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Beneath the canopy of rustling leaves, Éomer King stands alert. His palm meets the rough and crackled bark of one of the numerous trees to support his weight as he balances his foot onto a protruding root. Under his skin, the tree breathes. The whole forest breathes. Despite his pragmatic nature, he has allowed himself to learn how to discern it. Vibrations emitted by the brisk movements of rodents inside the trunk resonate through his phalanges. Insects pass through his knuckles and onto the back of his hand — he no longer recoils at the sensation. Others climb onto the toe of his boot to continue their journey. Overhead, a group of birds rest onto an elongated and crooked branch. They chirp away as they observe their environment, ceasing only as they await an answer or thoroughly scratch under their wings with their beaks. Moss has grown greener than ever and fresh at the touch, although the arrival of sunnier and rainless days threatens an alteration of their hues. Throughout the woods, fallen leaves crunch at random under landing swallows, the pacing of deer and boars, and the occasional shedding of dying twigs. Fortunately, their collapse often spare the beds of blooming flowers, having just pierced through the mud. A quiet breeze meanders through the landscape, accompanying the birds’ melody with a faint whistle of its own. An earthy perfume sweetening by the day completes the peace of it all.
Éomer wishes he could pause to appreciate it, but he is on the prowl. His acute hearing has led him to this narrow clearing, illuminated by the golden haloes and the twinkling specks of dust they shine upon. The frantic footsteps he has been tracing seem to have continued in this direction, but he sees nothing out of the ordinary. His hazel irises sweep the place, but no peculiar shape, motion nor colour catches his gaze. Behind him, a deer has emerged from its bed, unbothered by his presence. It bends to graze a fresh patch of grass, pacing around every so often in search of new sustenance.
The king sighs and presses his back to the tree, descending from its foot. He lifts his chin, awed by the height of its peak, and amused by the broadness of its body. Through some of the parting leaves up above, he watches the thin clouds pass in the blue sky, chased away by the force of the wind.
Then, he hears it.
Faint, but clear.
A rustle.
One.
Two of them.
The deer stands still, fixated on its surroundings.
Three.
Four.
Éomer’s lips stretch and carve dimples on his face.
He stands at the ready.
Knee bent, sole flat.
Arms open, fingers spread.
The rustling carries on.
It comes closer.
The deer recoils and flees.
Clear footsteps resound.
Accelerating.
Eight.
Nine.
Leaping.
Running.
Éomer holds his breath, dedicating his astute hearing to the disruption.
It nears him.
A whiff reminiscent of the sea reaches him.
It is closer.
Closer.
Ever so close.
Now.
Right as the silhouette emerges past the tree, the king lunges to seize it by the sides, lifting it up for a split second. A sharp squeal echoes through the forest, before it fades into melodious laughter. The king nuzzles his face in the crook of his queen’s neck, breathing the lingering coastal perfume on her skin and hair, unaffected by Rohan’s different climate.
‘I found you,’ he intones lovingly, encircling her with his arms and caressing her waist with a thumb.
Lothíriel tuts and cups his face without pushing him away.
‘Hardly!’ she retorts, still merry from their game. ‘You passed my hiding spot twice without even seeing me.’
This time, she turns to face him, her wide silver eyes bore into his. He could admire them for hours, given the opportunity. They are quite paradoxical to him. Their grey hues remind him of the brutal storms which hit Dol Amroth almost every time they visit, yet the blue undertones are waves incarnate. Those that quietly lap at stones and cliffs, playing a background lullaby which he has grown fond of. He is no man of the sea, yet even he can find qualities to such environs.
Her rosy cheeks sharpen as a teasing smile appears.
‘Must I truly teach you how to hunt, O mighty rider?’
‘You jest yet I knew you were near,’ he responds, pulling her to him. As her hand rests on his chest, his heart thunders, as if eager to touch her palm through his skin and bones. ‘You were not the most subtle.’
‘A sore loser you are!’
Éomer chortles and leans in to press a tender kiss to her lips.
‘Must my queen always elude me in the first place?’
‘Mh. Treat me well, and you shall see.’
‘Do I not do so already?’
Lothíriel smirks, brushing her black hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand.
‘Maybe I will reconsider if you rub my shoulders when we are home.’
‘Your Majesty, I am a man of my word; I shall fulfil your wish.’