how they feel, like those three men who are now in the tent. Who are they and why are they upset?”

He frowned slightly. “The three of them have each a female family member they found suitable to be Queen. I had told them that I could not marry for another two years.”

“Oh. Are they important?” asked Lothíriel, unable to keep the worry out of her voice.

“Aye,” he replied, yet he did not seem particularly concerned, “I shall have to appease them. Would you come with me to the tent? I am sure they wish to verify our agreement to marry."

"Verify?" echoed the young woman astonished. "Verify how?" 

Éomer smirked sardonically. "Follow me and find out, milady."

Angrenor and Alphros remained outside while the two of them waited just at the tent flap. 

The inside was spacious yet sparsely decorated, not at all how her father's tent was from the inside. But then, she considered, Éomer was staying in the Southern Guesthouses and there was little need for a full setup. There were a few furs and rugs spread on the floor and the King's desk was toward the back. On top of it was a wooden tray and a small stack of scrolls. Next to the desk stood the three men, who immediately stopped talking upon seeing their King enter his abode. 

"Lord Goldcanstan, Lord Léod, Lord Fastdig."

They bowed and greeted him in unison. 

"This is Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. She has agreed to become my wife and your Queen."

Again she curtsied and while they all bowed their heads for her, they stayed quiet. Then the tall man in brown and green armour spoke, Léod, his voice belying his dissatisfaction. 

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, it remains to be seen whether she is. It is because of your own policy changes. We must do due diligence, I am sure you understand."

Lothíriel glanced up at him to see an odd expression on his bearded visage. There was a grin there that held not an inkling of humour. His eyes were blazing with anger. 

"Very well," he snapped before stomping to the desk and picking up the tray. "I have proof that this union is by the support of the High King, the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Lady Éowyn. Milady, if you would allow me to offer the hairpin up for inspection..."

Wordlessly she took out the hair jewellery and placed it on the wooden tray. One by one they studied the small sword-shaped pin, the ornament with horses and the three chains that connected the two parts. 

"Any objections?" Their King demanded, and they all said no. 

"Milord," said Lord Fastdig, "when and where was the proposal accepted?"

"In the office of the Chief Warden of the Houses of Healing, this afternoon just past noon."

"Any witnesses, milord?" 

Much like how he had stood in front of Elphir, now too stood Éomer with his arms folded and jawline pronounced, anger radiating off him. Lothíriel placed a hand on his arm and he immediately covered it with his own, glad for the comfort.

"On my desk, you shall find the signed and stamped testimonies of Warden Bair Nestad and Healer Ioreth of the Houses. With them, you shall find the other documents of verification as well."

The three men looked at one another before they moved as one to study the papers. With a huff, Éomer turned to her and placed the ornament back in her hair, his hand brushing against her cheek as he did so.

"Well?" 

"It all seems to be in order."

"Do you have any questions for the Princess?" He then asked the three horse-lords, though his tone implied that he would not, in fact, appreciate anyone questioning her. 

It was Lord Léod who dared to reply. "We have none, sire, but we do have some questions for you. What -"

Éomer raises his hand to quiet him. "If you would please wait until the lady leaves. I do not wish your angry tongues to harm her sensibilities."

At his terse interruption, all three of them stiffened, and Lord Goldcanstan even dared to glare at his ruler. Lothíriel shifted with unease. That man had yet to speak, and she felt that out of the three, he was to be the most troublesome and dangerous. Yet Éomer seemed to have no qualms. Instead he led her out of the tent, back to where Angrenor and Alphros awaited them. Alphros was petting Ferieth while Angrenor talked with one of the Rohirrim. 

"What were those documents, Éomer?" asked she, keeping her voice low.

Éomer let out a soft groan. "Those are proofs."

"Proofs?"

"Yes, proofs of sobriety, of education and of fertility."

"I beg your pardon?" She could not believe what she was hearing. "There are documents about my fertility?"

By his wince, it was evident that he felt bad about it. "Forgive me for putting you through this -"

"Am I some prize horse that they dare enquire after such matters? I do not remember signing anything of the sort."

"The signatures are from your father and the Warden, who attest that you are in perfect childbearing health and have no family history of reproductive complications."

A sickening feeling pooled in her abdomen before it shot up her throat, and she rested a hand against her chest. She was a daughter of a noble line from Númenor. Was she to be treated like cattle for sale?

"You are the King," she said when the discomfort subsided somewhat, "can you not simply demand that they accept me? Must I be put through such humiliation?"

Éomer took her hand in his and kissed the top of it, his hazel-green eyes wide with regret. "Being that I am the first of the Third Line of Kings, and our children shall be the continuance of that Line, the Council unfortunately must ensure that there is no disruption in the provision of heirs."

She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry. "And why have you not informed me about this beforehand?"

Again he winced and shook his head in shame. "I am sorry, Lothíriel. I was afraid you might refuse to marry me because of it."

"Think you me to be so weak in my dedication to you?" Anger crested in her chest and she struggled to keep her voice down. "That - that some awkward questioning would discourage me from - from committing to you?"

"Lothíriel, I - "

"It is bad enough that you did not bother to inform me about the prerequisite of sobriety and the approval, but you were all too happy to spend time with me in that storage room as well as to sleep in my lap! You could have spared a moment to warn me about this."

"I could have. You are right to be upset with me." He admitted without a second of hesitance, and he took both her hands in his and kissed them both multiple times. "The bureaucracy is something I am not particularly familiar with, especially now that the Council of Rohan has spent the past year drawing up amendments and policies to avoid a repetition of - of - "

She filled in for him, realizing his struggle to find the right words. "Of Wormtongue usurping the power with the support of some of the Houses of Rohan?"

"Yes."

"The sword of bureaucracy cuts both edges, as Erchirion likes to say. It seems we cannot escape the accountability and responsibility that comes with the privileges we hold," Lothíriel sighed deeply before fixing him with an annoyed look, "You should have just married me when Ada suggested it."

At this Éomer laughed softly and pulled her closer for a kiss, but she would not allow it. Not yet.

"Éomer."

"Yes?"

"This cannot happen again. You must not keep me in the dark about anything - ever."

"I will not do so again, I promise."

"Good." She allowed him to kiss her, seeking comfort in his firm touch and ticklish beard. "We shall need to discuss this later, to be sure."

"As you wish." He brushed his mouth against her forehead, earning a sweet sigh from her. “You should return to the Citadel now. Shall I see you at dinner?”

Lothíriel nodded, knowing that she needed time to process what had happened, both the happy events and the embarrassment she had faced today.

But she did not let go of him just yet. Now that she knew he was hers in earnest, being separated from him was odd and daunting. Her unwillingness was plain to him, and he whispered his love for her in her ear, causing her to relax somewhat and smile.  He then beckoned to Sir Angrenor, who immediately took hold of Alphros. Éomer helped Lothíriel mount Ferieth, and Alphros too was placed onto her horse.

Éomer watched them ride off before he went back into the tent.

It was just before dinner that the King of the Riddermark made his appearance.

 “Lothíriel!”

She sighed contently as she turned towards him. Hearing her name echo across the courtyard made her heart pound so hard she thought he could hear it too.

He quickly made his way towards her the moment he laid eyes on her, a hint of a smile hidden below his moustache. His emerald green cape formed a lovely contrast against the maroon breastplate that he wore over his tunic, a combination that Lothíriel had come to appreciate greatly. As a change, his hair was tied back in a braid, emphasizing the circlet on his brow. He stood very close to her, immediately reaching for her hand and kissing the inside of her wrist, a blush evident on her face.

“Westu hal, Éomer.” She looked at him with adoration. “I have missed you.”

She had put on the silver and green Elven gown that she had worn when they were formally introduced, though she had forgone the formidable jewellery and intricate braids of that day. Instead, a simple circlet sat in her loose curls. His gaze on her was warm and heavy, and it thrilled her to no end. From the light pink colour visible on his bearded cheeks and his darkened eyes, she could see that he was pleased with what he saw. He held out his hand towards her, wordlessly asking her to close the distance between them, and she obliged by sitting down with him on the marble bench near the tree. 

“This dress. You have worn this before at the coronation.”

Lothíriel blinked. Her brothers never noticed anything about her outfits, though they always assured her she was ‘lovelier than a sunset at Cobas Haven’. But unlike her Gondorian brothers, the young King from the North was not one to waste words on insincere compliments. “You recall that?” She asked, rather breathlessly.

“How could I not, Lothíriel? During the coronation, I could scarcely look anywhere else.”

The man, a seasoned warrior, ruthless and tireless on the battlefield, had had the presence of mind to notice and remember her. It made it that much easier for her to forgive him for his lack of communication skills. 

“During the coronation? But I was introduced to you after the banquet.”

Éomer’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Aye, but I noticed you earlier, standing next to Amrothos. At first, I thought you were an Elf, because of your attire and stature. But on closer look, I saw the similarities between you and your brother, which was when I realized who you were. To this day I feel very fortunate that you - with all your accomplishments and ambitions - chose to pay your undivided attention to me."

 “Oh, Éomer.” She caressed his face tenderly. “I am the fortunate one. You are the sweetest.”

“Sweet.” He repeated with a small grin. “You are the only one to call me that.”

“And with that I am content. Do not share your tender side with anybody else. I shall not be able to bear it.”

Both laughed softly, and she thought of the natural exception for their children. While the talk about her productive health had been embarrassing, it did germ thoughts about having children one day. 

He kissed the hand still on his cheek followed by a kiss on the other hand. “You are marvellous, Lothíriel, as the Veiled Lady and the Princess. And I am admittedly envious of that.”

"Envious? Of me?" 

He smiled sheepishly. "Do not sound so startled. You are secure in your identity as a Princess as well as your profession as a herbalist. It is something to be proud of."

Chills ran up her spine and she sat up straight, a strange discomfort clawing at the back of her head. "It took me a long time to reach this point of contentment," she replied, her voice more downcast than she wanted it to be, " yet I still struggle with what I can and cannot do."

"I see." They held each other's gaze, both frowning lightly. There were matters she had not shared with him. Éomer nodded. "I would love to hear more about it someday."

She smiled at him, the relief his words had given freeing her heart from the whispy fingers of melancholy. "And you shall. But you are right. I am very proud of myself." And as she said so, she sat up straight with her chin high, earning another chuckle from him. 

"Should you be binding yourself to me, o lofty maiden? For I am but a wretch lacking in many aspects of my being." 

He had spoken with a cheerful tone, but the underlying meaning of his words dampened her amusement.  “What then is so lacking in you, Éomer Eomundson?”

He shook his head and shrugged lightly, "Come now. Surely you can name them yourself."

"No, I wish to hear what you think of yourself."

“To start with, I have a terrible temper - " 

“You are passionate and driven even in the worst of times.”

He chuckled in wonder. "Why do you sound so angry when you say that?"

"Because I wish to rid yourself of your foolish notions immediately! Go on. Tell me your next flaw."

“Very well. I... I have not had the training Théodred had – “

“Ada praises your willingness to learn. We shall learn together.”

She seemed to amuse him to no end, and she in turn reveled in the sound of his rumbling chest and the sight of his broad smile and squinting eyes. It was not dissimilar to their meetings in the herb garden, but now there was no sense of secrecy or impropriety. Their companionship had a future.

“My manners can be rude – “

“It is part of your rugged charm, Éomer.”

He sent her a look of disbelief. “Éowyn has frequently complained that I reek.”

“Well, then you shall simply have to... bathe more.” 

They locked eyes and then their laughter echoed through the courtyard.

"Alright. How about this?" Éomer bent forward to whisper in her ear. “What if I told you that I am a greedy person?”

“Surely not – you never take more on your plate than you can eat. You could stand to eat less bread and more vegetables but – “

“I am not talking about my appetite for food, Lothíriel.”

Why was he being so cryptic?

He cast a quick gander about the courtyard before wrapping her tightly in his arms. 

"Éomer!" She warned. 

He ignored her tone and pressed his face in the crook of her neck. "I am talking about my appetite for you, min leof. Why do you think I am so eager to get you to my bed in Edoras?"

Lothíriel gasped and hid her reddened face in both her hands while he barked a laugh that rang through the open space of the Citadel courtyard.

“No rebuttal for that, Princess Lothíriel?” The King said teasingly, and she lowered her hands to glare at him, her face still pink.

“Éomer King, do not make fun of my ignorance!”

“It is not ignorance, but it is innocence – one that I respect enough to stop myself from indulging in more than mere kisses and squeezes.”

That earned him an incredulous look from her. "You did not have that attitude last night, Éomer."

"No - yes..." He flustered for a moment before he allowed himself to confess. "Last night was close to the boundary of what I can afford to do without risking your innocence."

Lothíriel considered his words carefully while she leaned into his embrace. "And what about today?"

A new voice interrupted their conversation. "Beg your pardon, milady."

It was Sir Angrenor standing close by but with his face turned away from them, his eyes fixed on the sapling tree. "Your brother is asking for your presence."

With a deep sigh, Lothíriel relinquished her grip on her fiancé and stood up. Her curiosity for his boundaries would demand a continuation of this topic - and perhaps a physical assessment as well. When she murmured this under her breath to him, Éomer chuckled under his breath and offered her his arm to hold. Together they made their way to Merethrond, with a weary Swan Knight trailing behind them.

The announcement of their trothplight was made in the presence of the High Council and the High Court of Gondor just before dinner. There was a smattering of applause and curious remarks heard here and there, but neither the couple nor Prince Elphir made an effort to elaborate the match to the crowd. It was evident that the union had taken the nobility of Gondor by surprise. This fact amused Lothíriel to no end, as all the residents and staff of the House of Healing had been holding bets regarding the nature of their relationship. 

She certainly was not looking forward to being questioned by her peers, and the prospect of starting her journey back home looked a bit more appealing if only as a way to escape their inquisitions. Luckily, no one dared approach them during dinner because of Elphir's stern and exhausted expression.

 “Tomorrow morning, you should have an early breakfast and head out to Osgiliath. There you shall meet Prince Imrahil and have a meeting on the flagship of the Dol Amroth fleet to discuss the details of the union.” Prince Elphir was speaking to his sister and Éomer in a tone that allowed for no discussion. “Afterwards Lothíriel shall embark on her swan-ship and return home. Perhaps you can return to Rohan from Osgiliath. If need be, we can arrange a resting area suitable for your men.”

Éomer nodded and folded his arms to stroke his beard thoughtfully. “I genuinely appreciate Prince Imrahil making time for me at such short notice. And I thank you as well, Elphir. You have been quite patient with us.”

“Then you shall not mind me saying how strenuous it is to manage the betrothal of a King and my sister. I am fortunate that tomorrow you each go to your own homes so that my nerves can be at ease.”

Lothíriel held her breath as she gauged Éomer’s expression, which was stony. Unlike her politically correct father, Elphir was not afraid to make corrosive remarks. The men both then held the other’s gaze challengingly. Even Alphros had stopped fussing and was looking at the two formidable men, the tension palpable even to him. Then at once, they started laughing together and Elphir patted him on his back.

Éomer shook his head slightly with a wry smile and then clapped Elphir on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Your nerves are faring better than mine did, Elphir. With Faramir and Éowyn I was not sure what was more stressful, leaving them alone or being in the room with them.”

This time Lothíriel and Siloril joined in the merriment, and the former breathed a sigh of relief. Éomer's temper paired with that of Elphir could have caused some strife, but fortunately, the two friends were able to keep their mood light. 

When Éomer finally turned to look at her again, he saw to his dismay that she had barely eaten anything. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“No, I am just a bit distracted, milord.”

A disapproving sound came from his throat, not liking that she called him her lord.

“Are you having trouble with your appetite again, Lothíriel?” asked Siloril, who was sitting opposite them and trying to wipe Alphros’ mouth. “I thought you were finally getting better.”

Éomer’s hand halted its ministrations. “You have not been eating properly?”

“I assure you that I am quite well, milord.” She squeezed lightly in his hand, but he was not easily placated.

He looked at her plate again, now genuinely paying attention. “That is it? Here.”

He lifted a nice chunk of meat from his plate and put it in hers. “You like venison, so finish it.”

Before she could protest, he released his hand from hers and started cutting up the venison into bite-size pieces. A deep blush crept up from her neck to her cheeks. Her brother and her sister-in-law had paused their meal to observe Éomer’s behaviour.

When he was done, he took a bite from a bread roll and met Elphir’s gaze with lightly raised eyebrows, as if to challenge him to remark. The Dol Amrothian Prince merely smiled slightly and resumed his meal.

“Thank you.” Lothíriel quietly said and took a bite. She did not know whether she should have been upset with him for treating her like a child, or that she should kiss him for caring so much. So she merely took another morsel of venison.

Her meal was not yet finished when Éomer excused himself to go talk to Aragorn. She watched him sit next to the High King and engage in what seemed to be a lengthy discussion. And a serious one, too.

"Lady Lothíriel!" A sweet voice interrupted her observations, compelling her to look up at who had appeared.

"Lady Minieth," she replied, pleased to see her future sister-in-law, "well met! Please sit down. How have you been?"

The young woman smiled, though not as brightly as Lothíriel was used to from her. "I am well. Tell me, have you heard from Erchirion?"

"No, I imagine he is busy with the negotiations at Osgiliath. Is everything alright?"

She pushed a lock of her sleek, dark blonde hair aside and nodded absently. "Nothing to worry about, milady - Oh!"

Suddenly Minieth sat up straight and glanced at Éomer. "I must congratulate you on your match! You two make a fine kingly pair."

"We do, indeed," was Lothíriel's proud reply, eliciting a giggle from Erchirion's intended.

"Allow me to celebrate this momentous occasion with a gift."

"A gift? I do not - "

"How about I paint a portrait of you?" Her green eyes sparkled with excitement and Lothíriel took a moment to admire the lady's vivacity. "Though your guidance with plants has been most useful, I derive such pleasure in accurately capturing the likeness of darling people like you."

The idea of gifting Éomer with an image of her certainly appealed to her vanity, and Lothíriel readily gave her assent. Furthermore, she needed to pass the time as Éomer's talk with Aragorn seemed to be a lengthy one, and she needed to wait for him so that he would walk her back to her rooms. Preferably with a detour. Minieth called a servant to fetch her materials and began making quick work of the first sketch of her subject. Slowly but surely Merethrond emptied save for some stragglers, servants, the two Kings and the two young ladies.

"What do you think?" Minieth asked eagerly as she showed her the sketch pad that held Lothíriel's likeness. 

"Why that - that is so wonderful!" Lothíriel studied the page with widened eyes. "That does look like me. How swift and capable your hands are, Lady Minieth."

"Yes, I know." This time it was Minieth's turn to be proud - and deservedly so. "Now, I shall do my best to have it painted by the morrow, but if I do not manage it, I shall have Prince Elphir send it after you. Then you may send it to your King if it pleases you."

"I am sure it shall please me," insisted Lothíriel, still in awe, "but will it not impede your rest?"

"I do my best work at night." She replied as she gathered her materials. "I shall take my leave of you now, dear lady. And if you do hear from Erchirion, you shall let me know, yes?"

After receiving her assurances, the Lady of Lebennin left Lothíriel to stare at Éomer in despondency. Why was he taking so long?

"Milady." It was Sir Angrenor. "Éomer King has asked me to escort you to your rooms."

"Surely not!" She stood up immediately and went over to the dais. "Forgive me the intrusion, Your Majesty. Might I have a word with Éomer King?"

With a knowing smile, Aragorn told her to take her time. Éomer however did not seem so well at ease.

"Lothíriel, my love. You should retire for today. I am discussing a pressing matter with the High King."

"Will you not spare me a moment?" asked Lothíriel, somewhat hurt at his impatience. "What is so important?"

He scratched his beard for a moment before answering. "I need his guidance on how to speak with your father tomorrow."

Oh.

"Very well," she acquiesced, "that is important. May I kiss you goodnight?"

The request pleased him. With a hand under her chin, he leaned in and firmly pressed his lips against hers.

"I shall see you tomorrow, dear Lothíriel."

"Tomorrow in the early morning," she supplied, and he inclined his head before walking back to the dais.

As Lothíriel walked back to the Dol Amrothian quarters with Sir Angrenor, she finally felt the fatigue set in. Despite sleeping until late this morning, so much had happened in one day and how she longed for her bed! They turned into the hallway that led to the inner courtyard of the Southern Guesthouses, from whence the Dol Amrothian quarters could be accessed.

There, not far from the entrance, stood a figure - one that turned to look at who had come. 

"Princess Lothíriel. Sir Angrenor."

"Lord Forgammon. Well met."

"Indeed."

As he stepped closer to her, she noticed in the light of the torches that he looked the same as ever. Impeccably yet modestly dressed. Neat curly hair and a short-trimmed beard. A reasonably handsome face with a terse, disdainful twist of his lips.

"I hear congratulations are in order." His voice was softer than usual.

"Thank you, milord."

She was about to curtsey and leave when he spoke again.

"It seems he is not as big of a fool as I thought him to be."

Though it was obvious that he was referring to Éomer, she did not how to reply. Part of her was somewhat embarrassed. She had refused to him the involvement of Éomer so strongly, yet there she was - engaged to that very same man, not a day later.

He took another step closer and peered down her face with his customary frown. It took nearly all of her remaining energy to not shrink away from him.

"Milady, you seem to have taken my advice on accepting his suit, though I doubt you did it for my sake."

The man was being irksome again.  

"I assure you, I did not." 

He nodded and turned around. Instead of walking away though, he looked over his shoulder, not quite meeting her eye. "For all the times I have given you advice, Lady Lothíriel, this is the one time I wish you had not followed it."

And then he left, his steps barely audible. 

Lothíriel pressed a hand against her mouth, astonished by the encounter with her former suitor. 

Taking pity on his charge, Sir Angrenor offered her his arm and led her to her rooms.

To be concluded.

Chapter Text

After taking a deep breath and sending one last precautionary glance down the empty hallway, Lothíriel knocked firmly on the oaken door to the inner rooms of the Rohanese quarters in the west wing of the Southern Guesthouses.

A muffled voice demanded from the other side. “Who goes there?!”

She knocked again, louder.

“Damn it!” She heard in Rohanese and the door was unceremoniously pulled open the next moment. A tall, blonde man came out, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Who… Lothíriel?!”

She would have been amused at Éomer’s look of astonishment, had she not been utterly distracted by the sight of his damp and bare chest.

“Are – are you not going to let me in before someone sees me?” She gestured vaguely behind her, her eyes fixed on the fine blonde hair spreading from his chest to his navel. Nothing else registered in her mind for a second as she gazed at him in awe.

But then he immediately pulled her inside and shut the door behind her, locking it for good measure.

It was then that she faced them, the tattoos she had been thinking about during her moments of relaxation. They looked even better without the cruel palette of bruises she had last seen them with.

“What are you doing here, Lothíriel?!”

She tore her eyes away from the inking on his chest to look up at his, feeling only partially guilty of eyeing him so improperly.

His jaw was tight and his nostrils were flared.

He was angry.

And just freshly done with bathing too, she noted absently as she quickly cast a glance at his wet blonde hair.

“I wanted to see you?”

Éomer huffed as he moved back and looked her up and down, one hand still on her upper arm.

“What were you thinking? What if someone had seen you? “

“Come now,” Lothíriel tried to reassure him with a smile, “no one has seen me, I was very careful.”

“You promised me that you would not put yourself in harm’s way – “

“But – “

“And yet here you are.”

Whatever she had had in mind when coming here, she had not expected him to argue with her presence. Raising her chin defiantly, she locked her grey eyes with his hazel green and stepped closer. “Sir Angrenor is standing on guard at the main door to the quarters. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Your Swan Knight can be bought?” Éomer’s frown deepened.

“Not with money, “ she replied hastily, not wishing to harm her companion’s reputation, “he made me promise to take along his niece to Rohan as my lady-in-waiting.”

“Why is that?”

His questions were tiring her. She had not come here to argue. “Never mind that, Éomer,” her tone was soft but insistent, and she rested a hand on his upper arm, mirroring his stance. “I am not inclined to discuss this any further.”

Her touch spurred him into action, and he quickly turned away, bereaving her from her view.

“Do you think it is wise to take on someone else’s troubles?”

She followed him towards the dressing area, scowling as best as her burning cheeks allowed her. His back was no less impressive than his front. “Do not tell the Princess of Dol Amroth how to manage her affairs.”

“Huh.” He sent her an unimpressed look over his well-toned shoulder. “Very well. May I then request the Princess of Dol Amroth to give me a moment? In case you have not noticed, I am not yet dressed for your esteemed yet unexpected company.”

There was not a fibre of her being that had not noticed it. Indeed, a pleasant and yet curiously impatient feeling had coiled itself in the pit of her abdomen when she had been confronted with his bare upper body. The man was incredibly attractive – in this, her mind and body were in hearty agreement. And his current dress suited her just fine.

However, Lothíriel pressed her lips together and nodded her assent.

As he slipped away, she wondered at her cowardice. Where was the Lothíriel that had so boldly groped and so eagerly squeezed at the blonde Rohir when they had been secluded in the storage room of the Merethrond kitchens? Or the Lothíriel that had so comfortably allowed him to kiss and embrace her and even sleep on her after his accepted proposal? Or even the Princess Herbalist, who had been able to apply ointment to large expanses of Rohirric skin?

Éomer was to be hers, he had promised it to her in the presence of High King Elessar’s court. There was no reason for her to hold back her urges to touch him – to an extent he had even welcomed them. Why then did her hands feel as sluggish and clumsy as if they were stuck in the treacherously thick quicksand hidden on the southeastern side of the cliffs of Cobas Haven?

“Min leof.”

She looked up from her hands to see him looming over her, now dressed in a black undershirt with red and gold embroidery. His beard was neatly trimmed and his hair was almost dry now. The hint of a smile curled his lips as he reached out for her hands. First, he kissed one hand, then the other, before placing a kiss on her inner wrist, his moustache tickling the delicate skin.

Lothíriel sighed in contentment. Whatever the state of her nerves was, she was grateful that he did not hesitate in his affections. Swiftly Éomer lifted her chin with his hand and leaned in to give her a light kiss. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him. Then he closed the gap and kissed her once more very gently.

In response, she moved one hand to entangle her fingers in the damp hair at the nape of her neck, then she deepened the kiss with a satisfied hum. Something was thrilling about the softness of his lips, the warmth of his mouth and the scratching of his facial hair against her skin. Lothíriel pressed further into him, her grip on his hair tightening and then she ran the tip of her tongue across his lower lip. Glad to have her courage return, she then opened her mouth wider in invitation, hoping for an even deeper kiss. And he eagerly met her tongue with his through a clashing of lips and teeth, his one hand tightening its hold on her waist while the other slid down her backside and squeezed it slightly.

“Mm!” The light pinch of his hand was a pleasant surprise, the delicious sensation causing Lothíriel to moan into their kiss. At once, he pulled himself away, somewhat gasping.

Her breathless disgruntlement at this was apparent because the sound of his amusement reverberated in his chest.

“I thought… I thought we agreed to meet for breakfast.” He shook his head with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

 “I could not wait for so long.” She murmured her reply into his shirt.

“Yet it is unwise to slip into my room unattended, Lothíriel.” He paused for a second then continued with a whisper in her ear that sent a tremor down her spine. “I am feeling particularly greedy at this moment.”

When she looked up at him, struck dumb by the heat in his words, her breath caught in her throat when she saw that same heat in his gaze. His blonde brows were furrowed above unwavering eyes and his jaw was somewhat slack as he continued to stare.

Oh, to think that he desired her so much! Lothíriel took hold of his shirt and pulled him back into a kiss, curious to find out the depth of his greed. Her eagerness spurred him to explore her mouth with his own, tasting and probing before kissing his way over her jaw and down the side of her neck. The hot yet ticklish sensations sent waves of arousal down her body, each of them stronger than the previous one, and when she felt him nip at the curve of neck, a surprised whine resounded in the otherwise empty and quiet inner room of the Rohanese quarters.

Éomer’s grip tightened on her for a moment, pressing her further into him, before he released her with a soft grunt. She kept her hands on his back, willing him to stay put, wishing that he would never need to stop. With each embrace, Lothíriel felt her love and desire for him expand, taking up every nook and cranny in her chest, filling up her heart with utter adoration for this sweet-hearted and loyal young man from the North. His presence in her mind has become so fixed, at times she struggled to remember who she had been before she met him. Ah, but that Lothíriel had been incomplete. That old Lothíriel had been so unaware of the joy and sweet suffering that came with devoting oneself to someone else. Old Lothíriel had not yet realized that to love someone was to have their life converge to the existence of one person. That Lothíriel had not yet realized that to love someone was to see the world and to see themselves through someone else’s eyes, and discover there is an entire dimension of beauty and fragility that is dedicated to the bond between two people. Two people who discovered that their existence was incomplete without one another.

And for Lothíriel, it was Éomer, son of Éomund, in whom she could see the fulfilment of her being. It was he who she could never think to be without. She loved him so intensely, so wholly that she marvelled at her own ability to do so. And she thanked the Valar for the privilege.

With a deep sigh, Lothíriel gently pulled down his head, closed the distance by standing on her toes and pressed her forehead against his. “Éomer,” she whispered as she closed her eyes, “I wish you would never stop touching me.”

His intake of breath was sharp and he moved his head to rest it in the crook of her neck, the weight of his body pressing down upon hers with all its heat and hardness. With his face pressed against her skin, she heard him mumble. “You speak dangerous words, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

She laughed softly, understanding that her wish right now was too much to ask for, for the both of them. Their physical intimacy had reached a new level and though part of her begged to continue, she somehow knew that anything more would be too much for her. After all, not minutes ago, she had been overwhelmed by the recent changes in their connection and the allowances and implications that they had committed to for each other. Perhaps there was some wisdom in Gondorian propriety indeed.

Though perhaps not in the way the court intended. Pushing their physical intimacy any further would be too much of a good thing right now. Like a third spoonful of honey in a cup of herbal tea. A step too far into the waves at the incoming tide, or embroidery too lavish for a chemise.

“I suppose a remark like that tests your boundaries?” asked Lothíriel, referring to their unfinished conversation of last night.

“It does,” he confirmed, now moving to bury his nose in the hair behind her ear.

“What defines those boundaries then? What we did in the storeroom and the storage room, even now – it seems different each time.”

“The boundaries seem to change given the circumstances, I suppose.”  He lifted his head, finally composed again.

Tired of standing in the same position for so long, she was glad that he took her by the hand to the nearest sofa seat. He sat down and pulled her on his lap, both her legs to one side. It was unexpected but pleasant. His arms wrapped around her waist and he rested his face once more against her neck. This way though, she was not burdened by his weight and she settled against him with a hum of contentment.

“Would you reckon that there is a method to understand where your limits lie?”

What followed was a discussion of how he felt around her, and what caused him to become bolder in his expression of his affection for her. Imbibement was one factor – which she thought could apply to her as well, but the choice of her outfit and even his made it more difficult to keep his passions in control. Then there was the amount of emotional charge in that moment that could influence him, as well as the time of day. The last parameter seemed odd to her and she asked him to elaborate.

“The idea of waking up every morning to you being next to me is something I look forward to immensely,” he spoke against her skin, the ticklish feeling evolving into yet another wave of heat crashing in her abdomen, “especially now that I know how restful my sleep is in your presence.”

She too liked the thought of that. She had imagined it many times and every time her heart would race frantically at the idea that they would be alone in bed without restraint or restriction. Being entirely at ease for the entire night, touching and kissing him freely, having him close to her – whatever could she possibly wish for?

Two years was a long time to wait, she thought dejectedly as she considered the lines and freckles on his face. With a light touch, she tilted his face just so and pressed a chaste kiss against his lips. His chest vibrated with something akin to a groan before he tightened his grip on her and answered her kiss with twice the fervour, a hand travelling up her back to caress the bare skin at the back of her neck. The seemingly innocuous touch fanned the flames in her core and Lothíriel felt encouraged to copy his attention from before. Tearing her lips from his, she peppered kisses on his jaw until her nose caressed the shell of his ear. Then she kissed the soft skin below his ear and she felt it trill against her lips as he murmured her name. Pleased with his reaction, she continued her attentions down the side of his neck before boldly pressing an open-mouthed kiss on his throat, the skin only slightly prickly due to the recent shave.

Again he muttered under his breath - something Rohanese, and then, before she could process what had happened, Lothíriel had been pushed onto her back on the sofa. Éomer was hovering over her, staring down at her while breathing heavily, one arm braced against the back of the couch with the other hand still at her waist.

“Éomer?” Lothíriel asked, half confused and half preoccupied with admiring him from below. Seeing his bulky frame loom over her, Lothíriel had to resist the wild urge to pull him down against her and plant another kiss on his throat, just so she could see how he would react. The more rational part of herself reminded her that she was not yet ready to cross his boundaries. And hers were becoming more and more clear to her, as well.

“Ah, forgive me,” he rasped and he pushed himself upright, relinquishing his hold on her, “that is a sensitive – I mean, we should…”

As his voice trailed off, the realization set in and Lothíriel pressed her lips together, feeling both embarrassed and electrified by what had just occurred. Slowly she sat up, her heart still pounding loudly in her ears.

Éomer had his back to her, one hand resting at his hip while he leaned against the nearest wall with the other one. When he heard her call out his name, he looked over his shoulder at her with a sheepish smile. “I need a moment, Lothíriel. And you should not kiss me there again - Not until we are married, at the very least.”

“Oh.”

Yet another thing to look forward to. But then she just loved kissing Éomer. She might even venture to say that she loved it more than herb lore and the salty sea breeze that swept across Belfalas Bay in late spring.

Yet she supposed she had challenged their boundaries enough for now.

With a happy little sigh, she stood up and walked over to the closest mirror, which was hanging near the wash basin where she tidied her hair and adjusted her clothes. While she did enjoy seeing herself visibly marked with his affections, breakfast would be served soon and she needed to be presentable. When she had snuck out for an early morning rendezvous with her beloved horse-lord, she had remembered to bring along her lip stain and a moist soap cloth to tidy herself up.

The premeditation of her actions was as scandalous as her visit to his private chambers itself, but she had been careful and inconspicuous enough to know that she would remain undetected as long as she did not leave any evidence on her person. Her years of secretly exploring the Dol Amroth fortress and the Citadel as a child and teen had enabled to do just so.

As clear as day she could remember Amrothos telling her to abide by the rules so she would not be expected to break when and if she did. Though she knew that her brother had not intended for her to use this knowledge to risk her maiden reputation, the wish to be kissed by her Éomer had driven her to bend the norms of propriety.

And the brunette in the mirror certainly looked too well-kissed at this moment.

She fished out the cloth and the little box of dark pink pigment from her hidden skirt pocket and set to work with clever and nimble hands. First, she wiped away all the colour that had spread beyond the edges of her slightly swollen lips because of their joint effort. Then she used her little finger to spread the colour over her lips, carefully covering them from edge to edge with the colour. Satisfied with her application, she studied the rest of her face in the mirror just in case she overlooked something.

Éomer had walked up to her in the meantime and was now standing next to her, staring intently as she used the cloth to neaten the edge of her make-up. She met his gaze through the looking glass with a smile.

“What is on your mind, Éomer?”

“I shall tell you when we are married.” He raised his eyebrows slightly.

“That is unfair!” With more force than she intended, she dropped the pigment box back into her skirt pocket, but she did not care. There was a sweet and handsome man standing next to her, his attention unwavering and promising.

And he could not keep his hands off her, either, for he folded her into his arms, her back pressing against his chest. “What is unfair is making me wait two years, my love, when you know that I am not a patient man.”

She studied the two people in the mirror. Would it be her vanity speaking if she were to say that she had never seen such a beautiful couple? All her senses seemed to agree with her pride.

“Maybe Ada can be convinced to shorten the engagement period. How did the talk go with the High King?”

Éomer kissed the top of her head before releasing her. “It was enlightening. As I have said before, I have much to learn and the guidance of our elders is essential for our success. Which reminds me…” He began walking towards the other end of the room.

She straightened her clothes and followed him, across the elegantly decorated common room of the Rohanese royal quarters. The furniture and the decoration were similar to that of the Dol Amrothian quarters, but the tapestries on the walls depicted rolling hills and horses, to make the Rohirrim feel more at home. There was a hallway that led to the bedrooms prepared for the royal guests and Lothíriel was tempted to check them out, but she dared not breech that boundary either.

“I have something I want to show you.”

Éomer stood at the large desk and pulled out the chair. She eagerly sat down in his chair and looked over the files, rolls of parchments and other materials strewn across the desktop.

“You have asked me before what or who made me change my mind about marrying you.”

“I did,” she affirmed, excitement and curiosity colouring her voice, “Was it Éowyn who was able to convince you to reconsider your stance on marriage?”

He frowned as he opened a drawer, obviously in search of something. “She made me face the reality of my feelings, but she did not convince me. Neither did anyone else before or after her.”

“Who else tried beside her and Amrothos?”

He shot her an exasperated look. “There was Imrahil, Faramir, Éowyn, two Rohanese nobles, about half of the Gondorian council, Ioreth of the Houses of Healings, the Warden himself, Queen Arwen, Master Meriadoc and Master Pippin, Samwise Gamgee, Gandalf Greyhame, King Elessar and the last one to have a go was Amrothos.“

Lothíriel laughed. “That is quite a list.”

His hand found something and he took it out. “Indeed. Yet there was someone who was able to give me the reassurance no one else was able to.”

Éomer held out an opened envelope containing a letter.

“When Éowyn was looking for the betrothal hairpin, she found a hastily written letter next to it, addressed to me. Thus she sent it along the ornament.”

Lothíriel accepted the letter and her breath caught in her throat when she noticed the broken seal on the envelope. It was from the King of Rohan.

“Théoden King?” she asked as she met his serious gaze, breathless from surprise.

He nodded. “Go on, read it.”

With reverence, she took out the thick parchment and folded it open. It read:

Éomer.

Beloved sister-son, worthy heir to the throne of Rohan. I write to you, knowing that I might leave for the Halls of our forefathers.

Death brought you to Edoras and War kept you a-roam the plains of Rohan. I would have Peace and Life become your companions instead, not just for the sake of the People of Rohan. Let not your past withhold you from your future. Seize happiness, change Edoras to befit you, and make Queen the woman who artlessly commits herself to you. Live to see the glory days of the House of Éorl renewed.

Thus are my final instructions to you, Éomer King.

With hope,

Théoden,

Last of his Line.

She read the letter twice more, her eyes lingering at the phrase ‘the woman who artlessly commits herself to you’. Had Théoden foreseen that his nephew would be so easy to love? Lothíriel had known of Éomer for just more than a year and she had adored him so utterly. There was no doubt that his very own uncle had seen such qualities worthy of love and dedication in him. She would remain eternally grateful for the late King’s presence of mind to know that his sister-son would need his encouragement and support after taking up his mantle.

Éomer had come to stand behind her, leaning on the back of her chair. She turned to look at him, her eyes shining in awe.

“Your Uncle, Éomer... I wish now more than ever that I could have met him. Even in such dire times, he had the forethought to write you this! When did the letter come to you?”

He sighed and sat down on the armrest of another chair. “Faramir had brought it along and gave it to me after the Concluding Debate.”

Lothíriel thought for a moment. “That was just before luncheon, I think?”

“Aye. Though through the letter I finally gave myself leave to accept my feelings for you, at that time I was of the notion that you were about to be betrothed to Forgammon.”

“Which explains why you were looking at me so angrily the entire luncheon.” For just a moment she attempted to suppress her amusement, then the young woman smiled broadly at her fiancé. “You poor dear.”

He could not share her mirth, the embarrassment colouring his cheeks. “Nay, I was angry at myself.”

The Princess shook her head affectionately. “And when you found out the engagement ceremony did not concern me, you still hesitated.”

“Naturally. I told you to move on, and it seemed that you did.”

“You dare complain, Éomer Éomundson?”

“I dare not, beloved.” He squinted slightly as he leaned down and kissed her cheek in an obvious attempt to placate her.

Yet she could not resist a complaint of her own, only half-serious in her intent. “How cruel you were to me. Letting me be courted by another when all I could think of was you.”

He groaned before moving her chair to face him. Then he kneeled in front of her and rested his forehead against hers.

“Do not speak so unkindly, Lothíriel. I am yours.”

She pressed her lips together, moved by his plain and earnest words and reaffirmed, “And I am yours, Éomer.”

Though from this angle her view of him was distorted, still she could see the end of his moustache curl up because of his broad grin. Always glad to see him smile, she sighed happily.

“I should finish getting ready,” he eventually said and rose to his feet, “we have a busy day ahead.”

Upon receiving her assent, he then went back to the dressing room and returned in full armour, with its trademark maroon leather and silver details, the baldric with his scabbard crossing the front of his cuirass. His helm with the white horsehair plume he placed on the desk before he beckoned for her to stand up.

She immediately obliged and wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing in his scent. Even with his hard exterior, she knew he was soft only for her. She felt safe and whole,  her face resting against his armoured shoulder. She did not mind the extra layers at all. They suited him and kept him safe. For a few minutes, they remained in their current position, contently nestled against each other.

“Éomer.”

“Yes?”

“I feel perfectly at ease in your arms.” She replied and she wondered if he remembered her saying this to him before – that day of her ride on Firefoot.

Éomer then laughed softly, and she then knew he remembered, because he leaned down and kissed her sweetly. Then he broke the kiss, but he kept his face close to hers and let his eyes skate over every inch of her blushing face. And thus he murmured her name with gentle reverence. “Lothíriel.”

She sighed and pressed her lips together to keep herself from falling apart due to the sheer affection that coursed through her veins for him.

“I am going to miss you very dearly, Éomer.”

He made a light sound, pleased by her words, but before he could show her the extent of his contentment, they were interrupted.

A light knock was heard from the door and instantaneously, his hand reached for his sword.

“It is Sir Angrenor!” Lothíriel hastily took hold of his arm to put him at ease. “It means that it is almost time for us to leave for breakfast.”

Éomer visibly relaxed, his frown fading and his jaw unclenching. The young King then took her hand and kissed her wrist in the manner he had done before, sending a lovely little shiver up her spine. She hoped she would never get used to it.

“Lothíriel.”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you will keep yourself out of harm’s way.” This time his words were the echo of that fated day with Firefoot.

“I promise.”

“No sneaking away or visiting dangerous places. After this, I mean.”

She smiled impishly and she noticed his lips twitch as well, but he did not smile. Instead, he embraced her tightly against himself and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

Another knock.

Reluctantly they let go of one another, and after a last cursory glance in the mirror to see if her hair ornament was still secure, Lothíriel allowed him to open the door for her.

Angrenor stood waiting for them, evidently peeved at making him wait. Éomer nodded his thanks and led his fiancée down the hallway towards the exit.

The Swan Knight trailed behind them and yawned behind his hand.

Lothíriel snickered softly when she heard Angrenor mutter under his breath. “Feruion was wise to retire when he did.”

“I have something for you. From Minieth.”

Lothíriel pressed a package into Erchirion’s hands after he had helped her off Ferieth.

His perplexed gaze met hers before he looked down at the thick package not bigger than the size of a dinner plate. It bore an oval-shaped seal with five waves – symbolizing the five rivers that ran in Lebennin.

After their secret meeting, Éomer and Lothíriel had joined Elphir for a relatively quiet breakfast, as it had been still early in the morning.

From there the two siblings and the King had gone to the High Stables, mounted their horses and led the small party of Swan Knights and the host of the Rohirrim to Osgiliath.

Before Lothíriel had been able to leave Merethrond, she had heard her future sister-in-law call out to her to stop. Upon seeing her flustered and uncharacteristically unkempt state, the Princess had paused in surprise. Taking in the untied hair, her stained fingers and the oddly glinting chain hanging from Minieth’s girdle, she had requested her brother and her fiancé to go on ahead.

“Are you well, Lady Minieth?”

“Milady, where were you?” Minieth had asked, pushing aside her loose dark blonde waves and looking closely at her. “I sought all over for you, but I was unable to find you in your rooms, nor the Houses of Healing nor any of your usual haunts. Where – “

Then she had abruptly ended her speech and cast a glance towards where Éomer had left. The sharp look she had given the brunette then had told Lothíriel that she had put two and two together about the young lady’s disappearance that morning.

The embarrassment had coloured her cheeks, shocked that she had been found out so easily by her quintessentially Gondorian sister-in-law, but before she had been able to plead her case or beg for silence, Minieth had held up her hand.

“Never you mind about that, milady.  I have come here to ask of you a favour, and also to give you your portrait.”

At Lothíriel’s immediate agreement, she had given her two packages, one addressed to Lothíriel and the other to Erchirion. The one that had been hers had been opened then and there and the accuracy and technical skills of her portrait had moved the Dol Amrothian to extend her lavish praise upon the artist. She in turn had smiled proudly before making her request.

Deliver the package to her fiancé Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth, under the highest discretion.

“From Minni? What is it?”

“I would not know, brother,” replied his sister as she straightened out her blue riding skirts and checked whether her hair ornament was still in place, “she wants you to open it when you are alone.”

Peculiar though the request had been, Lothíriel had other things to mind. Her father and Amrothos were now walking up to them after having welcomed Éomer and Elphir, so she put some distance between herself and Erchirion.

After greeting the Princes, Lothíriel went to Éomer and tucked her arm in his and together they led the Dol Amrothian Princes to the Rohirrim who were settling in for the refreshments that Imrahil had arranged for them. At the centre of the old capital Osgiliath, was the Grand Bridge that had been recently rebuilt by the benevolent craftsmanship of the Dwarves. New had been the large plazas on either side of the Grand Bridge. While the destruction of Osgiliath had been thorough and widespread, the buildings near the crossing had been reduced to mere rubble. As one of the main trade routes would pass through that bridge, the High King and the Dwarves had agreed to leave a clearing on either side to ensure easy passage in the future. Conveniently, the plazas could be used for encampment, as the majority of the nearby buildings were not yet fit for use. Thus the Rohirrim had settled on the western Plaza, not far from where two vessels of the Dol Amrothian fleet were moored to the southwest pierside. One was the flagship, the Alproval, while the other was a swift-looking cutter named Renior, the type of sailboat that the Dol Amrothians lovingly called cygnet as it was dwarfed in size by the more grandly built ships of the Dol Amrothian naval fleet.

The horse-lords admired the ships from afar while they settled in and partook from the refreshments arranged for them. The half dozen Swan Knights were eager to teach their peers whatever they were curious about while they also had a small meal, thus adding to the merry mood that the Rohirrim were already experiencing because of their King’s betrothal. Not all men were cheerful, however. Standing at the edge of the encampment, dressed in finer armour than most, were three middle-aged horse-lords, and they were watching their King closely and not too fondly, either.

As Éomer gave his men instructions and discussed some matters with Imrahil and Éothain, Amrothos pulled his sister back to where Elphir and Erchirion stood, indicating that they wished for her to join their discussion.

In Sindarin he spoke after a nod of towards the host. “Elphir. Have you noticed those fellows glowering at Éomer?”

“Aye, I have a full report on them thanks to Sir Angrenor.” Elphir frowned slightly. “They are powerful, but even their strengths combined cannot match Éomer’s position.”

“Do you think they will cause trouble for Lothíriel?”

“They might, if Éomer is not able to manage them. Lothíriel?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment before giving her input. “They are the representatives of three of the greater families in Rohan. Apparently, they have been trying to get one of their own married to Éomer.”

“So they are naturally upset.”

“Éomer had assured them that he would not be marrying anyone soon, but then he changed his mind.” She touched the pin in her hair as she looked at Amrothos, who had given her one of the three chains connected to the hair ornament. “Thus he is doing what he can to mitigate the political... unpleasantness. He is their King after all.”

“Hmm.” Elphir considered the Rohirrim from where he stood. “It has been merely a year since he inherited the throne. These men seem to have decades of experience – experience that your dear fiancé lacks.”

Lothíriel glared at her brother, but she was unable to provide a rebuttal, for she knew he was right.

The four siblings shared concerned looks before they followed their father and Éomer King onto the Alphroval.

The last chapter coming soon.

Chapter Text

Lothíriel scowled at Erchirion as he suppressed yet another grin. He was amusing himself greatly at the expense of the horse-lord sitting across the table at him, though his mirth plain was to his sister. She had expected Amrothos to participate in his delight, but he was staring at the table sullenly, and his sister sighed softly. The topic at hand was no doubt bearing down on his good humour. The fact that he was present nevertheless was encouraging and comforting to her. She loved Amrothos as he loved her.

The support of her brothers was securing her future with Éomer, and her father was supporting her too. Even if her father was currently being more of a politician and less of a parent.

Prince Imrahil was a formidable leader and politician and even now he was enjoying the upper hand over the green King from the North. He could have had the meeting on shore, in one of the structures of Osgiliath. Indeed, he had many offices and meeting Halls to choose from in the former capital of Gondor. Yet in a move that was very much Dol Amrothian, he met his future son-in-law on the Alphroval, keenly aware that the ship’s movements would unsettle his mind and his stomach.

Éomer was not good on ships, not even large ones that were moored in the currently calm waters in Osgiliath. With remarkable unsteadiness, he had navigated his way to the greater cabin above deck, where Prince Imrahil had arranged a luncheon.

Soon they were all sitting down, Lothíriel next to Éomer King - with a concerned expression on her face. Elphir was next to the Rohirrim King, looking warily at the ill-shaded tinge visible under the man’s beard. The other Princes had taken seats opposite them. Imrahil smiled benignly at Éomer while gesturing at the table which was generously filled with a wonderful variety of foods and drinks.

Éomer was well aware of the nature of the arrangements, but he remained composed. With a clear of his throat, he replied. “You have my gratitude, sir, but I wish to establish our timeline as soon as possible. Tell us what you have in mind.”

Imrahil nodded and made himself a plate before he spoke. “Now that we have had the announcement yesterday, I think a betrothal ceremony in Minas Tirith would suffice. It should be done after Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn’s wedding but before their departure to Emyn Arnen.”

“I agree, it is convenient for the guests as well.”

“And the wedding itself... it shall be held in Rohan, after two years.” Having said those words, Imrahil leaned back, doubtlessly curious to see the young man’s reaction.

Next to Lothíriel, she felt Éomer’s body stiffen up as the words sunk in. Not wishing for him to lose his patience so soon, she gripped his hand under the table and squeezed hard. She understood his avidity, but she and Éomer both knew very well that the Prince of Dol Amroth was testing it. And it would not do to flounder so soon. When he turned to look at her, she offered him a little smile as if to say ‘No matter what, I am yours.’

Éomer cleared his throat and poured himself a drink with his free hand. He swished around the liquid in its vessel not unlike how he considered Imrahil's statement. After he took a sip, he finally made his reply. “Prince Imrahil, I appreciate your unwillingness to part with Lothíriel, but I beg your understanding for the sake of Rohan. It is my wish to give Rohan her Queen sooner rather than later so that the restorations can be completed with the Queen already on her throne instead of trying to fit her in after the fact.”

The simple logic appealed to Elphir, who sat up straighter, and Imrahil too could see the sense in the Rohanese ruler’s words. However, he would not back down yet. “You cannot establish her rule if her domain is foreign to her, though. She shall need time.”

“I agree.” Éomer calmly said. “And so does your daughter. She has already requested me to arrange a scholar and a scribe to come to Dol Amroth… by your leave, naturally.”

Prince Imrahil was not the only one who had gone to great lengths to prepare for this meeting. This fact did not go unnoticed by Erchirion. More than once did he smile at the agitation that his father could not mask, and Lothíriel could not help but wonder what had stirred her brother's latent rebellious side.

Imrahil remained unshaken, still. What followed could be described as a verbal racketball game between the two most powerful people in a confined space. The Dol Amroth siblings quietly looked from one man to the other and back, and so on, as each matter was served and volleyed until both parties managed to reach an agreement. The verbal fencing reached its climax just as Erchirion began fidgeting with the package he had received from his fiancée.

“The most significant delay shall be due to the necessary negotiations between Gondor and Rohan. The respective Councils must have their say in this."

The table had been cleared of all the food and drinks, save for a bottle of wine.

“Indeed, the bureaucracy insists upon taking their time,” Éomer replied. Then he called out to Éothain, his right-hand man, who immediately handed him a large roll of parchment. One that bore the seal of the High King Elessar.  “Fortunately for all of us, but especially myself, preliminary negotiations have been done by representatives of both Gondor and Rohan...”

“Negotiations? By whom?” asked Imrahil, incredulous.

“By Lady Éowyn and High King Elessar.”

Everyone stared at Éomer in disbelief. Erchirion even paused his fidgeting to look at the Northman with mild interest.

He offered Imrahil the roll, saying, “Truthfully, I was not aware of any such discussions between my sister and Elessar –“

“When did they even meet?” Imrahil asked sharply, but then the answer occurred to himself immediately after. “The week the host of Gondor was in Edoras.”

“They must have sat together while I was away, or else my men would have made me aware.”

In silence, everyone observed how Imrahil read and re-read the document.

Meanwhile, Erchirion had started opening the letter from his fiancée. It was true that he was supposed to open it alone, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Suffice it to say, Lothíriel thought he was acting quite out of sorts.

“Tell me this, Éomer King...” Imrahil’s steely voice cut through the quiet, causing Erchirion to start and he dropped his letter to the floor. Its contents skidded out on the wooden flooring at his feet and he dove down to gather it at once. His sister did notice it, but like all the others, she was more curious about her father’s reaction to the preliminary negotiations.

“How on Arda did your sister negotiate all of this weeks ago -when it has been two days since you made your intentions towards my daughter clear to me?”  The usually cool and collected Prince of Dol Amroth was breathing heavily, a hard frown marring his noble visage. Soft-hearted though he was for the young King of the North, he did not enjoy being bypassed by anybody - not even the High King and the Lady of Rohan.

“Sir, may I answer that question?” asked Elphir, his tone gentle but firm. “It is evident that though Éomer King has only just come to terms with his feelings for Lothíriel, both the High King and the Lady Éowyn understood him better than he did himself.”

Éomer opened his mouth and closed it before bowing his head for a moment. Then he met his friend’s gaze with utmost sincerity and said: “Aye, this is the truth. Forgive me for not knowing myself, my good friend. I was afraid I was not worthy of your dear daughter’s companionship. And a part of me still feels that way – “

She squeezed his hand, reprimanding him for thinking so little of himself. He glanced at her, smiling, before turning back to the Princes, focusing not on Imrahil but on Amrothos. “ – though I now have the courage and perseverance to work hard to deserve her. And if not for my own sake, then for the sake of Rohan I am willing to labour for the rest of my life.”

With bated breath she awaited her father and brothers’ reaction to his plea, hoping they would accept Aragorn and Éowyn’s efforts. Though she had not read them herself, Éomer had shared with her the gist of them and to her, they seemed to be the right approach to tackle multiple issues in the treaties related to their marriage. A look at Elphir told her he seemed encouraged by the preliminary agreements between Gondor and Rohan. Erchirion, on the other hand, seemed to be agitated about something else, but he flashed her a confident smile when their eyes met. It was when she turned to her youngest brother that her heart dropped.

Her usually cheerful brother’s mood had been predictably subdued because of the imminence of her move to Rohan, but now his jaw was clenched and his eyes trained fixedly on the ground.

“Amrothos, what say you?” Imrahil too had been observing his sons.

For a long moment, he continued to glare at the table and then he looked up, his lips pulled into a grim line and an uncharacteristically heavy frown just below his curls. “The propositions. They are a sound basis. I think Sir Baranor should make good use of them.”

“After some amendments, of course,” added Erchirion, “though we have informed the High King of the latest, there will be some developments today that might require change.”

“Yet overall I think they have done a great kindness for us by broadening the foundation.” Elphir beckoned for Lothíriel to have a read while they awaited the writing materials to make some notes. For the next hour or so, the table discussed the finer points of the treaties and made a list of the matters that needed to be focused on later.

 “So, Ada,” Lothíriel spoke after she was done adding yet another remark to the long list of discussion points, “where does this put us?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I think a year and a half from now.”

Though this was significantly shorter, Éomer did not look happy. It was clear that Éomer was struggling to keep his frustration at bay, something that did not go unnoticed by his betrothed. She deftly snuck her hand in his once more and squeezed it.

Effective it was because he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “A year and a half seems better, but it is still a lot. What is the cause of it?”

Imrahil stood up and paced the room with slow, steady steps. “Simply put, it is logistics. Even when we all agree about... Everything... The distance between Dol Amroth and Rohan is not easily traversed even with the fastest of horses. In this case, it is specifically about moving materials, supplies, food and furniture. The whole trade route needs to be re-established. Even if we start now, we shall need at least a year.”

Everyone fell silent, racking their minds for a solution.

“I suppose there is no shortcut in this matter.” Said Éomer eventually, a hint of defeat in his tone. “If we have the wedding during harvest time – “

“There is a shortcut!” Exclaimed Erchirion, and he muttered his surprise that no one else had thought of it before he had.

Lothíriel had recognized the look in her brother’s eyes and she immediately turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“The Dwimorberg Pass, you know of it. The literal shortcut King Elessar took. We can make use of it.”

“The Paths of the Dead?” clarified Éomer. “Those are too narrow at too many places for carts and wagons to pass.”

Erchirion stood up and retrieved a map of the Unified Kingdom from the shelves at the other end of the grand cabin, and spread it out on the table. He pointed at the Dwimorberg, where in its north was Edoras and in its southern valley was Erech. Further south was Dol Amroth.

“The distance between both cities is less than half of the route that circumnavigates the White Mountains.” He drew the line with his finger. “I propose two things. One: we establish a port in Erech. Two: we request the Dwarves that shall take up residence in Glittering Caves, to make the Paths of the Dead suitable for trade. That could mean we could sail from Cobas Haven to Erech and go by horse and cart through the Pass to Edoras.”

He looked around, curious to see their reaction to his plan.

“Men have always avoided Erech,” Imrahil said, slowly and still half in thought. “The plains have been haunted.”

Elphir replied, “Aye, but High King Elessar took care of that. All the Oathbreakers have paid their debt and no spirit should haunt Erech or the Paths of the Dead.”

Erchirion nodded, happy that his brother and father also saw the potential. “We should have someone make sure, officially.”

Éomer was not sure. “Shall the Dwarves be willing to do such labour in relatively little time? I imagine they want to prioritize settling in the Caves.”

Lothíriel had also been studying the map. “The Dwarves could benefit from the trade route. They could even make an underground passage connecting the Caves with the Pass. They could establish trade agreements with Dol Amroth, Gondor and the Haradlands quite easily that way.”

There was an unmistakable spark of pride in the eyes of the eldest Prince. With a smile, he looked about before pointing his hand at his youngest son.  “Amrothos, you should take the lead on this. Master Gimli shall be in attendance of the upcoming wedding, so I recommend you establish rapport – “

“Sir, with due respect,” Erchirion interjected, “this is my idea. I should be in charge of it.”

For a moment, it was deathly silent in the largest cabin above the deck of the Alphroval. Prince Imrahil had fixed his gaze on his second-eldest son, his lips pressed together grimly. “You are in charge of the Southern trade routes, Erchirion. It is why I am settling you in Pelargir with Lady Minieth.”

His son shook his head in discontent. “We are involving Sir Baranor in this, are we not? I can easily manage both the Southern and the Dwimorberg Pass route.”

“Sir Baranor has only agreed to act as a liaison. For this route to succeed, especially for Lothíriel’s sake, we shall need someone physically present in Rohan. You cannot take it upon yourself, because the Lord of Lebennin has his expectations of you, besides you managing the Southern route.”

Before Erchirion could retort, Amrothos spoke up. “You shall need me in Rohan?”

He had been sitting stony-faced until Erchirion had rolled out the map. Then he had stood stony-faced, listening to what his brother had to say. It had occurred to him only then, that this discussion was for his benefit, too.

“Yes,” replied Imrahil, “considering that Elphir is in charge of Dol Amroth, Erchirion of the South, you are needed – “

“I shall do it!” Amrothos quickly said, his energy returning. “I can be in Rohan, in Erech, wherever you need me.”

Erchirion glared at his younger brother contemptuously, a look that did not go unnoticed.

“Then it is decided,” Imrahil said, his voice ringing clear and warning him to stay quiet. “Is this agreeable to you, Éomer King?”

Lothíriel and Éomer shared a look. Éomer squeezed her hand softly.

“Aye. I shall speak with Master Gimli as well, and gather a party of Rohirrim that are brave enough to deal both with ghosts and Dwarves.”

“There are no ghosts left in the Dwimorberg,” Lothíriel said with a small smile on her lips.

“Seeing is believing, Lothíriel. Our people and horses stay away from the Paths of the Dead. But for you, I can make it happen.”

A blush crept up her cheeks at the ardour behind his words and in his eyes, and she smiled coyly up at him, momentarily forgetting everyone else in the room.

“Ulmo’s – " Amrothos cut himself short and faked a cough as Imrahil glared at him.

Erchirion did not laugh, however, his malcontent rolling off him in waves. He reached out to the wine bottle on the table, but Amrothos stopped him with a knowing look. The brothers stared at each other before the elder sighed and acquiesced. He leaned back in his chair, still feeling upset.

Imrahil sent his sons a look, one that Lothíriel recognized as ‘we shall talk later’ before he turned to Éomer. The discussion continued, involving everyone except for Erchirion who excused himself and left the room. Lothíriel watched him go with guilt. Normally when she was upset like he was now, he would follow her to check on her, but she could not leave this meeting to return the gesture. Instead, she met Amrothos’ gaze and wordlessly pleaded for him to look after their elder brother. He stood up too and followed his brother’s wake. 

The remaining Dol Amrothians and the two Rohirrim reconvened to establish the new timeline and a tentative date for the wedding. An hour later, Lothíriel led Éomer down the gangway holding his arm. He had managed his nausea bravely, but she could see he was glad to be back on solid ground.

Erchirion and Amrothos had been lounging in the shadow of the tent that was raised for Éomer and rose to meet them, looking relatively calm. For a little while the Princes of Dol Amroth and the two Rohirrim spoke amongst themselves before eventually Imrahil, Erchirion and Amrothos had to take their leave. Baranor awaited them, and armed with new negotiation points, they had a wealth of information to discuss and agreements to make.

One by one, Éomer thanked the Princes for their efforts and bade them goodbye. Lothíriel then took a moment alone with her father and simply held him in a quiet embrace for a while, emotions suddenly welling up and taking hostage her vocal cords. In all her willingness to establish a wedding date that would please Éomer, she had not considered how difficult it must have been for her father. She might have given him the feeling that she was eager to leave her Ada, and the guilt welled up in her eyes as she pressed her face against the cold yet so familiar silver and blue cuirass of the Prince.

Without seeing her face, Imrahil caught her inner turmoil, and he coaxed her to look at him. His eyes were moist but there was none of the anger, frustration or even sadness she had thought there would be.

“Come now,” he spoke softly in the silky accent that was Dol Amrothian Sindarin, “remember that I was the one who was the first to think of what a great match the two of you would make. There is no reason to feel any guilt.”

With difficulty, she choked down a sob and she tried a smile, which wobbled and twitched until she cleared her throat. “Yet you were upset.”

“Naturally,” he replied as he caressed her dark hair, “but that was because of High King Elessar and his… good intentions.”

For a split second, Imrahil looked a lot like his second son, who had the propensity to wear his dislike of politics on his sleeve, but then he shook his head and gently squeezed his daughter's upper arms. “It is time for us to go. We must not keep Captain Baranor waiting. Elphir shall see you off.”

He kissed her eyes and they said their goodbyes before Erchirion and Amrothos came over to do the same. Lothíriel was glad to see that her usually mellow brother was his cool self again. She wondered whether it was because of his talk with Amrothos or because of whatever Minieth had sent him. However, she did not dare ask. Erchirion never shared his thoughts unless he initiated it himself. But his lopsided smile and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes assured her enough to let the matter rest. Instead, she embraced and kissed both brothers before she watched her father and them mount their horses and cross the recently rebuilt Grand Bridge to the other Plaza until they were out of sight.

“Let us get you home, dear sister.”

Lothíriel looked up to see her brother Elphir standing next to her. He had already sent her superfluous luggage ahead on another cutter so that her ship would be light and swift in taking her, Sir Angrenor and the captain of the Renior back to Cobas Haven in Dol Amroth, taking an easy four days or less if the weather allowed it. Her horse Ferieth would remain in the care of the Stablemaster of Osgiliath until her return via Harlond after two months.

Éomer was standing a little ways off, content with watching her take her leave from her family. He was awaiting departure before he too would start his journey back home. As formidable as he always looked while fully in his gear, Lothíriel enjoyed looking at him with fresh eyes – excited and glad that after loving him from afar for so much, she would have his love next to hers for the rest of their lives together. When their eyes met, a little smile tugged at his lips and seconds later he was standing next to her and Elphir.

“Is it time for you to leave, milady?”

Not yet. As she studied him up close, she was overwhelmed with a sudden sadness akin to homesickness. She did not wish to leave his side.

Wishing to delay her departure for a little while longer, she turned to Elphir and said. “I wish to show Éomer King the inside of the cygnet.”

Instantly his face tightened. “I do not think – “

“You must allow me this, Elphir,” insisted she. “It is only for a spell. I cannot say goodbye like this.”

Her gesture at the general and public surroundings did cause him to hesitate - hesitance she caught on at once. Not waiting for his verbal assent, she quickly kissed her brother goodbye, took hold of Éomer’s arm and pulled him towards the smaller sailing boat.

As soon as Éomer realized the destination, he baulked. “Milady, I cannot board another ship. The nausea shall overtake me.”

But she was not having it and guided him up the gangway. “Trust me, you shall be fine.”

The Renior was made of polished cedar wood and oak, its bulwarks were beautifully carved and decorated with silver and lesser gemstones. Though there was one mast, the ship had two large sails and three small ones spanning from the mast to the bowsprit. It was an elegant vessel, yet Éomer could not appreciate it. The Renior was significantly lighter than the Alphroval and the first wave of seasickness hit him mere moments after he had boarded the ship.

He stopped dead in his tracks and pressed his hand against his mouth. Lothíriel wished to rub his back comfortingly but his maroon leather cuirass would not allow her for it.

“Follow me,” she implored, “I have just what you need.”

They went down the steps and she guided him into a cabin with a small bed and a slim console. After instructing him to sit down, she disappeared and returned with a spoon, a little glass container and a cup of water.

She pushed the cup in his hands, opened the container and spooned out a bit of orange-brown powder which she then dissolved into the water.

“What is this?” he asked as he eyed it mistrustfully. “You have a habit of making me drink horrid concoctions.”

“You made a life-long commitment to just that, Éomer, but I promise you, this shall help you with your nausea.”

After another suspicious look at her, he took a sip. As he swallowed it, his eyes widened momentarily. “Ugh. It is spicy – Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel tried not to smile as she made him have a few more sips and then took the cup from him. “Your stomach should settle soon.”

At this, he scowled and she was unable to contain her giggles.

“You laugh at me.” His tone was accusatory but he too was close to laughter.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I laugh because of you. What a sight you make, sitting here on this little cot in this cramped cabin, sipping on ginger water.”

“I could have used the ginger while on the bigger boat.”

He was right. Lothíriel bit her lip in guilt. It had simply not occurred to her, which was odd for her, but then she usually did not have negotiations regarding her engagement to the King of the Riddermark. 

After a soft chuckle, he shook his head fondly and took hold of her hand, tugging her closer. “How will I do without you for so long, Lothíriel?”

His arm wrapped loosely around her waist and he rested his head against hers before kissing her lightly on her lips. Her heart leapt at the sweetness of his words paired with the spice on his breath. The remedy seemed to be effective. She answered his kiss with her own, running her fingertips through his beard. She would have loved to touch him more, but his armour was as limiting as it was protective. In the narrowness of the cabin, there was no space for any more affection except for the verbal kind.

“We shall see each other in two months. I shall write to you.”

Éomer hummed, his gaze unreadable. “Yes, two months. However, it is a year until we are truly united.”

“You were able to negotiate the engagement period to half of its original span,” replied she, now playing a lock of his blonde hair, “still you complain?”

“I must complain.”

“Why is that?”

“For I know that Firefoot can carry the weight of us both and my men outnumber those of your father.”

A gasp escaped her lips as she stared at him in shock. “Fie, Éomer. Do not say such things out loud!”

As a response he crushed her against his cuirass, causing her to mutter ‘Oof!’ as he did so. Then he murmured against her neck, his moustache tickling the skin.  “Aye? You are the one who dragged me onto this cot in this dark little cabin of your boat. Should I question your intentions instead?”

“I only wished for a moment alone.” She protested, but she too felt the nervous energy of being quite separated from everyone else.

“And I only wish for a lifetime alone with you.” Éomer hummed, squeezing her tighter for good measure.

“A modest request.” She replied with a light, wheezy giggle, and he grinned. Then he kissed her again, on her cheeks first, then her forehead before landing on her lips. What followed was a chaste repeat of their affections of this morning, that was only prevented from proceeding because of where they were.

As they separated, he sighed loudly and released her from his arms. “Is this where you shall stay during your journey back to Dol Amroth?”

“Only when I want to sleep. By tomorrow night we shall reach the northern port of Tolfalas, where the Rosigil shall be waiting for us. While this vessel is swift on the Anduin, a bigger sailboat shall be safer and easier to manage on the Bay of Belfalas.”

He frowned slightly as he processed this information. “Is there no threat from Umbar or Harad?”

“Lord Boridhren may not be the brightest, but even at his age he is an excellent naval fleet commander guarding the Gondorian waters,” she assured him as she led him back to the deck. When she glanced back and saw that he looked confused, she supplied, “Lord Boridhren of Lebennin is the younger brother of my future sister-in-law Lady Minieth.”

“I see.” He eventually replied as he paused to look around the deck. “Where is your crew?”

Lothíriel smiled up at him as she leaned against the bulwark near the gap of the gangway, then she peered to look at the Plaza bordering on the pier, where the men of Rohan had readied themselves to leave. Their general attention was focused on the small sailing boat bearing their King and their future Queen. Some of them, however, such as Éothain, were conversing still with the Swan Knights, standing just at the southern end of the pier, at the starboard bow of the Renior. At a further distance, Elphir was busy talking to the three dissenting Rohirrim, and for a second, her chest tightened with worry.

It was then that Swan Captain Maeral came stomping up the plank, followed by Sir Angrenor, who immediately said to the young couple, “Best you say your goodbyes now, milady, milord. The tide may wait for no one, but it is Lady Ivriniel who shall have my head if we dally any longer.”

Without waiting for a reply, the two men continued on their way, and Éomer turned back to his Princess, his eyebrows raised. “Is a two-man crew enough?”

“Three men crew.”

“I do not understand.”

“Rather, a crew consisting of two men and a woman.”

The widening of his eyes was comical and she grinned broadly. Though they had been conversing non-stop since this morning, there was yet much for the King to learn about his bride. While her brothers were famous for their sailing prowess, Lothíriel herself was skilled enough to work as a crew member too. She had kept this from him for the sake of this very moment.

As he stared at her in awe, Angrenor trudged past, no longer wearing his heavy knight armour. “Get ready to leave, milady. Hurry now.”

As one of the Swan Knights on the dock began casting off the mooring ropes of the Renior, Lothíriel took off her riding cape and pressed it into Éomer’s hand. Then she took out the hair ornament and tucked it into the cape.

“You are going to man the boat?”

“You sound so surprised,” she replied smartly, “why is that?”

“No, I – “ Blustered he, before he stopped and stared at her slack-jawed.

After securing the pin, she had started undoing the ties of her riding skirts, much like how she had done that day of her riding on Firefoot’s back. To her great satisfaction, she had captured his attention fully, and as the skirts sank to the wooden floor, she relished in the heat of his gaze. Different from her riding skirts from that day, the skirts consisted of a knee-length, cotton side-slit skirt with pockets and a belt, and three underskirts of a lighter, floaty make and longer length, reaching just halfway down calves. 

With a glance towards the Western Plaza, he spoke sternly. “Does Elphir know you are doing this?”

“These are my sailing skirts,” she explained as she spun around to demonstrate the mobility and low weight of the gossamer silver underskirts, “they make my movements easy.”

“I thought Gondorians did not dress like this.” He looked about once more, probably intending to glare at anyone ogling the vague outline of her legs.

She did enjoy this protective side of him, she decided, as she quickly put away her outerwear and pin in the chest located just a little ahead. “I am a Dol Amrothian, my dear Éomer. And right now, you are the only one seeing me like this because of the ship's bulwark. Do you like it?”

She posed a leg just so, and she saw his body stiffen and his jaw clench.

“I – “

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but you must disembark now,” the Captain called out from the helm, “we must away.”

Éomer pressed a hand against his forehead before he shouted his reply to Captain Maeral. Then he took hold of Lothíriel by her shoulders and leaned down to look her in the eye, solemn. The sight of his serious hazel-green eyes never ceased to amaze her.

“Take care of yourself, Lothíriel, and keep yourself from harm.”

“I will. You keep yourself safe as well. And write to me.”

As he gave his word with a hint of a sad smile, she finally felt the pang of imminent separation in her stomach. She had not felt it when saying goodbye to her brothers or father this time, and though the guilt was there, it was nothing compared to the sudden wave of longing.

The idea of eloping was improper, but tempting indeed.

They finally said their goodbyes and his facial hair tickled her forehead. She inhaled deeply his scent of horse, leather and something quintessentially Éomer, hoping her recollection of it would last until the next time they would meet.

Her musings were interrupted by loud protests.

The Rohirrim had gathered near the dock and were now expressing their dissatisfaction with the Royal couple’s chaste display of affection.

“Come now, min Cyning, what kind of kiss is that?” cried Éothain, who stood the closest to the vessel.

Much to Éomer’s embarrassment, the crowd immediately shouted their concurrence.

“Kiss her like you mean it!”

“Show us how much you love her!”

The mortification was complete when Lothíriel noticed that Elphir too had turned to look at them to figure out the cause of the commotion. It was fortunate that he stood too far away to see them kiss from up close.

However awkward having an audience would be, Lothíriel was all too willing to show her future people just how much she loved their King.

“Milord?” She asked, placing a hand on his chest, and when he questioned her with a slight raise of his brow, she nodded just a fraction as well.

This was enough to spur him into action. He scooped her into his arms – one around her shoulders, the other around her hips, and kissed her firmly and with all the enthusiasm he could muster. The intensity of it rocked her to the core, especially paired with the blatancy of its impropriety, and for a few seconds, all Lothíriel knew that she could only respond in kind. It was after a particularly sweeping lick of her lower lip that Éomer loosened his hold on her and she took a step back.

The two of them held gazes, their happy grins defiant against the etiquettes both had studied yet had publicly breached. For a spell, they had been alone again – like those times in the herb gardens and the Warden’s office, and so on – but their bubble was pierced through by the whoops and cheers of the Rohirrim and even a few of the younger Swan Knights.

Éomer was still breathing hard when he pressed a final kiss on her forehead and leapt off the cutter, his disembarkment long overdue.

Lothíriel’s heart kept its happy thrumming as she closed the latch of the exit at the Captain’s order and cast one last look at her beloved Northman.

Two of his men were teasing him about the pink of his cheeks, while the sails curled open.

“By Béma's beard, milord – “ One of them exclaimed, his booming voice easily overheard over the crowd.

Sir Angrenor used a pole to push off the starboard from the dock.

“- visit your favourite widow in Aldburg – “

The jovially shouted words froze her smile, and ice began expanding in her lungs as she tried to parse his words with the little grasp of Rohanese that she had.

The Reinor began picking up speed.

Hoots and jeers rose from the mass of bearded men, and Éomer was no longer visible in the crowd.

A visit to his favourite widow in Aldburg? The chill spread further into the core of her body and she ran towards the back of the ship, hoping for something – anything that would lessen the dreadful feeling now taking hold of her heart.

But not unlike her childhood impatience with her lessons had had its consequences on her, so too did her preference for the quickest vessel on the Anduin. Within a minute, Éomer was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the Éored. There was nothing left to glean off that southwest pier of Osgiliath.

Helplessly she stood, gazing at the diminishing sight of the Grand Bridge. What had just happened?

In the Houses of Healing, she had heard mention of his particular friendships with widows, long before she had fostered any true hope of a future with him. There was something about being stuck in infirmary wards that made men fond of gossiping about anything and anyone. Éomer King was a well-liked topic of the Rohanese patients, who enjoyed bragging to their Gondorian mates about their young King.

She had not given much thought to his bed partners, for it was not uncommon for unmarried men of power to have them, but she had assumed that in Éomer’s case, they would be a thing of the past now that he was to marry her.

Perhaps she had been too hasty in making assumptions. There were plenty of cultural differences between herself and Éomer. What if it was normal for Rohirrim to maintain physical relations outside of marriage?

For all their talks the past two days, they had not even touched on this topic.

The anxiety had spread from the core of her stomach to the tips of her toes and fingers, wrapping its talons tightly around her throat.

No, the Rohirrim were famed for their fierce loyalty to their lord and land. Surely their loyalty extended to their spouses?

The rushing sound of the waters increased as the sails billowed, and Sir Angrenor adjusted them as the plains of Anduin approached.

Lothíriel finally moved from her spot at the back of the ship and she stumbled her way to the trunk where she had put her riding skirts. She opened the lid and immediately pulled them out. She found the opening of her pocket and dug in her hand, in search of the one thing she knew would give her comfort, the little white spiral shell.

What she found first was the lip stain box, followed by the soap-infused cloth and then something pricked the skin of her finger.

“Ow!”

She usually kept her lip stain and towel in one pocket and her shell in the other, but that morning she had thoughtlessly tossed the metal makeup box into the wrong pocket, probably causing the fragile shell to shatter upon impact.

Gingerly she took out the ruined content of the inner lining.

There was blood staining everything, but worse was the state of her fingers, which bore a multitude of small yet bleeding cuts.

Her already laden stomach turned at the way the blood had coloured her hand and the once pristine soap towel, and she lurched momentarily before she sank through her knees, hitting the deck with a dull thud.

“Princess Lothíriel! Milady!”

As Angrenor, wary protector of the sole Princess of Dol Amroth, took control of her physical situation by hoisting her back on the chest and tending to her wounds, she could not stop her mind from racing.

Now that she had nothing to keep her grounded, doubts began battling for her attention – each grander than the previous one. What was she doing here? Why was she not commanding the captain to turn the cutter around to demand clarification from Éomer? Was she not powerful enough or did the possibility of his selective loyalty cow her into being passive? Could she write to him about her concerns instead? Would he take her seriously or would he feel insulted by her insecurities? Would she be able to face him at all after two months? Did she even want to be the Queen of a people who found spousal infidelity commonplace? What about other cultural differences – the differences in climate, in resources, in communication –

What was she even doing?

Why was she willing to leave behind her home, her plans for Dol Amroth, her father, her family – Amrothos? Alphros? Siloril who always silently understood her? Her Dol Amrothian gardens? 

Moved by that serious, sweet, precious man, she had decided to leave everything behind and start anew in unknown lands of a people who were brave but uneducated, to assimilate into a lifestyle that was so significantly removed from hers.

By Ulmo! What had she been thinking?

How would she be able to meet the expectations of the Rohirrim? Of Éomer?

“Milady! MILADY!”

She gasped out loud - a rasping, desperate sound that startled not only the Swan Knight but herself as well.

“Tell me what is going on, milady! Please.” The usually grumpy man was staring at her with wide, insistent eyes.

“I – “ She frantically searched for the right words and eventually found them. “Oh, I - I am afraid that my worries shall drag me down to the bottom of the sea, Sir Angrenor.”

“I see." For some reason, he relaxed and nodded encouragingly. "Then you should unload your ship’s burdens to improve its buoyancy, milady.”

She looked at him, confused. Then she realized what he had already known.

All this time Lothíriel had been holding back her tears, preoccupied with all that was about to change and indeed, what had already changed. For better or for worse, her life as a maiden from Dol Amroth was ending. Her attachment to Éomer and her ambitions in herb-lore and politics had set in motion this preamble to this new identity. One day soon, roughly a year from now, she would leave behind all she knew to become something more than the sum of who she had been up until now. 

She looked down at her hand, freshly bandaged and clean from the sickening sight of blood.

Lothíriel had dived headfirst into the waters of transformation, not thinking of what the metamorphosis would expend from her.

A new Lothíriel at the price of all that the old Lothíriel had known and held dear.

Only time and progress would tell her how costly the bargain had been.

And that thought struck fear in her heart, crashing against the pillars of ice and steel in her abdomen, their collapse sending floods of grief, distress and trepidation up her throat. They gathered behind her eyes with such a force that she felt that she would drown in her own body if she did not release them at once.

So she let them run down her face, first quietly but then freely - punctuating them with sobs and sighs. By the time her tears had been spent, the Renior was at the mouth of the Anduin that would lead them to the Bay of Belfalas.

As she stood at the helm, gazing towards the north, a strong southwest wind picked up and though it slowed the ship down momentarily, its salty scent and comforting warmth dried the last of her tears. It had been like a mother’s comforting touch, her call to bring her smarting daughter home. A home that had become temporary now, but it was still her home nonetheless. 

The End of Veiled Hearts