Summary: Éomer King of Rohan and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth have formed an odd friendship centered on a love of arguing with each other—but can their friends nudge the relationship into something more romantic?

Author’s Note: This fic takes place within the same universe as Neither Death nor Pain, Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady, and Stars May Collide (the latter two authored by Rose Gamgee); however, reading them is not essential to understanding this story. But for those who read NDNP or Faint Heart, this story takes place between the last chapter of NDNP and its epilogue, and before Chapter 20 of Faint Heart.

It is also based, however loosely, on William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. Again, familiarity with that work is not necessary, and those who are familiar with the comedy might be well-advised to know in advance that parallels between these characters and the Bard’s characters should not be attempted, as any given character in this story may fill half a dozen roles from the play.

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The Only Love-Gods

For Faith, because your fandom looks good when wet.



If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods.

Don Pedro of Aragon, Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare

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CHAPTER 1

A Truth Universally Acknowledged

*~*~*~*

Spring had arrived early in Ithilien, and with him had come the promise of many things. The warm sunlight was a herald of anticipation, and the air was ripe with the assurance of peace.

Éomer King of Rohan had spent many springs away from his home in Edoras, but this was perhaps the first in which he took great joy in being away, for he was not gone to the field of battle defending his people. Instead he sat upon the white steps of his brother-in-law’s great house, talking and laughing with those who sat on the porch behind him. Chairs had been brought out, primarily for Éowyn’s use, but he chose the steps as his seat.

For the first time in Éomer’s memory, his sister did not object to her husband or her maid’s attentions, which bordered on pampering on both fronts. Instead she gave her maid a smile and her husband a kiss on his cheek whenever they asked after her comfort. After all, Éomer had come to Ithilien primarily because Éowyn was to give birth to her first child very soon.

They had been talking about all manner of subjects in the course of the day; and for the last hour or so Faramir had been exchanging amused smiles with Éowyn. In that last hour, Éomer had also talked mostly of the horses he had brought for the couple as a housewarming gift: he had talked of their sires and dams, their accomplishments, and which ones would make the best breeding stock. Once he had finished that discourse, his sister and brother-in-law burst into laughter, and Éomer glared at them. “And what do you find so amusing, sister?” he asked. “I have known a time when you could carry on for hours about horses.”

Éowyn was still laughing too much to answer, so Faramir spoke for her. “Brother, you have done great work in Rohan, restoring the farmlands and settlements, but have you not neglected some great part of your own life?”

Éomer looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“You need a wife, Éomer.” With that, Faramir stopped his own wife’s mouth with a piece of red fruit called strawberries, something she had been craving for weeks, the Steward had said.

To that Éomer raised a brow. “Are you implying something?”

“No, only that a man who can talk for an hour about breeding horses obviously needs diversion in life.”

Éowyn turned a pout on Faramir. “Is that all I am?”

“Of course not, my love.” The Steward popped another strawberry in her mouth and kissed her cheek, at which Éomer rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the valley below.

“To think that I would see one of the best soldiers in the land come to this,” he muttered.

Faramir laughed. “It is worth every moment of it, Éomer,” he said, and the King of Rohan looked over his shoulder to see Faramir rest his hand gently against Éowyn’s swollen abdomen. “You will know what I mean someday.”

Éowyn smiled at him. “What sort of woman would you wish to marry, brother?” she asked.

Éomer looked back over the landscape before them, his elbows on his knees. Whatever Faramir might think of him, he was not so consumed by horses and the restoration of Rohan to have given no thought to finding a wife. “I am King of Rohan,” he replied, “and so whatever alliance I make must be one that strengthens ties first of all.”

He could hear his sister’s smile in her reply. “Perhaps that is so, brother, but that is not what I asked,” she said. “What sort of woman would you wish to marry?”

“A woman of good sense first of all,” he said, without delay. “Even were I not King, I would not want a silly wife.”

“An excellent notion,” said Faramir. “A woman of great beauty as well, I presume?”

There was a hint of playful mockery in the Steward’s voice, and Éomer smirked. “You chose that road, brother: why should I not?”

Éowyn, who had, of course, been somewhat emotional of late, blushed at the remark. “You flatter me,” said she. “But you have yet told us very little.”

He sighed. “Very well, then, sister, if you would have my plain answer: a lady of sense and intelligence, fair, with a love of horses, with a sense of propriety, and mild-mannered.” Almost as an afterthought he added: “And I care nothing for wealth, so her birth and fortune are of no matter.”

His sister looked suitably impressed. “You have obviously given this more thought than I had imagined, Éomer,” said Éowyn. “What, in your mind, makes a lady fair?”

Immediately Éomer thought of the fairest lady he had ever seen, the Lady Arwen; and said: “Dark hair, fine features, and beautiful eyes.”

He looked over his shoulder to see the Lord and Lady of Ithilien exchange another amused glance. “My love,” said the Steward, “have you ever met such a woman?”

She gave Faramir a look of thoughtful consideration. “Does not your cousin Lothíriel match that description?”

At that Éomer coughed conspicuously. “Sister, I did say mild-mannered.”

Faramir laughed. “My cousin is perhaps a little high-strung and strong-willed,” he said, “but she can be gentle and considerate when she chooses.”

“I must take your word on the matter,” said Éomer. “For I have spent a month in her company and had no gentle or considerate word from her.”

“Your heart is at no risk where Lady Lothíriel is concerned?” asked Éowyn. Éomer shook his head emphatically, and his sister continued: “Then it will not bother you that she and her father will be arriving this afternoon, and will be staying for some weeks.”

He looked up at her sharply. “You are not serious.”

“I am,” she replied. “Is it not fitting that Prince Imrahil should come here for the child’s birth, when he is the nearest person my husband has to a father?”

They continued in silence for a little while, and then Éowyn spoke again. “Faramir, I should like to lie down until your uncle and cousin arrive,” she said. “Your son gives me no rest at night.”

Faramir stood and took her hand, helping her up. As the maid went to open the door, the couple paused beside Éomer, who remained on the steps. “We expect my uncle before sunset,” said Faramir, smiling oddly. “If you wish to escape my cousin, I believe you could be halfway to Minas Tirith before they arrive.”

“And risk the perils of the ladies at Court?” replied Éomer. “I believe I can handle your cousin for a few weeks, if that is my only other option.”

He watched his sister and brother-in-law enter the house laughing, and for a little while he stayed where he was, watching members of the White Company in their foot patrol around the house. Then, in the distance he saw horses approaching, and while he was not usually one to flee from the face of adversity, he did escape to the stables, on the pretense of seeing to his horse before dinner.

*~*~*~*

The road from Dol Amroth to Emyn Arnen was one of the safer roads in the realm of Gondor in the years following the War of the Ring. For many miles it was the same path as that which would lead to Minas Tirith; and as that was a major road, it was well-protected by Rangers. Then as Prince Imrahil’s party turned away from that road, they moved onto a road little traveled and therefore of little importance to the enemies of the King who still roamed the lands.

And so Imrahil did not feel concerned in seeing his daughter riding ahead of the party on her grey mare. Lothíriel was a competent horsewoman, and did not get so far ahead that she could not be protected by the guards who accompanied them. At whiles the captain of the guard would send a man ahead to ride beside her. Eventually, she saw that as a hint and returned to her father’s side.

It was not long before Imrahil asked her about this, to which she replied: “I cannot abide soldiers for any long time, Father.”

“I am sorry, then,” said Imrahil, “for you will be spending the next few weeks with your cousin and his wife, and both are soldiers in their way.”

Lothíriel laughed. “I believe they see me as more than a warm body,” she replied.

She looked at her father, who raised a brow at this. “Should I speak to my captain and have soldiers reprimanded?”

She shook her head. “No, none were too forward, Father. But I cannot bear their company for long.”

They were quiet for several miles longer. And when they took the final turn in the road Lothíriel could see her cousin’s new house set into the side of the low mountain. It was not long before riders approached them and asked their business on that road. Lothíriel remained silent as her father made himself known to them, and they were joined by those members of the White Company.

In the sunset the white stone house gleamed, and looking over her shoulder she saw the city of Minas Tirith, a distant and brilliant beacon across the forests and the plains. Faramir’s house reflected that glory, and yet it added something different: she saw threads of Rohan in the tapestry before her, and Lothíriel smiled. That was Faramir’s doing, she was sure. Éowyn had caught a fine catch when she had captured his heart.

A member of the White Company had galloped ahead and taken word of the party’s imminent arrival, so Faramir was standing on the portico of the great house as they rode up. Some servants came out then to lead the horses away to the stables, and Faramir greeted both Imrahil and Lothíriel with tight embraces. “We were about to dine without you,” he said, kissing Lothíriel’s cheek. “Éowyn’s appetite, it seems, has little regard for the arrival of guests.”

Imrahil laughed at that. “She must eat for two, so we must forgive,” said he. “And where is she?”

“I came down before her,” Faramir replied. “She was resting, so her maid is attending her at present.”

“And how does she fare, cousin?” Lothíriel asked.

“Better than I could have ever hoped,” the Steward replied, his face and voice bright. “She was delighted when you sent word of your intention to travel here.”

The group entered the house then, and Lothíriel saw for herself that Éowyn was well, as the Lady of Emyn Arnen was descending the great flight of stairs. Yet the sight of the person whose arm was about Éowyn’s waist gave her pause; and she stopped suddenly. There, looking as rugged and handsome as ever, was Éomer King of Rohan.

The man did not see her immediately, as he was focused on his very pregnant sister, but for this Lothíriel was most relieved; for while his attention was otherwise engaged, she was able to reasonably compose herself. The whole of their acquaintance was perhaps a month in length and had transpired in Minas Tirith during the previous fall, but it was one which had had a remarkable impact on Lothíriel. She had never before met a man who had such power to both charm and irritate. And as the King of Rohan reached the foot of the stairs and released his sister to her husband, he and Lothíriel’s father embraced, for they had formed a fast friendship during the war when Imrahil had in essence saved Éowyn’s life.

“Yet unmarried, friend?” said Imrahil by way of a greeting, and much to Lothíriel’s embarrassment. “If you would but accept my invitation to Dol Amroth sometime, I could have you married off in half an hour.”

“Why do you think he postpones in accepting it, Uncle?” said Faramir. All in the group laughed, and the Steward said: “Come, friends, let us continue this as we dine.”

He led Éowyn away and Imrahil followed, leaving Lothíriel and Éomer to face each other. The King gave her a stiff nod. “Princess,” he said.

“My lord,” she replied, curtseying for him. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, Lothíriel fearing that if she opened her mouth, an argument would ensue immediately. But instead Éomer offered her his arm and led her after her father and cousins, and she was left to wonder what would transpire in the weeks to come.

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This chapter's title comes from one of the greatest and most famous lines in English literature—“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” Kudos to those who know my source.

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CHAPTER 2

A Jade’s Trick

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As the meal passed, Éomer found himself reminded greatly of the first time he had met Princess Lothíriel. She had been relatively quiet in his presence that first time—perhaps it had been the influence of two kings in her presence—but he had not seen her thus since. And in her cousin’s house, she did not check her tongue. This Éomer found somehow irritating and amusing. He was not unused to women of strength and stubbornness, having Éowyn for a sister, but he had never expected the daughter of his friend Imrahil to have such a temperament.

“Tell me, Éomer,” said Imrahil; “what news have you brought from the Mark? I have heard high praise of your reign, but little of detail.”

He cleared his throat and took another drink of the fine wine which his brother-in-law had at the table. “I fear the details are of little interest to most,” he replied. “The new wall at Edoras has been completed at last. Homes have been rebuilt, and this year’s harvest promises to be the largest in several decades.”

“I have seen some of the reports from others in your command, Éomer,” said Faramir. “The people across the realm of Rohan are calling you Éadig.”

Éomer shifted in his seat, a little embarrassed. He had hoped that the party here had not heard that name. But then Lothíriel asked: “Éadig? My lord, what does the name mean?”

He glanced down, and Éowyn took his moment of hesitation as an opportunity to answer for him. “It is an old word in Rohirric, Lothíriel, and one which has not been used in at least a century,” she replied. “It means ‘blessed’.”

“And so it would be used for anyone who ruled in this time, after such a war,” Éomer added. “It is hardly a name of any consequence now, Princess, and I am certain it will wane in use again once the restoration is complete.”

“My brother is modest,” said Éowyn. “He underestimates the people’s love for him.”

Lothíriel did not press the subject. Instead she commented: “Rohirric seems to me an interesting tongue.”

“Aye, Lady, it is,” said Éomer. “But not an easy one to learn.”

Imrahil laughed a little at this. “My daughter is rather adept with languages, Éomer. She proved invaluable during the War, because she is fluent in Haradric.”

“This is something I have never heard,” said Faramir. “What service did you render, cousin?”

“Our men captured a group of Haradrim scouts and confiscated documents written for their leaders in the South,” she replied. “They were sent to my father before he answered your father’s call, and I translated them.”

“And thus we were able to intercept a large force of Haradrim before they neared the Pelennor Fields,” her father added.

Faramir lifted his cup to his cousin. “We should have employed you as a spy, Lothíriel,” said he.

She laughed lightly. “That would never do, cousin, for I cannot capture the spoken tongue. I read it well enough, but I cannot speak Haradric well enough to pass as a native of that land. It is a rough language.”

“You might find the same difficulty with Rohirric,” said Éomer. “It has no written form.” At Lothíriel’s puzzled look, he added: “The Lords of the Mark took little interest in written records until after the Common Speech was adopted in Rohan. It is unfortunate, for much of our poetry and lore exists only in oral tradition.”

Imrahil chuckled at this. “Lothíriel, when your collection of mariners’ songs and tales is complete, you should learn Rohirric and develop it as a written language, so you can compile a volume of Rohan’s legends and ballads.”

At this Éomer gave Lothíriel a rather patronizing look. “I would imagine that many of the songs that are sung around the campfire of an éored would be rather much for a lady of Dol Amroth’s delicate ears.”

Silence fell in the room immediately, and across the table from Éomer, Lothíriel arched an elegant brow. “And what do you mean by that, my lord?”

The Rohirric King resumed eating. “Merely that Rohirric war songs do not spare the details of war as the songs of Gondor do. I would not imagine that many women who were not brought up in Rohan would be able to stand them.”

She set her fork aside and regarded him quizzically. “Perhaps you do not understand: I have been collectiing the songs of sailors.”

Éomer laughed. “They cannot compare to the songs of the Rohirrim, I am certain.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to rebutt him, but Éowyn held up her hand. “Please, Éomer, Lothíriel, some of us would rather be spared the details of these songs.”

Éomer looked at his sister in mild surprise. “I wager you know as many of these songs as I do, sister,” said he.

“I have no doubt,” she replied, “but I try not to think on them while I am eating.”

Éowyn gave him a small smile, and the silver sound of Lothíriel’s laugh filled the dining room. “I apologize, cousin,” she said. “I fear I do not avoid disputes well.”

Éomer hid a smirk by looking down at his food once more while Imrahil laughed. “That is a light way of putting it,” he said.

The young King looked up at his opponent to see her blush softly. “My apologies, Father.”

“No need, child,” he replied. “I blame it solely on those brothers who spoiled you.”

She raised her chin in playful defiance. “I can hardly help that I am their ony sister.”

“And I was not much better than they,” Imrahil replied.

The remainder of the meal passed rather quietly, but occasionally Éomer would meet Lothíriel’s gaze and read an open challenge there in her striking blue eyes. The Rohirric King chose to remain silent, knowing that there would be time enough to wrangle with her on whatever topic might surface. In his sister’s house he would try to remain polite with Lothíriel. But with every glance he became more and more certain that his heart was certainly in no danger where this Princess of Dol Amroth was concerned. She was far too exasperating for that to ever become an issue.

*~*~*~*

Emyn Arnen was an odd place. Gently rolling hills turned into low-rising mountains, into which the Steward’s house was set, and thick forests carpeted much of the region, not unlike the rest of Ithilien. To the south, as the great forests ended, rock quarries began, and there the white stone of Faramir’s house had been cut. Tributaries of the great Anduin spidered through the region, making travel interesting. One of the Steward’s plans in his rule of Ithilien was to construct bridges and fords to make transit easier, though with the many other tasks he had, both those for the King and for himself, he had not yet accomplished this.

But it was a beautiful place, and Éomer could not imagine his sister finding a happier home. Little of that, of course, was due to the landscape: there was the matter of the man who had brought her there to dwell. And as he and his sister sat on the porch and watched the stars come out over Ithilien, he spoke to her of this, and she smiled.

“He has made me happier than I believed possible, Éomer,” she replied. “How did I ever think that being Queen would bring me joy?”

“Aragorn is lordly, and did great things for our people,” said Éomer. “That you would find yourself admiring him was understandable.”

“Aye, brother, but I know now that there is none who compares to my dear husband.” Éowyn rested her hand against her abdomen and sighed.

At that Éomer frowned a little, remembering the first time he had been told that a child would be born, only to learn a few months later that Éowyn had lost him. The miscarriage had hit her hard, he was certain, and he had grieved that he had been unable to be with her. But he chose to trust in his brother-in-law, and seeing her now so happy and healthy told him he had been right to do so. “I am happy for you both, sister,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

A look of concern crossed his sister’s face. “I hope you were not offended, Éomer, by what Faramir and I said to you this afternoon,” said she. “You must understand that we only wish for your happiness.”

Éomer favored her with a wry smile. “I think, dear sister, that you did not only wish for that, but also to have your fun with me while I am here.”

“It is true, I admit,” she replied, laughing. “But I need all the distraction I can come by now.”

He looked down at her stomach. “Are you uncomfortable, Éowyn?” he asked.

“Every moment,” she replied. “I am anxious for the birth.”

“As are we all,” said Éomer.

She smiled. “And how will you like being an uncle?”

“I cannot yet tell, sister,” he replied.

“Think of it as practice for fatherhood, then.”

At that he turned to her and raised a brow. “Other things must happen before I need practice in that area.”

“And if those other things never happen,” she immediately replied, “you might have this child on your hands anyway as your heir.”

“And what of an heir for Faramir?” Éomer asked.

“Imrahil has grandsons enough to provide for this house as well as his own, should it come to that.”

Éomer shook his head and stood, gazing up at the starry sky. “And we presume yet further,” he said. “You are as likely to carry my sister-daughter as my sister-son.”

He looked over his shoulder at Éowyn to see a small smile on her face. “I carry my lord’s son,” she replied. “I am certain of it.”

They stayed in silence for a while, until Éomer looked to the stables and saw a boy leading a snow-white horse up to the house. Éowyn saw this too, and a smile lit her face. “My husband,” she murmured; and Éomer took her to mean that Faramir had sent the boy up with her horse.

He helped her from her seat and down the stairs to the last of the steps cut for a horse’s stride. By then the horse and the boy had reached that step, and the horse whinnied. Éowyn stroked the mare’s mane and said: “No, I have not forgotten thee, Alassë.”

The horse rubbed her nose against Éowyn’s cheek, and she laughed. After a few moments more, Éomer said: “I am surprised that Faramir would give you a white horse. I would have thought that black or grey would have been his choice.”

“She was not Faramir’s gift,” Éowyn replied. “Aragorn gave her to me.”

“A noble gift,” said Éomer, stroking the horse’s neck.

The boy had bowed and run back to the stables, so when Éowyn’s maid arrived at the door and told her that Imrahil wished for her company, Éomer was obliged to take the mare back to the stable as Mithlomi escorted Éowyn inside.

*~*~*~*

After dinner Faramir and his cousin went for a walk as Éowyn and Éomer talked on the porch. Lothíriel made a good correspondent, giving Faramir plenty of information without stooping to gossip. Her nieces and nephews were growing and Faramir wished very much to see them again. Her news that her eldest brother planned to bring his family to Minas Tirith in the next winter made him very happy indeed, for he would be able to see them soon.

With his cousin on his arm, Faramir turned toward the stables, despite the mild chill of the spring night. When Lothíriel expressed a slight curiosity, he replied: “I want you to see my brother-in-law’s gift to us.”

Despite having lived her entire life in a port city and loving the sea greatly, Lothíriel had ample appreciation of horses. She could tell without much trouble that Éomer’s gift—most of the horses in the stable—was quite a kingly gift indeed. “So many black horses,” she commented. “In Dol Amroth all our horses are grey.”

Faramir laughed, patting the neck of his own grey stallion as they passed its stall. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, leaving her with his horse and approaching a stable boy. He was back at her side quickly, and the boy led a white horse out of the building. At Lothíriel’s curious glance, Faramir said: “That is Éowyn’s horse. The boy is leading her up to the house so Éowyn can see her.”

Lothíriel smiled. “Such a thoughtful husband,” she replied. “If only I could find one half so pleasant.”

“I believe you will have to put more effort into finding a husband if you wish for that, cousin,” he said with laughter. “Though I heard occasional rumors during the war.”

“You heard of that?” she asked.

“I heard only of an engagement. I have often wondered what happened.”

Lothíriel looked to the ground, half-wishing that the exchange of gossip between the Courts of Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith had been more efficient. But with considerable detail she related to her cousin the story of how she had accepted a young noble’s proposal. Gondor’s prospects in the war had not been favorable at the time, and for the most part she had accepted the man because he was in need of heirs. Yet before they could be wed, he had been called home to defend his family lands to the south of the city. In the meantime Imrahil and Lothíriel’s brothers rode north to Minas Tirith, and when she was not busy with the rule of the city of Dol Amroth, she began to regret what she had done, especially when the war was won and things were not so desperate.

How great her relief had been, then, when he had returned to the city and told of how he had rescued a maiden in the course of their march and then fallen in love with her! He had been willing to fulfill his obligations to her, but she had been more than willing to release him from those obligations. So Lothíriel remained unmarried; and when she had finished with this tale, Faramir laughed. “You would have been miserable,” he said. “I know you well enough to know that much.”

“Yes, but sometimes I wish I had married him.” At his curious expression, she smiled. “You know not how the nobles try to woo me.”

“You could end that quite easily,” he replied.

“And how would you suggest I end it?”

”Marry my brother-in-law.”

Lothíriel stopped abruptly. “You are worse than my brothers!” she cried. “They at least would not wish to marry me off to a man who cannot bear my presence.”

Faramir laughed. “I believe he likes you well enough. You need only give him a little encouragement and you will have him in the palm of your hand.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Do I want him in the palm of my hand?”

“Your behavior at dinner tonight would say you do.”

“Faramir!” she cried, laughing. “Whatever gives you such an idea?”

“Such dalliance as I witnessed tonight,” he replied. “Shameful behavior for a Princess of Dol Amroth, though I admit that the King of Rohan was not much better.”

“Dalliance?” Lothíriel shook her head, though she smiled. “Faramir, marriage has turned you more romantic than I would have thought.”

And the Prince of Ithilien merely smiled and patted her hand. “You know I see you as my own sister.”

“Yes, and you have learned from my brothers how to tease me as such.”

But then they reached the deepest reach of the stable, where a horse with a shining black coat stood with his nose buried in a pile of hay. “Oh, what a beautiful creature!” she cried, forgetting her dispute with Faramir for a time. “Éomer King gave you this one as well?”

“No,” said a new voice, and Lothíriel looked over her shoulder in surprise to see Éomer at the entrance of the stables, the reins of Éowyn’s white mare in his hand. The black stallion before her lifted his head and turned as Éomer approached. “Fleetfoot is the horse who occasionally allows me to ride him.”

Faramir laughed softly. “I will see to Alassë, brother,” said he, and deftly removed the reins from Éomer’s hand, leaving him with Lothíriel.

“He is magnificent,” Lothíriel said at last. “What breed is he?”

Éomer stroked the horse’s neck. “Mearas,” he replied.

“Mearas?” she repeated. “These horses are legend in Dol Amroth. . . .I never thought to see one with my own eyes.”

“The breed is dying,” said Éomer. “And Mithrandir took the noblest of them all with him over the Sea.”

On impulse Lothíriel reached out to run her hand across the horse’s neck, but Éomer suddenly grabbed her wrist. Their gazes met, and she favored him with an imperious glare. “I will not break him, my lord,”she said.

He lowered her hand. “I have no fear of that,” he replied. “He does not always take well to new faces.”

Brow raised, she looked back at the horse. “Which bears no striking resemblance to your own character, I am certain,” she said dryly.

“I had no problem with your face. It was your tongue I took objection to.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, though Lothíriel was not entirely certain why. “With a sister like yours,” she replied, “I would have imagined you to have no problem with a woman speaking her mind.”

“I have no problem with hearing a woman’s opinion, so long as she does not patronize me while she gives it.”

“Patronize?” she repeated. “You are bold, my lord, to rebuke me for patronizing.”

“And you are the most headstrong, impertinent, insolent woman I have ever met!”

If nothing Éomer had said had gotten her attention before, that certainly did. For half a second Lothíriel could only stare at him in shock, but that was soon turned to anger. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. “Enough!” he said. “I came here to return my sister’s horse, not to wage war.”

With that he turned and stalked off, leaving Lothíriel quite distracted. When a few minutes had passed she left for the house, forgetting that she had come out there with Faramir, and unaware that he had witnessed this entire exchange from Alassë’s stall.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 3

A Truce

*~*~*~*

Early the following morning, Lothíriel found herself awake, dressed, and in the stables, saddling her mare for a ride. The dapple grey horse was as impatient as she was to be outside, though she knew not why her horse was suddenly so keen on being out of the stable. Still, the day was pleasant enough, she knew, and there was no reason for staying inside when there was so much beauty to be experienced in this land.

So Lothíriel rode away from the house, into the thick forest. She stayed away from the road, preferring to slip between the trees and plunge through the shallow creeks that wove their web across the land. And it was not long before she saw another rider in the forest.

He was dressed in black and riding a horse of the same color, but the golden hair streaming in the wind marked him as none other than the King of Rohan. He saw her too, and it was not long before they were racing, though to what end Lothíriel did not know. She rode hard, determined to show she was just as much a horsewoman as any woman of Rohan. Sitting sidesaddle, she was at a great disadvantage, of course, but her horse was smaller, and more able to take the abrupt twists and turns among the trees as they sped toward a bridge spanning one of the larger tributaries of the Anduin.

It soon became clear that this bridge was their target, and also that Éomer would far outpace her. The legendary Mearas had the speed which the tales prescribed, and there was no way in which her little mare could possibly keep up. When the King slowed to a trot some fifty paces from the bridge, Lothíriel was quite surprised. And then he turned a confident smile on her, and she snapped the reins, spurring her horse ahead. The mare dashed up the bridge, and, to her delight, Éomer was just behind her.

Slowly and with great caution Lothíriel turned her horse around on the apex of the wooden bridge, smiling at the surprise on Éomer’s face. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, nodding to him.

He nodded as well. “Shall I propose a race back to the house?” he asked.

Lothíriel laughed. “I would not care to tempt fate again, my lord,” she replied.

Smiling, he said: “Perhaps a quiet ride, then. You have proven yourself an adequate horsewoman, though you are a woman of Dol Amroth.”

The Princess lowered her head as she laughed softly. “I will take that as a compliment, my lord, as there seems to be none other to be had,” she replied. “Not twelve hours ago I was headstrong and insolent.”

“And you are still,” said Éomer. “But that does not exclude you from riding well. Perhaps it helps.”

She released the reins for a moment in order to pull the pins from her hair. The wind had mussed it, pulled some of her hair loose from its setting, so she simply let it free. All the while her horse stayed still, and Éomer watched her. When she arched a brow at his perusal, he said: “You keep your seat remarkably well.”

“Thank you,” she replied, somewhat bewildered by this courtesy. “I may never love riding so well as I do sailing, but my father did teach me how to hold my seat in all manner of conditions.”

He chuckled and shook his head, turning his horse to move away from the bridge so that she could leave it at last. “You people of Dol Amroth and your boats,” he said. “I do not understand your fascination with them in the least.”

“Ah, then you have spoken with my father on the subject,” said Lothíriel.

“‘Tis one of his chief reasons for wishing me to visit, to force me into the hold of one of his ships.”

She laughed lightly as they began a leisurely pace back to the house. “Nay, my lord, he would place you on the prow!” she cried. “But surely you do not fear the ships.”

“Fear it? No,” he replied, rather faster than would lend believability to his words. “I merely prefer being on the ground and in complete control of what conveys me from one place to another.”

“And you can be never be in control of your horse, any more than I could be in control of the sea, my lord.” She cast a sidelong glance at him to see him smiling. “Master of the Mark though you may be, I wager you have been thrown from a horse more often than I have fallen from a ship.”

“But of what use is a ship in Rohan?” he countered. “Practicality must be taken into account as well.”

“I can hardly argue that a ship is more useful than a horse,” said Lothíriel, “but I can argue that it is more enjoyable. To stand on the prow of a ship as she sails into port as the sun sets behind you, or to climb to the crow’s nest and watch the men below you in their work—there is nothing better, my lord.”

“Unless it be a ball on a ship’s deck?”

She laughed. “Perhaps.”

Éomer patted his horse’s neck affectionately. “Someday you will find a real horse, my lady, who suits you as well as you suit her, and you will never think of your pretty ships again.”

“Or you will find a little yacht which suits you, my lord, and will never wish to leave the seashore, no matter how much your duty calls you to the plains of Rohan.”

He made some reply, and as the conversation continued, Lothíriel was struck by how very different this was from the night before. Perhaps their memories had both been affected by months of separation, but now she remembered that this had been the substance of their friendship in Minas Tirith—friendly disagreements, unending debates of a benign and genial nature—not the caustic near-insults of the previous night. And it was not at all unpleasant.

They entered the stable side by side, still conversing, and before long Éomer had dismounted his horse and was at Lothíriel’s side. She rested her hands upon his shoulders, perhaps forgetting who he was, and as naturally the King placed his hands upon her waist to steady her as she dismounted. When her feet hit the ground she looked up, only to find Éomer backing away from her and taking her horse’s reins. “Oh, no, my lord, I will see to her,” she said, walking around him to take the lead from him.

As she led her horse into her stall, Éomer said: “As you wish, Lady.”

When their horses were secured, the two headed up to the house, rather quietly. Still perplexed by the sudden change in demeanor for them both, she suddenly commented: “My lord, perhaps it would be best if we were never in company after dinner.”

He turned an amused smile on her. “And why is that?”

“That seems to be the time when we argue the most, my lord, and if we avoided each other then we might never disagree.”

“We were just disagreeing five minutes ago!”

Lothíriel laughed. “Then perhaps we would not fight about it, but quarrel in some civilized manner.”

“It is easier with men,” he replied, “and easier still with Dwarves. Were you my friend Gimli, I would call for my sword while you call for your axe, and we would settle this ‘in some civilized manner’.”

“Perhaps I shall invite this Gimli and he shall stand up for me.”

“I doubt that very much, my lady.”

By then they had reached the top of the steps, and they glanced at each other and burst into laughter. When that had subsided, Éomer held out his hand. “Come, Lady, let us have a truce, until my sister’s child is born at least.”

A little reluctantly, Lothíriel placed her hand in his, and he shook it firmly. She replied: “But I make no promises after the child is come.”

“And I ask for none.”

The two walked into the house then, each concealing a small smile. They were just in time to see Faramir and Éowyn coming to the breakfast room, and the mischievous smile on Faramir’s lips did not escape Lothíriel’s notice. “Does something concern you, cousin?” she asked.

“Has my brother-in-law changed his mind about you?” he asked.

“Changed his mind?” she repeated. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Last night you were ‘the most headstrong, impertinent, insolent woman’ he had ever met, and he declared it rather forcefully.”

Imrahil entered then as Éowyn laughed and Lothíriel blushed furiously. “If that is what you meant to inquire after, cousin, then yes, we resolved our quarrel of last night.”

They all sat down at the table, and Faramir said: “A pity, then, for I spent half the night thinking of ways to torment you over it, while Éowyn’s tossing and turning would not let me sleep.”

Lothíriel closed her eyes before she could roll them. “A great pity.”

And now, for something completely different.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 4

The Newest Arrival

*~*~*~*

Two weeks after his arrival in Emyn Arnen, Éomer found himself standing in a corridor with Faramir and Imrahil. They had been there most of the day, Faramir the longest of all. In the middle of breakfast Éowyn had gone into labor, and just a few minutes before they had finally heard the infant crying. Then suddenly the door opened and Faramir rushed in, leaving Éomer and Imrahil alone.

Imrahil laughed softly. “He has always been one to worry more than he needs to.”

But by then Éomer had grown concerned as well, though perhaps it was simply Faramir’s pacing wearing off on him at last. “Is she all right?” he asked.

The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded. “He never would have been allowed in so quickly had something gone wrong,” he replied.

For a time they remained silent, until Éomer could no longer endure the delay with patience. “She believes the child is a son,” he commented.

“Aye, and my nephew wishes for a daughter,” said Imrahil. “I believe that has proved ample diversion for them both in the past few months.”

They were spared the need for further topic of conversation, for the door opened once more, and the pretty, dark-haired girl named Mithlomi who waited upon Éowyn appeared there, smiling broadly. “My lady asks to see you both,” she said, curtseying to them.

Éomer looked to Imrahil and saw his smile reflected on his friend’s face. They entered the room then and saw a fatigued Éowyn, who smiled despite her exhaustion and the tear streaks on her face, and Faramir sitting on the bed, staring down at a tiny bundle with a look of wonder. Éowyn looked up when they entered, and she reached a hand out to them. “Brother, come and meet your nephew!” she cried.

He stood over his brother-in-law’s shoulder and gazed down at the babe. To Éomer’s surprise, he was already sleeping in his father’s arms. “What is his name?” Éomer asked quietly.

Éowyn looked at Faramir for a moment. “Elboron,” she said at last.

“A good name,” said Imrahil at Éomer’s side. “He looks like you did as a newborn babe, Faramir.”

Éowyn laughed. “Then he will grow into a handsome man.”

Faramir had of yet said nothing, and had not even lifted his eyes from his son. Éowyn’s smile turned amused, and she poked his shoulder. “I hope this will not be your behavior every time we have guests from now on, my lord,” she said.

“Forgive me,” he murmured; and Éomer wondered if he had heard anything she had said.

She exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Imrahil, and he laid his hand upon Faramir’s shoulder. “My boy, you must relinquish him sometime, and now is as good a time as any,” he said; and lifted the child from Faramir’s arms.

The Steward opened his mouth to protest, but Éowyn laughed and touched his shoulder, and Imrahil largely ignored it. Éomer watched as the older man settled the babe into his arms and smiled. The child made not a sound, but blinked his eyes drowsily at this new face above him. At this Éomer laughed softly. “Sister, I believe he will take after Faramir in more than appearance, but in temperament as well.”

“I hope he will,” his sister replied, and she leaned forward from her pillows and kissed her husband.

Éomer looked around the room and saw Mithlomi, Lothíriel, and the midwife busy at tidying the room. Then the midwife looked at them all and said: “Milord, give the child back to his mother. He needs to eat.”

Imrahil (who, after the births of four children, had learned not to cross a midwife’s will) dutifully laid Elboron back in Éowyn’s arms, and Éomer thought he saw a little fear in his sister’s eyes as he did so. He exchanged a glance with Imrahil, who gestured toward the door. Éomer nodded and said: “Éowyn, we will wait outside until you are more rested.”

She gave him a distracted smile, and he moved to exit. Imrahil followed, having taken Lothíriel’s arm and pulled her from the room with them. As soon as the door was shut, she cried: “Father, I have not had a chance to hold the child yet!”

“You will have chances enough, daughter,” Imrahil replied. “Let them have a few moments alone.” He cleared his throat. “As for me, I have had enough excitement for an old man in one day. I believe I shall retire for the evening. I bid you good night.”

Éomer nodded, and a few moments later found himself in the odd situation of being alone with Lothíriel again. However, she seemed disinclined to argue, for which he was quite relieved. Instead, she stated: “She did very well.”

The King blinked a few times and looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Éowyn,” she clarified. “Éowyn did well. She is so very strong.”

“Faramir was concerned for her, more than he needed to be, it would seem,” said Éomer. At her smile he added: “Though I will confess to having been worried as well.”

They stood in silence for a while, and Éomer turned his gaze to a window which overlooked the stables. He frowned, thinking over the past two weeks. That first evening down in the stables below he would prefer to forget. He had never meant to insult Lothíriel that day. Put her in her place, perhaps, and exert his own authority, almost certainly; so the words that flew out of his mouth had been as much a surprise to him as they were to her. That night he had ascertained why. His sister and brother-in-law’s comments had been more disconcerting than he had first thought. He knew that any moment of kindness between them would be seen as a point at which to tease, so he had shown Lothíriel hostility instead of graciousness. That had been the reason for his truce the following morning. Though he had not apologized, she had forgiven him in a way, by giving him another chance. Why she had done that, he would never know.

Fortunately Éomer was rescued from his mental investigation into the nature of that woman’s mind by the door opening once more. Mithlomi said nothing, merely holding the door open for him and Lothíriel as they entered the room. It was much quieter this time, with the midwife seated at last near the window and baby Elboron cooing softly in his mother’s arms.

“You are radiant, sister,” said Éomer as they approached the bed.

Éowyn turned a tired smile to him. “Is he not a wonder, brother?” she asked as she placed her finger in the child’s hand. “Look at his fingers! They are so small.”

“He is beautiful, Éowyn,” said Lothíriel. “You and Faramir must be so proud.”

“Believe me, cousin, we are,” said Faramir. “And I am proud of my wife as well. I understand she was very brave through this.”

“So the Lady Lothíriel told me,” Éomer added.

At this Éowyn’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. “I have known pain in battle,” she said, “but none of it could compare to this.”

Lothíriel saw Faramir give his wife a mischievous look. “Why then did we hear my cousin cry out?” he asked.

And Éowyn raised a confused look to Lothíriel and asked: “When did you cry out?”

Lothíriel laughed. “‘Tis no matter, cousin,” she replied. “But when the time came from the babe to be delivered, you nearly crushed my fingers.”

The Lady of Ithilien turned bright red in embarrassment. “I do not recall that,” she murmured.

“Did not Marueth tell you that you would forget the pain of childbirth soon enough?” Lothíriel asked. “The memory fades already.”

And Éowyn looked back at her son, who had by then fallen asleep. “Aye, it does.” She glanced back up at Lothíriel. “Would you like to hold him, cousin?”

The younger woman smiled brightly. “Of course!” she cried. So the child was transferred into Lothíriel’s arms, and her smile seemed only to widen.

It had been some time since the youngest of her nieces and nephews was born, but she had forgotten none of the joy associated with birth for her at this point. A child’s weight felt so comfortable in her arms, and since this one was inclined to be rather docile, it seemed, holding him was a joy. She kissed the top of his head. “He smells like spring,” she said softly.

Faramir laughed. “That he does,” he replied. “And he looks well in his cousin’s arms.”

Lothíriel smiled first at her older cousin and then at her younger; and when Elboron waved his hand, she kissed his fingers. “You are a sweet one,” she said. “And so quiet! Erchirion’s son was much noisier.”

The Steward laughed at this mention of Lothíriel’s second-oldest brother. “That is fitting, for he was always the loudest of your brothers.”

For a little while they remained silent, until Éomer pulled up a chair and looked up at her as he sat down. There was something curious in his expression, and she asked: “Would you like to hold him, my lord?”

He opened his mouth, but his sister answered for him. “Of course he would, cousin, for you have held him long enough,” said Éowyn.

So he took a deep breath before he nodded. He was holding his arms rather awkwardly, but Lothíriel managed to guide him somewhat as she laid the child in his arms. Then, while she was still leaned forward and pulling away, she raised her gaze to his, and for a moment they both froze.

Not for the first time it struck her that he was a very handsome man. More rugged, perhaps, than men she was used to, but handsome nonetheless. There was something about his eyes, though, that surpassed any man she had ever known. They suggested that there was far more depth to this man than she had given him credit for, and at this sudden thought she could feel the tinge of pink rising in her cheeks.

As soon as she was assured of his hold on the infant, she pulled away quickly. But there was no further safety in distance this time. Instead, she looked on as this powerful, handsome man cradled his tiny, helpless sister-son in his arms, and she only hoped that her cousin and his wife did not see her reaction to this. For now she wondered at why she disliked him so, or rather, if she disliked him. Truth be told, in this moment she found him immensely attractive. And she was not certain if she liked that idea at all.

Fortunately Éomer seemed the least keen on holding the baby, and Elboron was soon back in his mother’s arms. He seemed largely unaware of her recent reaction to him, but he would not meet her gaze. Not that she sought it, of course. But in the rest of the conversation, before they left the young family for the night, Lothíriel found herself glancing at him more than she would have liked, and found Éomer looking away from her far more than she was comfortable with.

*~*~*~*

In the following morning, Éowyn awoke late, feeling rather sore and hearing the strange sound of a child crying. After blinking a few times, she turned, and saw Faramir lifting their son from the cradle. She smiled when he turned to her. “I was about to wake you,” he said. “I think the child is hungry.”

Éowyn pushed herself up then and leaned against the headboard. Once in the night she had fed the child; she was still not wholly used to the concept, but it was getting easier. It helped that Elboron seemed to know exactly what he was doing. So this time, once the babe was settled into her arms, she felt comfortable enough with it that she looked away from her son to her husband, who was watching the process with wonder in his eyes. “Did you sleep at all, my lord?” she asked.

The look on his face when he dropped his gaze was almost sheepish. “No,” he replied. “I had little need for sleep.”

She laughed a little. “You will need to take your eyes off our son sometime, Faramir.”

He smiled. “Not for a little while,” he said. “But it was well that I was awake. The King and Queen arrived last night.”

Éowyn gave him a look of amazement. “What an extraordinary chance,” she murmured, “for we had not yet sent them word.”

“I had Elboron with me when I spoke with Lord Aragorn,” Faramir replied. “He will make an excellent father when Lady Arwen’s time comes in the fall.”

And Éowyn smiled and shifted the child to hold him with one arm. “Yes, he will,” she replied, brushing the fingers of her free hand against the stubble on her husband’s cheek. “As you continually prove to be.”

After a moment Faramir finally looked at her again. “Should I call for Mithlomi?”

“No, for I told her to see to Lothíriel this morning,” Éowyn said. “She will come here when Lothíriel sends her.”

Faramir laughed a little. “And why was it that Lothíriel brought no maid of her own?”

“I do not pretend to understand everything your cousin does, my lord,” Éowyn replied. “Sometimes I believe that she prefers Mithlomi’s presence.”

“Doubtless because your maid resembles her so much,” said Faramir in a dry voice.

“Come now, Lothíriel is not so arrogant, though the resemblence between the two is uncanny,” she said with laughter in her voice. “Perhaps it is because she knows Mithlomi will say naught to her of my brother.”

The Steward laughed again. “This is true, though there is much to be said on that score,” he replied. “I wager you saw as much as I did last night, when Éomer held the child. I do not understand how neither of them will acknowledge their attraction.”

“No, my lord, nor how well-suited they are.” By then Elboron had pulled away from his mother’s breast, and Faramir lifted him from her arms, laying him against a thick cloth he had earlier laid on his shoulder. Éowyn continued: “I suppose we should not tease them for it.”

Faramir patted the boy’s back as he replied: “I fear they may never come any closer to acknowledging what they feel without some pressure from the outside. Perhaps it is our duty as their friends.”

And Éowyn laughed as she closed up the bodice of her gown once more. “Perhaps.”

For those who are interested, more detail in the birth of little Elboron can be found in my Neither Death nor Pain, which can be found at this site.

Sorry for the delay, folks. I'm coming up on crunch time in school, so it took longer than anticipated.

And now for Chapter 5, in which we stumble upon a plot.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 5

The Matchmakers

*~*~*~*

In the two weeks prior to Elboron’s birth and the days following, Éomer began to realize why precisely Lothíriel had come to Emyn Arnen. Certainly she was there to share in the joy of the birth, but she also took upon herself many of the duties which the mistress of the house could not during her confinement. When questioned on this by Éomer, she replied simply that as Faramir had no sisters and she was the closest female relative, she felt it her duty to assist her cousin in this. She reasoned that since she had done this for two of her elder brothers when their children were born, she had the duty to offer her services in this regard to Faramir. And indeed, Lothíriel proved an excellent manager for the house, planning meals and making accommodations for guests, both for those whose arrivals were anticipated and those who were not.

Yet amid her tasks in running the Steward’s house, she found ample time to spend with Éomer, which never ceased to amaze the King of Rohan. She was a lively partner, certainly: a worthy debate opponent, a ready learner, and a capable rider. But after each argument, Éomer was struck by an odd feeling of sadness, perhaps, that the argument was over. Somehow he got the idea that Lothíriel felt the same way.

When the birth came, however, he began to see less and less of her, as her duties were now augmented by frequent visits to Éowyn and the newborn. Éomer, of course, saw his sister just as much, but strove to keep his visits from overlapping with Lothíriel’s. The night of the birth had been profoundly unsettling for him. She had looked entirely too lovely as she held the infant.

But there were plenty of distractions from his mildly disconcerting thoughts about the Princess of Dol Amroth, not the least of which was Éowyn herself. Éomer had never seen his sister so happy as she was after the birth of her son. She smiled always, and nothing seemed to give her more joy than the chance to hold the child and rock him to sleep. Éomer had not expected her to take to motherhood so quickly, but Éowyn had always been one to surprise.

Yet she was not unwilling to let others hold her child. A few evenings after the birth, when the midwife had finally told her she could rise from her bed and join her guests at dinner, Aragorn held the babe for most of the evening. They were all gathered around the fire in Faramir’s large library, with the child as the center of attention.

When Aragorn could be prevailed upon to surrender the little princeling to his wife, Faramir gave his brother-in-law a strange look. “So, brother,” said he, “you have said once that you prefer beauty of the darker kind, but which is lovelier in your estimation: the Queen or my cousin?”

This generated great laughter from all present except Éomer and Lothíriel, it seemed. As Éomer contemplated the most politic way in which to answer his brother-in-law, it escaped his notice that the Princess of Dol Amroth had flushed a pretty shade of pink. However, this did not pass by Faramir without note. Then Éomer said: “I cannot answer you, brother. If I say the Lady Lothíriel, then all the world will count me a liar; for what mortal can compare to Elven beauty? Yet if I say the Queen, then I insult your cousin.”

“I can stand the truth, my Lord Éomer,” said Lothíriel. “I am not made of glass.”

“I never supposed you were, Lady,” he replied. “No elegant glasswork could deliver such scathing blows as you do without shattering.”

“But when the glass is hot it does not break.”

“Nay, Lady, but it is deformed, and the glassblower must mold it anew.”

Faramir coughed, having caught Éomer’s meaning as quickly as Lothíriel did. As much as it was rather unbecoming of Lothíriel to argue thus, Éomer was no better. Then said Lothíriel: “We had a truce, my lord.”

“The child is born, my lady.”

After he glanced at Aragorn, the King began a new thread of conversation, far away from glassmaking or Elven beauty. And it was not long before Elboron started to cry in Arwen’s arms; and Éowyn said: “He is tired.”

She started to stand, but Lothíriel was faster. “I will take him, Éowyn,” she said. “You have not had a night with your guests for some time, and I would be glad to put him to bed.”

Éowyn opened her mouth, obviously surprised, but then smiled. “If you wish,” she replied. So Lothíriel scooped her little cousin into her arms and whisked him out of the room.

And before much time had passed, Éomer left too, bored, Faramir supposed, without Lothíriel’s conversation. Almost as soon as the door had closed behind him, the party left before the fireplace burst into laughter.

Aragorn recovered first. “I had not thought their bickering to be as serious as this, Prince Imrahil,” he said.

“Nor I,” Imrahil replied. “Until we had come here, I thought their relationship nothing more than friendship.”

Éowyn smiled gleefully. “Come now, did you suspect nothing?” she asked. “Or have you forgotten that first meal we passed with them in our company?”

“When Éomer could not keep his eyes from her?” said Faramir. “That was the only time he was ever struck silent by her beauty.”

“Perhaps the only time he has ever been struck silent at all,” Éowyn replied. “I could almost say that he is desperately in love.”

“Almost?” said Arwen. “Why almost?”

“He is not quite lost to her,” said the Lady of Ithilien. “But a gentle nudge will send him beyond hope, I deem.”

Faramir laughed. “I doubt my cousin will give it to him.”

And Lord Aragorn got a curious look upon his face. “Why then should we not help?” he asked. “I am certain we can give them what encouragement they need.”

The Queen smiled in mischief. “And this is what the King of Gondor has come to in time of peace? Matchmaking for the sovereign of another realm?”

“The match was made, for the board was set when Éowyn became ill last fall and Éomer and Lothíriel both came to see her,” the King replied. “I merely move the pieces.” He took a sip of the wine which had been poured for him earlier. “Lord Imrahil, with your blessing, and the help of you all, we will quicken this relationship and have them married before Midsummer.”

Imrahil laughed long. “Aye, my lord, you have my blessing, as will Éomer when the time comes. I could ask for no better son-in-law.”

“And you, Lord Faramir, and Lady Éowyn?” said Aragorn. “Do I have your help?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Éowyn replied.

“Then we are in agreement, and let us drink to it,” said the King.

“And how do you propose to work this miracle, Estel?” Arwen asked.

“It will be no miracle, Arwen,” he replied, “but in the coming days we will know how best to trap them.” He turned to Faramir. “When do you expect Legolas and Gimli?”

“On the morrow, my lord,” the Steward replied. “Gimli, at least, will be more than happy to assist us.”

“That he will,” said Aragorn. “Then we shall have to tell them as soon as we can of this plan. Éomer and Lothíriel want only a little help. We shall accomplish this with ease.”

*~*~*~*

Much later, when the plot was explained and all had agreed to their parts, Éowyn headed to the nursery to see to her son. To her surprise Lothíriel was yet there, holding Elboron. “Lothíriel?” she quietly said. “Is something wrong?”

The younger woman looked over her shoulder and smiled. “No, nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I wanted time to think.”

Éowyn nodded. “That I readily understand.” But when she moved closer to Lothíriel, she saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “Lothíriel, you are not well,” she pressed.

Lothíriel sighed, carrying Elboron to his cradle. “Perhaps I am not,” she said. Then she blurted out: “Cousin, it can be difficult to be alone.”

“Yes,” Éowyn replied simply. “When all others are gone to war, or marrying and having children.”

“I am not like you, Éowyn,” she said. “I did not wish to fight. But now. . . .I love my nieces and nephews, and I love your son, but it is not the same.”

Éowyn was surprised by this sudden admission from her husband’s cousin, though she knew of Lothíriel’s short-lived betrothal. “Do you regret the choices you have made, Lothíriel?”

“That I broke off my engagement? No,” she said. “I did not love him, and I know I would have been unhappy. But with the last of my brothers to be married so soon, I feel as though all the world is leaving me behind.”

And Éowyn embraced her, understanding the feeling very well. Yet she was happy to hear those words, for it made her nearly certain that the plot they had concocted just now would be successful, at least with Lothíriel. In fact, she was tempted for a moment to break with the group and tell Lothíriel now that Éomer admired her greatly. Éowyn was nearly certain that her brother was in love, and such knowledge would give her cousin comfort now.

But she held her tongue, and soon Lothíriel pulled away. “I am sorry, cousin,” she said, smiling despite the confession she had just made.

“You have no reason to be,” Éowyn replied. “You are tired. Perhaps you should rest.”

“Yes, I believe I shall,” said Lothíriel. “Good night, Éowyn.”

“Good night.”

And then Lothíriel was gone, to be replaced a few moments later by a very confused Faramir. “Is my cousin well?” he asked. “I saw her fleeing from here as though her life depended upon it.”

Éowyn smiled. “She is well, my lord,” she replied, “but she will be ready to fall when the trap is laid.”

And Faramir smiled too. “This is good news indeed.”

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 6

An Ill-Fated Ride

*~*~*~*

“I believe Lothíriel is in need of a day of pleasure for herself. Éomer, would not you agree?”

On the following morning, this topic was broached by Faramir, to Éomer’s great annoyance. To be sure, he did not mind Lothíriel’s company, but the subtle tendencies in his friends toward matchmaking were becoming irksome. A glance at Lothíriel upon this statement had told him that she too had observed this tendency, but Éomer could hardly refuse and thus insult Lothíriel.

And so that was why on the next day they found themselves on horseback, riding through the forests of Emyn Arnen. Barely an hour had passed before Éomer began to believe that they had exhausted all civilized discussion between them. The truce from three weeks before was reaching a brittle and perhaps nasty end.

Faramir’s interference was ringing through Éomer’s mind in the icy silence of a warm spring day. Beside him was a woman whose beauty, while great, could not match the sharpness of her tongue, but now she remained strangely silent. Perhaps she too felt how much this outing had been forced, and was also resenting it.

“I suppose we must have some conversation,” she said at last. “Otherwise we would do just as well to ride separately, and not bother with keeping up this pretense.”

A long time passed before Éomer finally replied: “It is a fine day.”

“Yes, it is,” said Lothíriel. “The ground is quite dry.”

“We have not had rain in some time.”

“And it is warm enough that Éowyn does not mind taking the child outside.”

The silence which followed was excruciating, until Éomer, in mild annoyance, asked: “Must you always have the last word, Lady?”

Lothíriel shot a glare at him. “No, my lord, for it is most often you who demands it in our conversation.”

“I?” said he.

“Yes, you.” She raised her chin. “My first night here, in the stables, you would not allow me to defend myself after you said some extraordinarily ungracious things about me.”

“You provoked that!” he cried. “You turned my words into insult.”

“And you would not trust me to touch a silly animal!” Lothíriel could hardly believe how quickly this had disintegrated, though give his previous behavior, it was perhaps not so surprising. “Your behavior disgraces your crown, Éomer King, and with that I am done.”

She spurred her horse to a gallop and turned back to the house. In her disgust she let a stablehand see to her horse when she reached the stable, and she marched back up to the house, not caring who saw her in such a state.

Her father and her cousin were passing through the foyer as she entered. “Child,” said her father, “what is the matter?”

“That Rohirric King!” she spat out, fumbling with the buttons on her long gloves as she hurried toward the stair. “I know not how you befriended him, Father, for he is the most uncouth and crass man I have ever met!”

Her gloves finally removed, she took up her skirts and fled to the upper floor of the house and to her room. She locked the door and leaned against it, tears of fury tracing down her cheeks. Ten days before, when the child had been born, she had learned to think better of him. Now her faith was shaken, and she knew not what to trust.

*~*~*~*

Faramir and Imrahil remained in the foyer, bewildered. At last the elder man said: “Perhaps this suggestion of ours was not so wise after all.”

“Perhaps not,” said Faramir, still staring at the stairs. “I wonder at what happened.”

“I wonder how Éomer is taking this.”

On that score the two men were quickly satisfied. Éomer came up to the house almost before the words were out of Imrahil’s mouth, and when he saw the two men in the foyer he almost rolled his eyes. “Am I safe from the Lady?” he asked.

“I believe so,” said Imrahil. “You are not, however, safe from her father. What upset her so?”

“How am I to know?” Éomer asked. “She misused me past the endurance of a block!”

At that point Faramir, near the verge of laughter, had to look over his shoulder to conceal a smile. Meanwhile his brother-in-law continued: “She accused me of being unfair, and then had the audacity to insult my horse!”

Imrahil, in his usual unflappable manner, said only: “And you did nothing to incite this?”

“Nothing which would provoke that!”

Faramir glanced at his uncle, who looked away from Éomer and said: “What say you, Faramir? Whom shall we believe?”

Éomer opened his mouth to speak, but Faramir raised his hand to forestall his comments. “Both, Uncle,” he replied, “and neither. I am certain my brother-in-law said something to provoke.” The Rohirric lord tried to protest this, but was prevented again when Faramir added: “And I am equally certain that my cousin deserved it.”

Clearly unsure of how to react to such a statement, Éomer merely stood in indignant silence for a few moments. At last Faramir clapped his shoulder and said: “Come, brother, our friends arrive in a few hours. Surely you wish to be in better spirits for their arrival.”

“And what would you suggest I do, Faramir?” he asked.

“There is always ale,” the Steward replied. And at least two of the men laughed.

*~*~*~*

Lothíriel took her midday meal in her room, not wishing to confront Éomer this soon. This relationship was making less and less sense to her. She knew not how to think of him, and yet her heart ached at the very thought of him. She regretted her words — they were rashly spoken — and yet she could not bring herself to face him now, even to apologize to him. There were too many other things at work which she did not understand. So clearly, there was only one course of action.

She had to apologize to his horse.

This decision was reached as she made her way from her room to the stairs down to the main entrance of the house, the fastest way to reach the stables. But before she reached the first step, she stopped suddenly, seeing Éomer down in the foyer below. He, however, did not see her, being engaged in conversation with others. A step to the side, toward the shadows of the corridor in which she stood allowed Lothíriel to see who was with him. Her father and cousin were there, as were the King, an Elf, and a Dwarf.

“We had hoped to see your daughter here as well,” the Elf was saying. “Is she not here?”

“Yes,” said her father, “but she was feeling unwell earlier and has not been disposed to much company.”

The Elf’s eyes darted up to the second-floor landing, but he merely smiled as Lothíriel backed into the shadows. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said to Imrahil. “I hope she will be well before dinner.”

Aragorn clapped Gimli’s shoulder. “Friends, our brother Éomer is in the gardens. Will you not join him? I fear that I must have a word of conference with these two lords.”

Away they went, and Lothíriel let out a long breath. Quickly she flew down the stairs and out of the house, running toward the stables. In her hand she had a small pouch, filled with sugar taken from the tea tray. Lothíriel held out a hope that while this horse was extraordinary and legendary, he would be tempted in the conventional ways. He was, after all, still a horse.

As she entered the spacious building and approached Fleetfoot’s stall, she felt acutely the ridiculousness of this situation. A Princess of Dol Amroth apologizing to a horse? Yet somehow she also felt she had to do this. She had shown deep disrespect to a noble creature, and she knew that if she ever hoped to have Éomer’s forgiveness, she would have to have his horse’s as well.

Reaching the end of the building, Lothíriel saw that the horse in question had been watching her. “Hello, Fleetfoot,” she said.

In response, the horse sniffed and turned his head away.

Lothíriel sighed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This horse was almost as troublesome as his master. It was no wonder that Fleetfoot had allowed Éomer to ride him. They were rather alike in stubbornness.

Still, there was a job to be done, so she walked right up to the door and said: “I came to apologize to you, Fleetfoot.” When the horse did not respond to her words, she simply continued. “I did not mean to call you silly. I was upset at — well, I suppose it does not matter why I was upset. But I am sorry.”

The horse lifted his head then and snorted. “I brought you sugar,” Lothíriel said, smiling. This Fleetfoot liked, and within a few moments he was eating sugar from the palm of her hand.

“I wish people were as easily forgiving as horses, Fleetfoot,” she mused, stroking his mane. “Once children become adults, they lose all sense of reason and forgiveness. I do not know how I shall apologize to Éomer for what I said.”

When Fleetfoot had consumed all the sugar Lothíriel had brought, she patted his neck and slipped away, through a door in the back of the stables. As much as she loved horses, she did not much love their smell, and she hurried up to her chambers, where she hoped to bathe and put on fresher clothing before dinner.

*~*~*~*

The title belongs to Shakespeare, again, but it's from a different play, A Midsummer Night's Dream.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 7

The Course of True Love

*~*~*~*

When Legolas and Gimli arrived that afternoon, Éomer was still pondering the morning’s argument with Lothíriel. He knew not why it had affected him so greatly, but he was glad to have new company at the house, if only to distract him from recent developments. He immediately took a turn with his friends in the vast gardens around his sister’s house. Through the hedges they wandered, conversing easily of many things. It had been some months since Éomer had last seen his Dwarf friend, so he was glad of this visit.

Legolas began to explain their plans to Éomer. “And we are to travel on to Eryn Lasgalen in—”

He was cut off by the sudden sound of Aragorn’s voice on the other side of the hedge. “And what did Éowyn tell you, Lord Faramir?” he asked. “That Lothíriel is in love with Lord Éomer?”

And Éomer froze, his eyes wide. His companions looked at him in surprise. But Faramir answered before Éomer could recover from Aragorn’s words. “There is no question in the matter, my lord,” he replied. “My cousin is as in love with him as any of our wives have loved us.”

“And your brother-in-law has no knowledge of it?” asked Imrahil. He does now, Éomer thought. Apparently Faramir gave some response, and Imrahil said: “What a pity, for Lothíriel will never let him know of her affection.”

“It is just as well,” said Faramir, raising his voice in a lofty tone, “for we all know how much he dislikes her.”

Gimli gave Éomer an odd look, but he was given no opportunity to defend himself. “It is true,” said Aragorn. “I am surprised that a woman of such intelligence has lost her heart to him. We know how proud and disagreeable he is with her.”

Indignant, Éomer almost spoke out against this, but Imrahil’s voice preceded him. “Be fair to him, my lord,” he said. “The King of Rohan is yet young, and he could learn to put aside such feelings if he knew of her affection.”

“I love Éomer as I would love a brother,” said Aragorn, “but I cannot believe you there. He would scorn the lady’s love, though she is well worthy of so great a man.”

“Then he is no great man, if he should spurn my cousin,” Faramir replied. “I shall go to Lothíriel and counsel her to fight her feelings. She deserves a man who loves her.”

“Do you distrust your brother-in-law so?” asked Imrahil. “Surely he would not scorn my daughter’s freely offered love. Tell him of it, and see what he will say.”

Éomer was by then becoming very uncomfortable with the situation, not in the least because his friends heard this exchange as well as he. “I know what he would say,” Faramir continued. “For I have heard him call her headstrong and insolent. He would tell us not to saddle him with Lothíriel as wife, though she is beautiful and clever beyond anything he deserves.”

And Éomer winced to hear some of his own words said back to him. Yet as the conversation continued, he was struck by this revelation. Lothíriel was in love with him — he could hardly believe it! She who seemed bent on teasing and testing him was actually in love with him. As he considered this, Legolas touched his arm. “Are you well, Éomer?” the Elf asked.

Éomer nodded distractedly. “Forgive me,” he said, and left the garden, leaving Legolas and Gimli alone.

The two hurried around to the other side of the hedge, where Faramir was whispering something to the two older men. Upon the sight of the two, Imrahil backhanded Faramir’s stomach, and the three looked at the Elf and Dwarf. A look of relief crossed all three faces as they did not see Éomer. Then Legolas said: “My lord, did you not realize that Éomer was—”

And suddenly Aragorn’s hand clamped over his mouth with such force that the Elf was nearly knocked to the ground. There was a warning look in the King’s eyes as the Steward ran through an opening in the hedges and came back. “He is almost to the stables, my lord,” said Faramir. Aragorn released Legolas then. “There is little danger he heard him.”

“I see your Elf ears do not discern everything,” said Gimli then. “Why would they talk so loudly if they did not wish to be overheard?”

Legolas turned the question to Aragorn. “Why would they wish to be overheard?”

Imrahil laughed. “Éomer will never own himself in love unless he believes Lothíriel loves him first, so we have given him that belief.”

“And does she?” asked Gimli.

“Certainly!” Faramir cried. “You, Master Dwarf, have never seen them together, but they are in love, I assure you.”

Said Legolas: “And has the same net been laid for the Lady?”

“It soon will be,” said the King. “Come, let us go up to the house.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And let us send Lothíriel to fetch him for dinner.”

*~*~*~*

Away from the gardens Éomer fled. He hardly knew which way he walked, so occupied were his thoughts with this fresh intelligence. Lothíriel in love with him? It seemed surreal, and yet. . .and yet it did not seem so strange either. Nor was the idea entirely unpleasant.

He soon found himself in the stables, with his horse Fleetfoot. In times of emotional stress he was wont to go to his horses; they were less complicated than what troubled him, and allowed him to think on other things. Yet this time it did not work. His mind kept conjuring images of the Princess of Dol Amroth, and it was not long before the horse noticed his distraction and nudged his shoulder.

After a moment Éomer laughed. “I fear you do not have my full attention today,” he said. “I have learned something most distressing, Fleetfoot. The Lady Lothíriel, who seemed outwardly to despise me, is actually in love with me.”

Fleetfoot threw his head back. “I know, it is incomprehensible,” Éomer said, smiling. “I have given her no cause to love, and yet love she does. She has apparently confided this to my sister.

“I know not why she loves me, Fleetfoot,” he continued. “My friends have maligned me, saying I would scorn her if I knew. Three weeks ago I would have said the same, but I do not. I am almost relieved to know this.”

He paused, running his fingers through Fleetfoot’s mane. “I fear that if this were known, that she loves me and I have no objection to it, that I would never hear the end of the matter from my friends. But,” he added, raising his voice to a more lordly tone, “they know my situation. They know I must marry, that I must have heirs, and I would much rather marry a woman who loves me than not.”

Fleetfoot suddenly threw his head back, shaking it and whinnying loudly. After a moment, Éomer laughed. “You disagree, friend,” he said. “And I suppose you are right. But if she can love me, why should I not think of her as a suitable bride? She is lovely beyond report, wise beyond her age, and well-schooled in the ways of royal life. She is not perhaps so mild as I would have looked for in a wife, but she is altogether suitable to be the Queen of Rohan.”

The horse eyed him suspiciously before nudging his shoulder again. Éomer pondered his words carefully. “And if she loves where I thought she despised,” he said slowly, “is it possible that I love her too?”

Once the words were out of his mouth, the sudden truth of them was obvious to the King. Their strife and discontent stemmed from being in love with each other, and not wishing the other to know. Éomer had perhaps loved her since first setting his eyes upon her those many months ago, but now it was clear. The arguing, the condescension, all had been a mask for his true feelings for her.

“I love her,” he whispered; and Fleetfoot whinnied his approval.

Sorry for the delay, folks! It's been a strange couple of weeks. I recently got whacked over the head with a massive block on this story AND a plot bunny from Stargate: SG-1, of all places.

Hopefully the next chapter won't be so long in coming.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 8

Nothing So Strange

*~*~*~*

Lothíriel had taken the luxury of a long, mostly hot bath when she returned from her marginally embarrassing encounter with Éomer’s horse. She found it mildly humiliating now that she had not had the courage to speak those words of apology to Éomer’s face. He was a king, not some petty lord. He could be gracious enough when he chose. Perhaps he would be if she gave him opportunity, instead of continually provoking him into saying rash things.

Though the water was becoming rather cold, Lothíriel wished to immerse herself in it and imagine herself home once more, surrounded by the lusciously humid air of the coast. For now she settled for soaking up to her neck, her hair pinned up, and a sea sponge on her face. But eventually she had to get out of the water, if only to be ready in time for dinner.

The maid who had arranged the bath for her had also laid out what she needed: towels, a robe, brushes, oils, and several dresses, from which she chose one of soft blue, like the fringe of a feathery cloud. Its neck was high, unlike most of her gowns, and called for something a little more elegant with her hair than what she normally wore. In the end, she set her hair simply, gathered at the nape of her neck in twists and loops; but into that she pinned gold beads. She knew not why she did this, but it was very becoming, and it felt good to be dressing up like this again.

Once dressed, she slipped out of the room, hoping to see Éowyn and the child before dinner. But Faramir was not far down the corridor, and when he saw her he stopped, an odd smile upon his face. “Cousin, you look lovely,” he said.

Lothíriel blinked a few times and felt her cheeks flush at the praise. Faramir so rarely saw beauty in any woman but his wife, and rarer still complimented the cousin he treated as sister. “Thank you, Faramir,” she replied, smoothing out her bodice. “Is your wife in the nursery?”

“I was just on my way to find out,” he said as two maids walked past them and ducked into a room down the way. “Do you need to speak with her about something in particular?”

“Oh, no,” said Lothíriel.

“Good,” her cousin replied, “for now I shall have no scruple in asking a favor of you.”

“What is it, cousin?” she asked.

“We have been completely unable to locate my brother-in-law for a while, and I was wondering if you might run down to the stables to see if he is there.”

Lothíriel took a step back. “I see what you are about, Faramir,” she replied. “Have you no servants to do the task?”

Faramir gave her a smile which was probably winning with most women, and patted her cheek. “Come now, cousin, you are not this paranoid, are you?” he said. “I ask only that you go down there. He might not even be there.”

Lothíriel arched a brow. “Where else would the King of Rohan mysteriously disappear to?”

He sighed. “Little Lothíriel,” he said, a phrase she hadn’t heard since she was very small. “Am I asking some great feat of you? You know I love you as a sister, and love him as a brother. I would wish you would at least be civil to each other.”

Her expression softened. “And will you have this conversation with him?”

“Do this favor for me, and I shall.”

“Very well.” Lothíriel rose up on her toes to brush a kiss against her cousin’s cheek. “So long as you realize that this is under duress.”

“You will not regret it, cousin,” he said as she began to walk away from him.

After a few steps more, she turned around, seeing him look over her shoulder. “Whatever do you mean, Faramir?”

“He is a good man, Lothíriel,” he replied. “I wish you would give him a chance.”

“A chance for what?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

Faramir merely smiled and waved her away. “Off with you,” he said, and turned to his own path.

And Lothíriel walked on, still puzzled at her cousin’s words.

However, it was not long before all puzzlement had worn off, and Lothíriel was in fact rather thoroughly annoyed with her cousin, and perhaps with anyone else who had ever thought that she might one day get along with Éomer again. At almost the moment she stepped outside, there was a crack of lightning, and the darkened sky suddenly opened up its depths and began to rain. She was not three steps from the portico when she was drenched by the sudden storm.

Yet down the hill she marched toward the stables, knowing that there was no way to avoid this embarrassment. By the time she reached the building, her skirts were splattered with thick mud, and her hair was hanging in limp disarray. Had she not known better, she might have thought that Faramir had conjured this storm. He did love to torture her.

At the other end of the building, Éomer stood with his back to her, sending his horse back into its stall. For a moment she considered hiding so that he would not see her in such a state, but that was impossible. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth. If the daughter of ship-lords could not stand a little water, then she did not deserve the title.

The king turned around then and saw her; but to her surprise, no mocking smile twisted his lips, and no teasing word crossed them. Instead, there was a soft look in his eyes, to be overshadowed by a frown. “Lady Lothíriel, you are drenched.”

“Thank you, my lord, I had not noticed,” she snapped.

He took a few steps closer. “Why have you come out here in the rain?” he asked, picking up his cloak.

“I was sent,” she replied, placing careful emphasis on her words, “to bring you to dinner.”

“Were you.”

“Yes.” An awkward silence passed, and Lothíriel curtseyed. “There, my task is done, and I shall return to the house.”

She turned to leave, and then she heard Éomer’s voice once more. “Thank you.”

Puzzled, Lothíriel looked over her shoulder. She knew not what to say, and finally the word which came out of her mouth was the first one that had come to mind. “Why?”

“For coming out here in the rain,” he replied, taking another step, “when I was certain to come inside anyway.”

There was something very strange about this encounter, and Lothíriel raised a brow. “I did this as a favor to my cousin, my lord,” she replied. “Otherwise I would be with my father now, and be completely dry.”

“But I thank you for your trouble,” said Éomer, stepping closer still. “You must be freezing — here, take my cloak.”

He held it out to her, and Lothíriel looked down as though he was offering her a serpent. Slowly she lifted her gaze to his and stared, hoping against hope that he would take that as a hint to explain himself. Instead, there was something so very strange in how his eyes met hers, their grey light so like his sister’s eyes, but thoughts of Éowyn were far from Lothíriel’s mind now.

“My lady?” he prompted.

“I have to go,” she replied, half a moment before backing away from him and fleeing to the house once more.

And her mind was racing almost as fast as her feet by the time she reached the second floor of the house. Why had he been acting so strangely? And why had she been acting so strangely? There had been kindness in all his words, even in reply to her sharp remarks. Where was the King of Rohan she thought she knew?

In her hurry to cloister herself in her room, she walked past the nursery without realizing that its door was open until she heard her cousin say: “And what has your brother told you, my love?”

And Éowyn replied: “That he loves your cousin.”

Mid-stride Lothíriel turned to stone, her eyes wide. Was it possible?

She heard a sigh of resignation from Faramir. “Then it is worse than I feared.”

Slowly Lothíriel began to move again, turning her head to look into the room. She could not see Faramir and Éowyn from where she was, so it was entirely possible that they could not see her either. Still, she moved forward, toward the wall, as Éowyn said: “Feared? What did you fear?”

“I feared there was nothing but idle infatuation, but this is much, much worse,” said Faramir. “If he loves, she will laugh.”

“My lord, do you think so little of your cousin?”

“I have known Lothíriel for all her life,” said the steward. “I held her when she was but two days old. I know her nature, and she will not easily accept this.”

Éowyn sighed. “Let me go to her, my lord.”

“And what profit would it be?” said Faramir. “What good would come of such a conference?”

There was tenderness in Éowyn’s tone as she replied. “I once learned to love where I thought it impossible, my lord,” she said. “Do not doubt, but hope.”

“Let me first to Éomer,” he replied. “I will counsel him against this, and if he cannot rein in his desires, let Lothíriel know of his affection. But when she scorns his love, do not come to me for help.”

By then Lothíriel’s cheeks had grown very warm, and she wished to hear no more. She took up her skirts and fled, taking refuge in her room. It was absolutely impossible. They had been joking.

And yet. . .there had been something so very serious in Éowyn’s voice.

As Lothíriel changed from her muddied blue dress into a gown of soft green, the thought began to enter her mind that her cousins had been deadly serious. What if they were right, and Éomer truly loved her? Would it be right of her to reject such a man, especially one so admired by her father?

As she fastened up the front of her gown, she looked in the mirror. No, she could not bring her father’s opinion into this, and she had told herself that months before, when she had first met the young king. Her feelings and her feelings alone had to make this decision. But her feelings were not so clear as she would have hoped.

Sitting down to brush her hair, she studied her reflection. She knew she was attractive enough in many ways to be the object of Lord Éomer’s attentions, yet she had given him no encouragement. Perhaps that gave the strongest proof of all that the words spoken by Éowyn and Faramir were indeed true. And if they were true, and all she believed about Éomer’s opinion of her was wrong, then what was her true opinion of him?

By the time she had finished brushing her hair, her hands were shaking, and she set the brush aside. Her face, normally pale, was flushed; her eyes were bright. Once before she had thought herself loved by a man, but there had been little truth in it. Now she knew in her heart that Éomer loved her, and no fear accompanied that thought. What accompanied it was a feeling both terrifying and new, yet as calming and old as the Sea.

She loved him, wholly and irrevocably.

With this new realization pounding in her mind, Lothíriel had no concentration left for anything else. Her hands yet trembled, and she could not bring herself to set her hair before going down for dinner. So as she rushed from her room, her dark curls bounced and fluttered. She felt strangely excited to be on her way to dinner, and yet it was nothing so strange. Éomer would be there.

Sooner than she had anticipated, she reached the top of the stairs. Down below was her father, along with the King Elessar. She did not yet see her Lord Éomer, but she was sure he would soon be with the fleet. As so Lothíriel took a few deep, calming breaths, and descended into the great hall.

*~*~*~*

Sorry about the delay, everyone! You would not believe real life right now.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 9

Slow Burn

*~*~*~*

Imrahil saw Éomer enter the house, his countenance surprising cheerful given his drenched state. From a small drawing room, he watched the young king as he hurried through the foyer, and then he saw his nephew Faramir standing in another open doorway. The two men exchanged a glance, and once Éomer was gone, Imrahil asked: "And where is my daughter?"

"When last I saw her," said Faramir, "she was fleeing to her bedchamber after overhearing a conversation about how deeply Éomer loves her."

Imrahil smiled. "I believe that you and your wife have missed out on a life in a troupe of performers."

"We would be among the King's Players, without a doubt," said Faramir. "But I believe these private performances are perhaps more worthwhile."

At that moment the King Elessar and his queen descended the stair, and the two lords left the doorways and bowed before their king. The Lady Arwen's condition was becoming more apparent, and the king's care of her more tender. Faramir took her hand and kissed it. "I trust you are well, my lady?" he said.

She favored him with a beautiful smile. "I am, Lord Faramir," she replied. "The sickness which accompanies this blessing has passed."

"I am glad to hear it." He looked at his uncle and smiled. "I believe Éowyn has already forgotten the troubles and pains of childbirth."

Smiles and soft laughter were traded around, and then Imrahil looked up to see his daughter walking down the stairs. Two minor wonders he beheld: first, that Lothíriel was clad in the colors of Rohan, something which could be no accident. Second, her normally pale cheeks were flushed and her dark hair fell in long locks past her shoulders. This was something which would never be seen in Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith, and Imrahil began to wonder why she had done such a thing.

But he smiled as his youngest child reached him and took the hand he extended to her. "You are a picture of loveliness, Lothíriel," said he, kissing her cheek. "For a moment I thought I saw your mother on the stairs."

The young woman smiled. "Thank you, Father." She turned to Faramir. "Cousin, where are the others?"

"They will join us soon, Lothíriel," he replied.

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the Elf and Dwarf arrived, side by side. "Why do we wait?" said Gimli. "At my mother's table, those who were not there when the meal started managed for themselves."

During the laughter that followed, Faramir nodded to Gimli but replied: "That may be so, Master Dwarf, but at my mother's table, we would wait all night for one honored guest to arrive."

"Then let us hope that the King of Rohan will not keep us waiting that long."

"You are not alone in that hope." As Faramir spoke, Imrahil saw his nephew glance significantly at Lothíriel, who tried rather unsuccessfully to appear unaffected as she looked away, blushing. Unfortunately, she looked in the direction of the stair, which Éomer was descending in a hurry. "Brother!" cried Faramir. "If this Dwarvish friend of yours had his way, we would have begun without you."

And the young king's eyes strayed frequently to Lothíriel, whose blushing was heightened at his appearing. Yet he first paid his addresses to the others in the room — to the King of Gondor and his Queen, to his sister and her husband, to his comrades, and to Imrahil himself. He reached Lothíriel last, and everyone tried to look away while not looking away.

Was the child trembling as Éomer approached? Imrahil had never seen his daughter so unnerved as she was when the king took her hand and kissed it lightly. Then to all, but mostly to the princess whose blue eyes eyes were wide, he said: "I am sorry I have kept you waiting."

Then Faramir clapped him on the back, which caught Éomer off-guard considerably. "Then keep us waiting no longer, brother," he said. "Come, let us dine."

*~*~*~*

To say that dinner was awkward would be understating the matter in a shameful fashion.

Lothíriel could not begin to count the number of times she nearly knocked over her wine glass as the meal progressed, nor the number of times she and Éomer were caught staring at each other. She barely touched her food — she did not need it. Nor, she noticed, did Éomer. Yet the two said hardly a word during dinner, and never did they address each other.

As soon as the last course was served, she begged her leave of both Éowyn and Aragorn and fled. She could not get out of the house fast enough, for she was so warm she felt she might faint under layers and layers of clothing. Once out of doors, the cool air of evening washed over her, and she felt refreshed enough to venture into the near gardens.

After some time had passed, she heard a familiar voice say: "My lady?"

Lothíriel turned and saw the handsome King of Rohan standing at the edge of the stone patio, looking as though he was brimming with questions to ask and no idea which to ask first. Blushing softly in the moonlight, she curtseyed low. To her surprise, he laughed softly. "Lothíriel," he said, her name a grace note in his speech, "are we not past this now?"

"Past what, my lord?" she replied, standing up tall before him.

He looked down. "It is no matter." After a pause, he added: "Are you well?"

Lothíriel blinked once or twice. "Yes, my lord."

"Good." At her continued puzzled stare, he elaborated. "You were quiet at dinner."

"As were you."

They stood in uncertain silence for a time; and then the sound of a lute drifted down from the house. Lothíriel was sure that her cousin had taken up his instrument again, and the meandering chords soon became a delicate folk dance which she had not heard in some time. A small smile formed on her lips, and she looked up toward the house from whence the music came.

"My lady," said the king, and her attention drifted back. Éomer looked uncertain, even shy, as he extended his hand to her. "May I have this dance?"

She was taken aback, but it never occurred to her to refuse. Placing her hand in his, she smiled. "Of course."

To Lothíriel's surprise, Éomer was a fine dancer, true to the tempo and to his partner. She wondered how he knew the dance, but every time she thought to ask him, she met his eyes, such a beautiful shade of grey, and all thought, save of her steps and her partner, fled her mind. And she wondered at their former animosity, for now they moved as one, with single purpose and thought. She found it hard to believe that they had ever been at odds.

And then the music faded away, and Lothíriel stood in Éomer's arms, awaiting his next move. He did not draw back and bow to her, as the dance prescribed, but instead cupped her cheek. "Lothíriel," he murmured. "Lothíriel."

Vaguely she knew that she murmured his name in reply — was it the first time she had spoken his given name? But she was far more aware at how quickly her heart was pounding, how light her breath was, how intoxicating his eyes were in the moonlight.

And then, to no one's surprise, his lips met hers.

At first it was no more real than a butterfly's caress: tender and soft, but barely real. Lothíriel was surprised at his gentleness and reserve, for he was a warrior formidible in battle, not one to shy away from challenge. Yet here he tested the waters, and when he drew away, his eyes searched hers for something, perhaps permission. Lothíriel leaned toward him ever so slightly, and she hoped he knew her meaning.

A moment later, Éomer tightened his arms around her and kissed her again, this time with certainty, with passion. Never before had Lothíriel allowed a man to kiss her, so she was timid in her response, but Éomer was a patient man after all. She followed his lead, as she had in the dance, but this was infinitely more wonderful. In his arms she felt how great a warrior he was, and in the way he kissed her, she felt how much he loved her.

After moments too wonderful for words had passed, Lothíriel felt his mouth open against hers more than seemed necessary, and she gasped. Éomer began to pull away immediately, but that was not what she wanted. Her hands had rested upon his shoulders, but she buried them in his hair, keeping him from drawing back just yet. And what followed was a slow burn, smoldering embers kindling anew.

Both were breathless when they pulled away of mutual volition. Unwilling to leave his arms, Lothíriel rested her cheek against his neck, and Éomer threaded his fingers through her thick hair. No words were necessary, for they had already spoken all.

And drifting down from the house came a new melody, as Faramir stood on a balcony and played. A smile played upon his lips. This had been more successful than he had ever dreamed.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 10

Questions

*~*~*~*

In many ways, it was early yet in Éomer’s relationship with Lothíriel, but something about the moonlit dancing in Faramir’s gardens had confirmed for him what he already knew in his heart. This Princess of Dol Amroth was the only woman he would love, and the only woman who could reign at his side in the Golden Hall.

He had once thought it odd that Éowyn had given her heart over so completely to Faramir in such a short time, and he had questioned her purpose in accepting the steward’s proposal. Believing her heart to be firmly devoted to Aragorn, Éomer had been surprised at Faramir’s request for her hand and doubly surprised that Éowyn had already accepted him. But now he understood. This had not been love at first sight, certainly, but love had not taken long. They had no need for a long courtship. Their feelings ran deep and true, and the morning after Éomer had kissed Lothíriel, he sought her father.

Imrahil’s joy at his friend’s request was untempered. And so too was Éomer’s, for he knew he would please many by taking Lothíriel as his wife. It was now only a matter of asking her.

And it was not long before the opportunity presented itself. That evening the two found themselves alone in the steward’s great library. Éomer watched as the princess drew a volume from a shelf and leafed through it, swaying her hips gently as though she were unaware of his presence. At last, with catlike tread he approached, and when he was near enough, he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her neck.

Lothíriel lifted her shoulders and laughed softly, a silvery sound that seemed to fill the room despite its quietness. So too did her scent, for she smelled as though a garden’s sweet fragrance followed her throughout the day. “My lord,” she said, “the others. . .”

“Let them come,” he replied in a voice quiet and intense. Lothíriel looked over her shoulder then, setting her book aside. There was determination in her eyes, and when she turned around, she kissed him, sparing little for the possibility that someone might walk in at any moment. This was a moment of stolen pleasure for them, as their societies both frowned upon a man being alone with a young woman for any length of time. But as his arms went around her and her hands found occupation in his hair, he did not think of such things. His thoughts were only of the soft warmth of her mouth, the delicate strength of her figure, the quiet pleasure of her sighs.

It was a comfortable kind of kiss, with no demands or expectations. Éomer did not mind terribly when Lothíriel drew away from him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She captivated him then as she had the first time he had seen her, all those months ago in Minas Tirith, before anyone knew of the child Éowyn would bear. Lothíriel likely did not know her power over him now, but it was complete. Had she asked of him any great feat, he would have done it without a moment’s hesitation.

Unable to stay long within the depths of her strikingly blue eyes, Éomer held her closer, burying his face in the curve of her neck. To this she did not object and thus they stayed for a long time, as Lothíriel wove her fingers in and out of his hair. “Éomer,” she whispered at last, “what troubles thee?”

Could she read him so well now? They had had misunderstandings and mistakes enough to last a lifetime, so perhaps their contentious courtship had taught her to see into his heart. At last he lifted his head and released her, taking a step back. “I have never been a man of many words,” he said, “for I have not your cousin’s gift of eloquence.”

To his surprise, she laughed lightly. “Had I wished for a man of many words I would not have chosen you, my lord,” she replied.

And there she had given him and his leaden tongue the perfect window. “Have you chosen me, lady?” he asked. “Have you chosen me?”

She was a long time in answering, and her eyes searched his. “Aye, my lord,” she replied at last.

Gently he took her hand in his. “Then will you become my wife?”

Her countenance was calm. If she was surprised by the suddenness of his request she did not show it. Instead she gazed upon him long and steady, speaking a single word in answer that was to him the sweetest poetry in all the lands for which he and his comrades had fought.

“Yes.”

He did not kiss her again, for as they stood with hands clasped, the door to the library opened. Faramir entered, but Éomer and Lothíriel merely stood facing each other, aware of their surroundings but paying them little heed. When Faramir announced that Imrahil was looking for his daughter, she bowed her head and gave Éomer a tiny smile before departing to her father.

*~*~*~*

Faramir was by no means surprised to find Éomer and Lothíriel alone when he entered the study. Nor was he surprised to see his brother-in-law lightly gripping his cousin’s hand — not after what he had seen the previous night. Part of him did not wish to interrupt, but Imrahil did wish to speak with his daughter on a matter of some importance. Given the way Lothíriel was gazing up at Éomer, Faramir suspected that his uncle had good cause to wish it.

“Cousin, your father wishes to see you,” he said. Lothíriel said not a word, but Faramir saw the small smile she gave Éomer as she departed. And thus the two men were left alone, and Faramir cleared his throat. “Would it be wrong of me to assume,” he asked, “that you and my cousin have come to an understanding, Éomer?”

The King of Rohan was a long time in turning around. “Is it possible,” he finally replied, “that I am dreaming, Faramir?”

Faramir smiled mischievously. “Would it not be a nightmare, then, to find yourself betrothed to Lothíriel?”

Éomer shook his head. “I can hardly believe that she has consented to be my wife. Until last night she seemed to despise me.”

“The heart can turn in a moment, Éomer, if it sees and feels what is true,” the steward replied. “My cousin has always had a deep love of truth. Once she recognized it, she could no longer hide from it.”

“It is a rare gift.” The younger man headed toward the window, laughing softly. “I suppose my advisors will be happy now.”

“I imagine they will be.” Faramir did not join him at the window, but raised his voice. “I must tell you, brother, that if you hurt her, her brothers and I will exact a swift and harsh vengeance.”

“I would expect no less of you, Faramir,” Éomer replied. “I believe I said something similar to you when I gave my blessing to your betrothal to my sister.”

Faramir smiled. “And you know I am as serious as you were, though perhaps less imposing.”

Éomer looked over his shoulder. “If you had wanted to be imposing, you would have brought your sword.”

The steward laughed. “Then perhaps in the morning I shall bring it to breakfast, but for now I think I shall retire for the evening.”

“Good night, brother,” said Éomer, still at the window.

“Good night.”

*~*~*~*

On the following day the whole party departed from Emyn Arnen and journeyed to Minas Tirith. There they would stay for some days, as Elboron was to be formally presented to Aragorn as the heir of his father’s stewardship and princedom. By then they all knew of Éomer and Lothíriel’s understanding, and Éowyn assumed that that too would be formally announced in the City during the course of the visit.

For part of the journey she rode on horseback beside her brother, when Lothíriel was not occupying his attention. However, Éowyn soon learned that her husband’s cousin seemed to captivate his attention even when she was not in view. Éowyn often smiled at her brother’s state. She had never thought to see him so desperately in love.

She had wondered from time to time if all men who loved their wives were as effusive about it as her husband was, but it was clear now that this was not the case. Éomer’s feelings were clear, certainly, but he did not speak it with eloquent word or tender touch as Faramir would. Instead, he let it be known with his eyes, ever searching her out, ever showing his deep affection.

At last they drew near the great gates of the City, by which point Éowyn was in the carriage once more with her son. Lothíriel rode between her father and her fiancé, though none would suspect anything because of it. The two men were widely known to be great friends, so the young woman riding between them was hardly extraordinary.

When they arrived at the Citadel, Éomer let Imrahil have the right of helping his daughter dismount her horse, knowing that the father’s time for such a task was drawing to an end. But at the presentation in Aragorn’s Court Lothíriel stood at his side rather than at her father’s, which caused a flurry of discussion amongst all those present, save those who had come from Emyn Arnen. Had the Prince’s daughter finally chosen a husband? More importantly, had Éomer King decided to marry at last?

Éomer was not insensible to the whispers and the stares, but for the most part, he heeded them not. Yet the lingering glances of one man troubled him, for through the celebration which followed the ceremony on Elboron’s behalf, the man gazed upon Lothíriel in a manner which unsettled Éomer greatly. He went unto his brother-in-law for information, to at least know the man’s name.

“His name is Nadroth,” said Faramir, “a lord of some consequence from the southern reaches of Dol Amroth.” The two were walking the length of the great hall, crowded with guests, as Lothíriel danced with Elessar. Faramir lowered his voice. “My cousin has told you of him, I am certain.”

“What mean you?” said Éomer. “I have never heard that name.”

The steward raised his brows at this pronouncement and took a long sip of wine. “She was once betrothed to another, Éomer,” he said, turning his back to the crowd. “During the war, she was intended for Lord Nadroth. After the campaigns were over, it was broken off and he married another. I understand his wife lately died.”

“How?” Éomer asked, though he knew not why it concerned him. His eyes followed the man as he exited the hall into the courtyard beyond.

“In childbirth,” said the steward. “The child died as well.”

Their conversation was abruptly ended when Éowyn joined them. She smiled when Faramir kissed her cheek. “Where is our son?” he asked.

“Asleep at last,” she replied. “One of the queen’s maidens offered to stay with him during the feast.”

“That was very kind,” said Faramir.

Then for some time the two kept Éomer involved in conversation, such that thoughts of Nadroth were nearly driven from his mind. But inevitably he searched the crowd for Lothíriel’s face. When he did not see her, he left his sister’s side without a word.

To the courtyard he escaped, but there he would find no respite. The sky was overcast that night; neither moon nor stars gave him comfort. Only Lothíriel’s face now would bring him relief, or so he had hoped.

For in a darkened corner of the courtyard were two silhouettes, the taller approaching the shorter. One he knew immediately as Lothíriel, and the other looked to Éomer like the figure of the man Nadroth. Then he heard a whisper of her name on the evening breeze, and the man suddenly held her by her arms and kissed her.

She did not resist.

It was all Éomer needed to see. Enraged, he fled the courtyard, but not to reenter the feast from whence he had just come. A seed of doubt had been planted in his mind when Faramir told him of this man. Why had Lothíriel not disclosed this to him? She had had ample opportunity to inform him that she had once been engaged to this man of Dol Amroth. Why would she hide it from him unless she felt it something to hide?

Had she loved him once, and did she love him still? Her behavior in the courtyard gave him ample answer.

To the stables he went, and though rain had begun to fall, he took his horse out and rode away from the City. In his anger he rode hard, and he did not return for many hours, long after the feast was over.

*~*~*~*

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 11

Confession

*~*~*~*

The following morning Faramir awoke with the sun, though it had not been long since the feast had finally ended. Éowyn soon stirred at his side, and though she woke she drew nearer to him. “Faramir,” she murmured sleepily, “can you not tell the sun to go away?”

He laughed softly, slipping his arms around her. “Nay, my love, I fear I cannot,” he replied. “Perhaps we could lie abed until the sun has made his circuit once more.”

She nuzzled her nose against his cheek, drawing a contented sound from him. “Nay, my lord, I fear you cannot,” she said with a sigh. With that she sat up, holding the bedclothes over her body. Faramir soon snatched them back from her, as the morning was rather chilly, and before long the two were playfully wrestling over the covers and becoming warm enough that the blankets were hardly necessary.

The match ended with Faramir pinning his wife under his weight and Éowyn kissing him soundly. Yet before things progressed much further, there was a knock on the bedroom door. “My lady?” came Mithlomi’s voice.

“She will not enter unbidden,” said Faramir, kissing the hollow of Éowyn’s throat.

Despite the shudder that traced through her with the intimate touch, Éowyn frowned. “Something is wrong,” she said. “She did not sound well.”

Faramir needed no encouragement. He rolled off her, letting Éowyn rise, robe herself, and slip away to the door. Behind it stood Mithlomi, unusually pale, her eyes bloodshot. “Mithlomi,” said she, “are you unwell?”

“No, milady,” said the maid. Then she looked to the ground. “Yes.”

Tenderly Éowyn touched the girl’s cheek, and then her forehead. “You are too warm,” said Éowyn. “Far too warm. Would you like to lie down for a little while?”

Indecision filled Mithlomi’s features for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

The handmaiden curtseyed and went her way, one hand on her forehead as she left. Éowyn was still frowning as she turned around. Faramir had turned onto his back, clearly still exhausted, but he opened his eyes and looked over at her. “Where is Mithlomi?” he asked.

“I sent her back to bed,” said Éowyn. “She has a fever.”

“Will you call for one of Arwen’s maids?” Faramir asked, as they were staying with the king during this brief visit to the City.

Éowyn shook her head. “No, I believe I can manage for one morning.”

And she did. Both she and her husband were among the first to arrive for breakfast that morning, and they conversed quietly with Imrahil while the others made their way into the king’s private dining room. Lothíriel slipped into the room just after Aragorn, still pinning up a stray lock of hair. “Good morning, cousin,” said Faramir. “Did you sleep well?”

She mostly ignored Faramir, turning her attention instead to Éowyn. “I hope celebrations in Rohan do not last so long as this one did,” she said.

“No, cousin,” Éowyn replied, “they last longer.” The younger woman’s eyes widened, and Éowyn glanced at Faramir. “The feast on our betrothal did not end until dawn.”

“And life resumed its business at dawn,” Faramir interjected. “I believe there were a great many guards yawning that day.”

Lothíriel shook her head and took her seat across the table from her father. Then there was only one chair remaining, and it was at the princess’s left hand, between her and King Elessar. The door opened one last time, and Éomer entered the room.

At first glance Éowyn thought perhaps that Mithlomi was not the only one who had fallen ill since the feast. His countenance was grave, and while his appearance was impeccably neat, he looked as though he had had no sleep at all. “Brother,” said Éowyn, “are you well?”

The man’s eyes moved around the room, lingering on anything but Lothíriel and the empty chair beside her. “I neither know nor care, Éowyn,” he replied, much to the sister’s confusion.

By the look on her face, Lothíriel was as perplexed at his answer as were the rest. “My lord, will you not sit?” she asked, gesturing to the chair.

“I will not.”

An awkward silence fell, and Éowyn saw that Lothíriel’s pale face was reddened with mild anger. “If you have found more favorable company, Éomer—”

“Do not address me so informally, woman.”

At that, Imrahil stood abruptly. “You have crossed a line there, friend.”

“No, Prince, it is you who has crossed a line,” Éomer replied, “for you would have sold this woman to me as you would a fine jewel.”

By then Faramir had stood as well. “Sold her?” said Imrahil. “Is her dowry not generous enough? Is the greatest beauty Dol Amroth can offer insufficient? Is her love freely given now repugnant?”

Éowyn watched as her brother’s eyes finally rested on Lothíriel. There was fury in his eyes as he looked upon her, and Éowyn shuddered. She had never before seen her brother so angry, yet she did not understand the cause for it. “Yes, her love is freely given,” he said, “apparently to more men than me.”

“Éomer,” said Faramir, “of what do you accuse my cousin?”

“This is not your concern, brother,” the king replied, his eyes still on Lothíriel.

“Perhaps not, but it is mine,” said Imrahil. “Will you not explain yourself?”

“Perhaps it is not I who should explain, but Lothíriel.”

The princess’s expression had returned to puzzlement. “I know not of what you speak, my lord,” she replied. “You are my betrothed.”

“And I am not the first man who has held that distinction.” Éomer narrowed his eyes as Lothíriel stood at last. “How many have?”

Her face was flushed. “One other,” she said, slowly and softly. There was a note of fear in her voice, so subtle that Éowyn did not at first recognize it. “I did not love him.”

“Then you have a precedent of betrothing yourself to men without caring for them,” said Éomer.

“It was during the War—”

“Does that excuse it?” Éomer demanded.

“Lord Nadroth ended it, not me!” she cried. “I would have done my duty and married him, but he released me.”

“You would have married without love, and you would do so now!”

“No!” Éowyn watched in horror as her cousin’s face displayed a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion at once. “Why speak you thus, my lord? What offends you?”

“What man spoke with you in the king’s garden last night during the fourth watch?”

Lothíriel looked back at him in disbelief. “I spoke with no man in the garden.”

In a voice which chilled Éowyn to the bone her brother replied: “You lie.”

At last Imrahil interceded again. “You test my patience, horse-lord,” he said. “My daughter’s honor needs no such interrogation.”

“Then you do not know your daughter, Prince.” His eyes were steady on Lothíriel’s face. “What man spoke with you?”

“None!” she cried. “I did not even enter the king’s garden!”

“Éomer,” said Éowyn, finding an opportunity to speak, “what cause have you to doubt her word?”

“Because I have the proof of my eyes,” he replied. “She left the assembly, and when I found her again, I found her in the arms of this Lord Nadroth.”

“Lord Nadroth has left the City,” said Aragorn, speaking at last. “You must be careful, Lord Éomer, of this accusation. It is most serious, and your proof is tenuous at best.”

“You doubt what I saw, my lord?” he asked.

“No more than I doubt the word of a young woman who has never proven false or duplicitous,” he replied. “Yet there is no small discrepency here. One at least must be mistaken.”

Yet these words did not allay Éomer’s ire. He turned back to Lothíriel. “Do you love him yet?” he asked.

“I never loved him,” Lothíriel replied, seeming on the verge of angry tears.

“Yet with my own eyes I saw him take you in his arms and kiss you,” he replied bitterly. “And you let him.”

Horror filled her face. “My lord, I swear to you on my honor as a—”

“Do not swear!” cried Éomer. “Do not swear to me on your honor! I know not what honor you possess!” At last he stormed around the table and stood a pace from her. “Do not swear to me that you were not there. I saw you.”

“Then you saw wrongly, my lord!” she replied.

“He called your name, and he kissed you.” He raised his hand, and for a horrified second Éowyn thought he would strike Lothíriel. But instead he cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb against her lips. “To think that I have tasted of these lips,” he said. “How many others have?”

“None, my lord,” she protested.

“You lie.” He pushed her away and turned from those standing around the breakfast table. “I loved you!” he cried, more out of anguish than anything else Éowyn could detect. “I would have made you my queen, and I would have regretted it.” He turned back to face her. “Would I have wondered at your long absences? Would I have known the children you bore were not mine?”

“Éomer!” cried Éowyn, Faramir, and Imrahil at once at this accusation.

“Silence!” he roared, standing so close and so tall over Lothíriel that she seemed to shrink before their eyes. He shook his head. “You have the beauty of the Elves, but the wantonness of a wild beast. If I cannot trust you to keep your lips for me, I cannot trust you for anything else.” And Éomer’s eyes grew dark. “And I will not bed a woman who is no better than a common whore.”

And he stormed out of the room. Faramir and Imrahil tried to restrain him, but it was to no avail. He pushed both aside with ease and left, leaving a room of shocked people in his wake. Lothíriel sank into her chair, and Éowyn knelt before her. “Cousin,” she began, “have you any explanation?”

“I did not even speak with Nadroth last night,” she whispered. “I avoided him.”

Imrahil, still reeling from the argument, leaned forward and supported himself with his palms on the table. “Why did you leave the assembly?” he asked.

“A — someone spilled wine on my gown,” she managed. “I had to change my clothes.”

“Did anyone accompany you?” Aragorn asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then you have no proof to counter his,” said Faramir, returning to the group at last.

“This is not like him,” Éowyn murmured. “He has always been quick-tempered, certainly, but to make an accusation like this? It is not like him.”

Lothíriel raised her hand to her brow. “I had not told him,” she said. “I had not told him of Nadroth, and now he will not trust me.”

“I know my brother,” said Éowyn, rising. “His temper is quick, and if he believes himself wronged, he will dwell upon it and make the matter worse with his constant thought on it.”

“As he has done with me,” Lothíriel replied, her face set in a shadow of Éomer’s anger. “I have given him no cause to think me capable of this.”

Faramir touched her shoulder. “We believe you, cousin, but unless you can explain what he saw, he will not.”

“I know.” And she rose at last, gracefully, but with a weariness she could not hide. “I shall retire to my chambers to think of what I shall do. Please excuse me.”

With that she left, and those who remained gathered back for a meal taken in silence.

*~*~*~*

With Éomer’s accusations still fresh in her mind, Lothíriel did not return to her chambers as she had planned. Instead, her feet carried her to the stables, though she knew it was a bad idea.

He was there, a fact which was hardly surprising. In the course of their short acquaintance, she had learned that he would often visit his horses in times of trouble. It had been a mistake coming here, she knew, but once there, she could not leave. She watched him with Fleetfoot, who recognized his master’s distress and rubbed his nose against Éomer’s cheek. Then the horse saw her and whinnied. Vainly Lothíriel tried to hide herself, but she was not quick enough.

To her surprise, Éomer’s voice was weary as he spoke, though drenched in annoyance. “Have you come to torment me more, Lothíriel?” he asked.

“Is my presence necessary for that?” she replied, tentatively. “It would appear that last night, it was not.”

He seemed much calmer, but Lothíriel yet kept her distance. “I know what I saw, lady.”

“And I know what I did.” Across the stable he looked up, and their eyes met. “I did not drink so much wine last night that I would forget my own actions.”

“Nor did I drink so much wine that I would imagine such a thing.”

A long pause followed, and when Lothíriel did speak again, she chose her words carefully. “No matter what you choose to believe,” said she, “you are the only man who has known the touch of my lips. Was that not clear when first you kissed me?”

“I know not what to trust in you,” he replied, crossing the length of the building to stand before her.

“Then I cannot sway you.” She looked into his eyes, hoping that he would see that she told the truth. “I love you yet, Éomer, son of Éomund,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow. “Yet I cannot have a husband who will not trust me. And you will not trust that I am blameless.”

“I will not have a wife whom I cannot trust,” said Éomer in reply.

“Then it is best we learned this now.” Then, quite suddenly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a gentle kiss. He did not recoil, much to her surprise. When she drew away she did not look at him, but turned away and left the stables.

To her chamber she retreated, and none saw her for the rest of the day. Then after the sun had set, she slipped out of the king’s house, cloaked and hooded, to the stables once more. Though the night was dark, she saddled her horse and rode away, and alone she returned to Dol Amroth.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 12

A Woman Scorned

*~*~*~*

On the following morning a note was found in Lothíriel’s chamber, explaining that she had left for home. Prodigiously uneasy that she had left alone, Imrahil gathered up his retinue (which was no small task) and followed her by sundown. All the way home, he thought on what he would say to his daughter for her recklessness. Certainly she had cause to be grieved, but leaving by herself and unarmed was not the wisest decision she could have made.

Faramir had planned to leave for Emyn Arnen on the day following, but Mithlomi continued very ill and prevented their return to Ithilien. Éowyn was deeply distressed by this, but the Healers said that she would recover quickly enough if she would get some rest. With the move to Emyn Arnen, Éowyn’s pregnancy, and the arrival of little Elboron, the handmaiden had had little time to rest. The Healers determined that the stress of her position had finally caught up to her.

And so they remained in Minas Tirith as guests of the king, though things were strained between Faramir and Éomer for some time. Éomer refused to give up his belief in what he saw, though with Lothíriel’s departure he began to feel more grief than anger. Faramir, on the other hand, refused to give up his belief in his cousin’s innocence, and so the two men were not on the best of terms. Éowyn did her best to stand as a mediator between her brother and her husband, but with the amount of time she was spending with either Mithlomi or Elboron, she could not always be with them.

Thus Faramir waited through the long days for word that his cousin was safe and well. He had been tempted to ride with his uncle, but Éowyn had counseled him against it. Then after some days had passed since Imrahil’s departure, a messenger arrived from the princedom by the Sea. He bore the news that Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was dead.

*~*~*~*

In Dol Amroth every house faced the Sea which gave the city life. From the harbor the city rose up into the hills which had, in the centuries of its history, been terraced with paved roads and neat houses and shops. At the highest point, overlooking the city and the harbor below, stood the House of the Prince. The palatial building, with its cream stone walls and tiled brown rooftops, could be seen from any point in the city, and the road which began at its front gate led all the way down to the prince’s wharf at the very end of the docks.

It was an open, breezy house which seemed to have been built around the numerous gardens contained within its courtyards. Indeed, many of the courtyards had been built to enclose natural springs and ponds; a few had become home to swans who learned early that the scullery maids would bring them bread at the end of the day. But one courtyard was not lined with large arched windows and doorways as were the rest. It was the garden of the Prince of Dol Amroth himself, and there he and his children alone were allowed, so that they could have moments of the day in which they were not constantly surrounded by servants and attendants and counselors. In this garden, in the heat of the day, Lothíriel and her eldest brother, Elphir, walked together.

“I should go to Minas Tirith immediately,” said Elphir, after Lothíriel had related to him the whole of the events in that City ere she fled its gates. “King or no, Éomer had no right to use you in such a way, and he should be punished for this.”

“And what good would killing him do?” Lothíriel replied.

“More good than your supposed death, my dear sister,” said the other. “At least, in such a case, the proper person will be punished.”

“If I am right,” said Lothíriel, “he will be punished enough by this.”

Elphir took a step nearer and wrapped his arm about his sister’s shoulders. “You still love him, even after what he said to you?”

She hesitated, but nodded. “Yes, brother, I do. I love him, and I fear I always will.”

Elphir sighed. “I do not know if Father will allow him to marry you after this.”

“I do not know if I would wish it. I would love nothing more than to be his wife and to bear his children, but he would not trust me enough to know that my children would be his. That would make my life more miserable than it would be without him.” She frowned quite suddenly. “Kissing a man in King Elessar’s gardens, during such a feast. . .I would have thought that Éomer considered me intelligent enough to be more discreet than that.”

And Elphir laughed. “Oh, that more women would be like you, Lothíriel, and see so keenly!” he said. “Few would look at trouble such as yours and find its humor.”

Lothíriel smiled, for the first time in many days. “Father has always said that I have a fine sense for the inappropriate comment.”

“And the sharpest wit ever to grace the halls of our forefathers.” The elder brother shook his head. “So if Éomer King believes that you are dead and comes here. . .what then will you do?”

“By then I hope our father’s messengers will have found Lord Nadroth and heard the truth from him.” Lothíriel sighed. “After that, it will depend on my Lord Éomer. Provided our cousin Faramir has not already killed him.”

He laughed, and the siblings embraced. Ere either of them spoke again, their father entered the garden. “Elphir,” said Imrahil, “may I have a moment alone with Lothíriel?”

“Certainly, Father.” Elphir released her and briefly squeezed her hand. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to come to me.”

“I know.” Lothíriel kissed his cheek, and he left.

She looked to her father, whose face was weary with many cares. “My dear child,” he said, crossing over to her and taking her hands in his. “How do you fare?”

“Well enough, Father.” The two embraced briefly. “And you?”

“It does me good to see you in such spirits,” he replied. “I fear, though, that I would feel much better now had I not given my blessing to a certain Lord of Rohan.”

“Father, be kind toward him, for my sake,” said Lothíriel.

“He has shown no such kindness to you.”

“Is not mercy the mark of greatness, Father? Is it not best to show kindness to him who is least deserving?” she asked. “My Lord Éomer has wronged me greatly, but he would not have said such things if he did not believe with his whole heart that he was justified in doing so. And I am perhaps fortunate that he did not make his accusations before a judge, as would have been his right in Gondor.”

Imrahil shook his head. “I know not how you can speak so calmly of what you have lost, child.”

“What good would weeping do, Father?”

He touched her cheek. “I wept when your mother died.”

“But she was lost,” Lothíriel said softly. “And whatever has happened between us, whatever my head tells me, my heart tells me that hope is not lost.”

“Then I will give him the kindness he deserves not,” said her father. “And for your sake, I will hope.”

*~*~*~*

The evening following the messenger’s arrival, Éowyn found Faramir cloistered in the king’s study. He stood at the window and wept, and Éowyn’s heart ached for him. Lothíriel had been very dear to her, certainly, but to Faramir she was so much more. And Éowyn knew his pain. She too had lost a beloved cousin to a violent and untimely end.

For the messenger’s words had been chilling. Lothíriel had not died of a broken heart, but had been found dead on the wayside, killed by bandits lurking along the road betwixt Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. Had she not left the City alone after Éomer’s accusation, she would most likely still be alive.

Éowyn approached her husband and began to rub his back. Now he needed to know that those nearest to him were safe, and he soon turned to embrace her. “Where is our son?” he asked, for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

“With the queen,” Éowyn replied. “Lady Arwen has offered to keep him until the. . .period of mourning is over.” She pulled back a little, drawing his gaze up to hers. “You are weary.”

“With many troubles,” he said, and with those words he drew her back to his chest, holding her as though he feared she would slip away into the night. And he wept once more, mourning his cousin.

Éowyn did not try to offer words, for she knew they would bring no comfort to him. She was not a woman of oratory, so she offered her condolence in what manner seemed best: she stayed with him. In the three years of their marriage, she had learned that sometimes the best comfort for him, despite his eloquence, was her presence. And through the restless night, that was what she offered him.

*~*~*~*

The official period of mourning began the following day, and for the first time since Théoden’s funeral, Faramir saw Éowyn dressed all in black. Indeed, even Éomer donned garb of mourning, much to Faramir’s surprise. He wondered at that, and he could see that Éowyn did too. Was it too much to imagine that Éomer was still in love with Lothíriel, despite what he had said and what he had caused?

Other than meal times, the two continued to avoid each other, until the sun was setting and Éomer sought him out. Faramir was surprised by the visit, as much as he was unsettled by it. For his wife’s sake he wished not to say anything to Éomer about Lothíriel; for had it not been for her unusually tempering influence he would have already challenged the man to answer for his cousin’s death. For this reason Faramir said nothing when his brother-in-law entered, and it was some time before words were spoken at all.

“Brother,” Éomer finally said, “I am sorry for your cousin’s death.”

Bitterly the steward laughed. “What do you know of sorrow, Éomer?”

“I buried a cousin once,” the younger replied.

“You buried a warrior, Éomer,” said Faramir. “You did not bury a woman who had done nothing.”

“Your cousin was not as innocent as you would believe, brother—”

“Do not call me that, my lord,” the steward replied. “You may be my wife’s brother, but you are no brother to me.”

Éomer’s countenance grew stern, and his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. “I did not kill your cousin, Lord Faramir, and you would do well not to blame her death on my actions.”

“Would I?” Faramir replied. “You are quick to claim that, and quick to touch your sword.” His eyes narrowed. “You have killed my cousin. If you challenge me, you challenge a man.”

“If you believe she died upon my actions, then I have cause to touch my sword,” said Éomer. “Yet if it consoles you, I will remove it.”

The younger man set his sword aside, and Faramir turned his back. Éomer continued: “Her death is not on my hands, Faramir. I am sorry that she is dead—”

“What cause have you for sorrow, Éomer?” Faramir asked. “If you did not love her enough to trust her, why do you grieve?”

“I wanted to trust her!” he cried. “More than anything, I wanted to believe that she loved me, because I loved her!”

“Then why would you not?”

“I could not deny what I saw with my own eyes, Faramir. If you had seen what I saw, you would not be so quick to trust her.”

Faramir stared out the window. “Did you ever love her?”

“Do not ask me that.”

“Did you ever love her?” Faramir repeated hotly, looking at his brother-in-law at last. “Did you even know her? I held her three days after she was born. I knew her for her entire life. This was not in her nature.”

“Then you did not know her well enough,” the King of Rohan replied, his voice shaking, though Faramir could not tell what emotion made it tremble. “Do not say that she died at my hand.”

“Then by what hand?” The steward crossed the room to look Éomer squarely in the eye, his anger brewing. “You accused her of wantonness, but it was you who could not master your own passions!”

“I mastered my passions!” Éomer retorted. “Do you know how many times in the night I tried to convince myself that I had not seen her with that man? I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe what her kisses had told me, that she had never been so close to another, that she loved me. But I chose not to delude myself!”

Enraged, Faramir did something he had thought never to do: he shoved Éomer against the wall, throwing him several feet backward and causing him to hit his head hard. “I loved my cousin!” he cried. “And she is dead!”

The two men stood for some time staring in stony silence. Then suddenly there was a ring of steel, and both looked to the entrance to see Éowyn standing there, with Éomer’s sword in her hand. “Husband, brother,” she said, “do not be so rash.”

Faramir took a few steps back, and Éomer rubbed the back of his head. Both men knew that she was dangerous with a sword, and that either harming the other would be enough to anger her greatly. Then Éowyn spoke again. “There is something you must hear. Both of you.”

“What is it?” Éomer asked.

Éowyn hesitated. “Come with me.”

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 13

Loyalties

*~*~*~*

Éomer trailed behind his sister and her husband, filled with a strange sense of foreboding as they walked down the corridor. Éowyn led them to the suite of rooms which she and Faramir shared, and she took them to a small bedroom. There, her maid was sitting up on her bed, looking pale but not with illness. She bowed her head as the three entered. “My lords, my lady,” she said.

Faramir looked to his wife, a puzzled expression on his face. “I do not understand, Éowyn,” he said.

“Do you not?” she replied. “I would have thought that you would have discovered this truth already.” She turned her attention to her maid. “Mithlomi, will you tell them what you told me?”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl lifted her gaze to Éomer. “My lord,” she said, “my lady has told me of what has passed between you and the Lady Lothíriel. I fear that what I must tell you will not be welcome news.”

“Stars of Elbereth,” Faramir suddenly breathed. “It was you.”

Her dark eyes mournful, Mithlomi nodded. “That man. . . I do not even know his name, but he had had too much wine, I fear, and mistook me for your cousin, my lord.”

The steward nodded, while Éomer looked on in horror. “Of course,” he said. “You bear such a striking resemblance to her. Then it was you he kissed?”

Mithlomi nodded. “It — he startled me so much I knew not what to do. Then when I tried to resist him. . . he was strong. I could not repel him immediately.”

“Did he hurt you, Mithlomi?” asked Faramir.

Before she answered, Éomer turned his back, his hand upon his brow. “Oh, Lothíriel, what have I done?” he cried in anguish. The conversation behind him stopped suddenly, and he turned once more. “Why did you say nothing of this before?” he asked, though not in anger.

Mithlomi sank back a little into her pillows. “I am sorry, my lord, but I was unwell,” she replied. “My lady did not tell me what happened until a few moments ago.”

Éowyn touched his arm, but he recoiled from her touch. Blindly, he stumbled away, far away, but he could not banish from his mind the image of Mithlomi’s troubled eyes, nor Lothíriel’s horrified confusion. That he had caused her death he had felt regret, but now he could only feel true sorrow as the consequences of his blind anger washed over him. He had been mistaken, and because he would not trust his lady’s fidelity, she was dead, upon false accusation and slander.

In time he might have come to the same conclusion. In time, the memory of her smiles, her wit, and most of all her kisses might have worn down his resistance and brought this same conclusion to him. But now he had solid proof that he had been wrong. He had had no cause to accuse her of such duplicity, and he had certainly had no right to equate her with a woman of ill repute, even if she had been kissing another man in Elessar’s garden. His carefully constructed logic came crashing down around him in a moment. His words had caused her death. He was no better than a common murderer, and nothing he could do would ever allay the guilt he felt at having wronged so innocent a lady.

*~*~*~*

Éowyn waited until Faramir had left in a daze and Mithlomi had asked for her embroidery to leave the handmaid’s side. Thence to the stables she went, and it was no surprise that she found Éomer there. He must have heard her entrance and known it was her, for before he could have seen her, he said: “Do not say it was not my fault, Éowyn.”

She stood still a moment, watching as he moved about in his horse’s stall with furious speed. “I had no intentions of doing so, Éomer,” she replied.

He paused, obviously taken aback by the frankness of her comment. Then he looked up at her, and Éowyn could see how red his eyes were. He seemed on the verge of tears. She had not seen him this distraught in years. He shook his head. “So long as you have no sword.”

Had it not been for the gravity of their situation, Éowyn might have laughed. “I have no sword, brother,” she said. “What will you do?”

“Ride to Dol Amroth,” he replied. “If the prince admits me, I will beg his forgiveness.”

“Can nothing sway you to wait until the morrow?” his sister asked.

He looked at her suddenly as he led his horse out of the stall. “What profit is there in delay?” he asked.

“On the morrow you would ride with all your men,” she replied, “instead of traveling this road, which has proven dangerous, alone. You might also speak with my Lord Elessar ere you go, and seek his counsel.”

“And what counsel could he give?”

“He is a wise man, Éomer,” said the sister calmly. “And you know this.”

Éomer stood in one place for a moment, and then dejectedly led the horse back. “Will your husband be able to bear one more night spent under the same roof as me?”

“If my husband cannot, then he and I will go to our house,” Éowyn replied, knowing he was hunting for an excuse. “I believe it would suffice for a night.”

Éomer looked away. “Then your loyalty lies with him,” he said quietly.

And Éowyn watched him in disbelief. For a time she wondered how she would answer without wounding him, but in the end she knew that a direct answer was the best way. “Yes, my loyalty lies with my husband, the father of my child,” she replied. Her brother lifted his gaze to hers, clearly hurt, but she could not withhold the truth. “I love you both, Éomer, but when I married him, I left my home and my country. Gondor is my home now, not Rohan; and Elessar is my king, not you.” She walked forward and took her brother’s hands. “You knew this would happen when you gave your blessing to our betrothal, brother. Faramir is my lord now, and will ever be until I die.”

“Then. . .” Softly he touched his sister’s cheek. “Have you nothing left for me?”

She sighed. “Would you have me say how much I love you yet? I love you enough to tell you that your behavior in the last two weeks has been boorish at best,” she replied. “You have always been quick to judge, and now you have acted very foolishly in doing so. There, is my love proven?”

When Éomer almost smiled, Éowyn was quick to embrace him. “Oh, brother, think not that I love thee not,” she whispered. “But I loved her too, as I would love a sister; and she would have made thee a worthy queen.”

He held her tighter, and in their embrace Éowyn could feel that he was weeping. It was best, she supposed, that he mourn for Lothíriel in some fashion. Thus they stood together for a long time, siblings in grief as well as in blood.

At last, Éowyn whispered in her brother’s ear. “Éomer, will you seek counsel from the king?” she asked.

Silently he nodded, and the two left the stables, each with an arm around the other’s waist. It seemed to Éowyn that he needed her now more than ever, and she was glad that she had convinced him to stay, at least until morning had broken.

*~*~*~*

After a long night of counsel with Aragorn, it was decided that Éomer would indeed leave for Dol Amroth on the following morning. However, it was also decided that Aragorn would accompany him, as would Faramir. Both men wished to offer what comfort they could to the grieving Prince of Dol Amroth.

Yet before they were to depart, Éomer went to his sister’s chambers and knocked upon the door. To his surprise, Faramir opened it. “Oh,” he said by way of greeting. “Come in.”

Éomer entered, glancing about. “Éowyn is with Elboron,” Faramir continued.

“I did not come to speak with her,” Éomer said.

“Have you aught to speak to me?” the steward asked. “We will be together for some time as we travel.”

“No,” said the younger man. “I wish to speak with my sister’s maid.”

Faramir was unmistakably surprised by his brother-in-law’s request, but he showed him the way to Mithlomi’s chamber anyway. There the young woman was neatly dressed already and making her bed. When she saw the two men, she stood straighter and curtseyed. “My lords.”

Faramir took a few steps back, but Éomer noticed that he did not leave entirely. He tried his best to ignore this behavior and instead focused on the serene countenance of his sister’s maid. “I wish to apologize to you,” he said.

And she lifted her gaze to him, puzzled. “Why, my lord?”

“My anger hurt more than Lothíriel that night,” he said. “For had I not been so quick to assume, I would have seen your struggle with Nadroth and would have been able to lend you assistance.”

She looked down, pondering his words. It was clear to Éomer that she had not thought of that. Though he knew her to be in no way unintelligent, she had a naïveté about her which caused her never to think of the consequences to herself first. In this she was most unlike Lothíriel, but as soon as his thoughts turned to her, he had to look away from the handmaiden. The resemblance between them was growing painful.

At last she spoke. “For my part, I am sorry that I did not speak to my mistress earlier,” she said. “I fear much grief could have been spared.”

But Éomer shook his head. “You are innocent in this, Mithlomi,” he replied.

“Nevertheless I grieve.” She curtseyed to him again, and Éomer left quietly.

He found himself watching Faramir leave through another door and return a few moments later. “Éowyn wishes me to tell you that she hopes you will do nothing rash on this journey,” he announced without preamble.

“Can I not see her?”

“She will be long with the child, and I fear we cannot keep the king waiting.” Faramir’s expression softened. “She apologizes, and sends her love.”

Éomer did not press the issue; for while he wished to see his sister before leaving, he felt every moment he delayed in leaving for Dol Amroth would tarnish his name further in the mind of he who had once been his great friend. And so he departed from Minas Tirith with its Steward and King, glad to leave its walls and braced for the city which lay ahead.

Sorry about the delays, everyone. I was out of town for a while, and then I had more difficulty writing than expected. This chapter threw quite a few curveballs at me, even though I pretty much knew where it was going. But as they say, it's not the destination, it's the journey.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 14

If Wrath Be Kindled

*~*~*~*

From the moment Éomer arrived in Dol Amroth, every thought was of Lothíriel.

In truth, nearly every thought prior to that had been of her, but coming to her home had brought her more poignantly to mind. He saw the boats at sea and thought of their lighthearted quarrels. He saw the elegance of the city and thought it no wonder that this had been her home.

He did his best to focus himself upon the task at hand, but the ache in his heart grew with each step toward the prince’s home. He longed for this to be over. The growing dread of the past few days had been unbearable.

He avoided the eyes which watched the party as they traveled upward through the city. He did not wish to see what anger was directed at him, nor what pain. As they passed through the great gate of the prince’s home, he could only hope that whatever was to come would happen quickly. He did not wish to see this prolonged.

They were led through corridors and courtyards, until at last they passed under a great arch and found themselves suddenly face to face with the noble men of Dol Amroth. Seated upon a low dais at the far end of the hall was Imrahil himself. Éomer observed Lothíriel’s brothers at their father’s side. As a herald announced their arrival in the realm, the young king stood tall. When the herald had finished, he approached with great care.

“Son of Rohan, what brings you to my hall?” said Imrahil, his voice cold.

Then Éomer drew his sword; kneeling, he laid it on the ground. “I come before you unarmed,” he replied, “and willing to take what punishment you offer. For with my foolish tongue I caused your daughter’s death.”

Whispers and murmurs flooded the hall, but Imrahil raised his hand to still them. “You acquit her, then, of those things of which you accused her?”

“I do, my lord.” At last he raised his eyes to the older man’s face. “I know now that the proof of my eyes is not always infallible.”

After a long silence, Imrahil gestured again, and the men and women who surrounded them left the hall. Thus the Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons remained in private conference with Éomer and the Lords of Gondor. Then slowly, and a little stiffly, Imrahil arose. “I find myself in a difficult position, Lord Éomer,” he said. “I know my rights under the law, but I wonder if my judgment is clouded, because the one who was wronged is my own child.”

“If you give me whatever punishment you wish, my lord,” he replied, “no one will think you unjust, for I deserve what retribution you will bring.”

“And if I require your life?” the prince asked. “‘Blood for blood’, as the law states?”

Éomer had had the long days of his journey to Dol Amroth to think of this. He had already written out his will of succession, naming his sister-son as his heir. Since Elboron was but an infant, his parents would serve as regents over the land. There was only one person with whom he had not shared final words, and that lady lay in her grave already. Yes, he was ready.

“If blood must be spilt to avenge blood, then spill it,” he said. “I do not fear death, and I know that in the eyes of the law I deserve it.”

This answer gave Imrahil pause, and when he spoke again his voice was not so cold. “And if I take your actions as acts of war, what then?” he asked. “Shall I ride forth and avenge my daughter’s death with the blood of Rohan?”

“No,” Éomer replied immediately, without thought. “For my people had nothing to do with this. I alone am responsible for your daughter’s death. Let not my people suffer your wrath.”

Imrahil regarded him closely before stooping to lift the sword from the ground. Éomer swallowed hard, but he straightened up and lifted his chin. He was determined not to show fear in his last moments.

“And if I show you mercy?” Imrahil asked, quietly. “Do I let you live, and live out your days knowing that you have killed my innocent child?”

Of all the things Éomer had imagined to hear, he was not prepared for this. An offer of mercy had been the farthest from his mind, and his eyes widened in response. He had been prepared for death, but was he prepared for life? Could he live, knowing what pain his actions had brought upon more than himself? Could he go on, and marry and produce heirs, knowing that the woman he loved died upon his words?

As the long moments passed, Éomer knew that he had no choice. If Imrahil had mercy, it was his duty to embrace it, for the sake of his people. He would not beg for what he did not deserve, but neither would he scorn what was freely offered. “I am deserving of death,” he replied at last. “Yet the decision lies with you. If you give me death, I will take it full willing. If you give me life, I will embrace it to the full extent of my power.”

Imrahil did not return to his seat, nor relinquish Éomer’s sword. He looked to his youngest son, who in turn summoned a servant to recall the noblemen who had left. They gathered once more, and after all was silent, the Prince of Dol Amroth addressed his people. “A great choice is in my hands,” he said, “for I have the power, and the right, to condemn this man to death. A death at my own hands. But I also have the power and the right to grant him mercy, though his accusations caused the death of a most beloved child.”

Long moments passed in silence, and Éomer was finally reminded of the friends who had come with him; for Aragorn touched his shoulder. Then Imrahil cast the sword upon the polished stone floor. The echoing clatter was enough to make Éomer wince. “My daughter loved you,” he said, quietly, turning away. “Even after your slander, she loved you. See to it you do not dishonor her again.”

Imrahil left the room then, exiting through a door behind the dais. The audience took this to mean they were dismissed, and they filed out of the hall slowly. Meanwhile, Éomer, in a state of disbelief, rose and took up his sword. “I do not believe I understand what has happened,” he said, more to himself than to his companions.

“My uncle is a great man, Éomer,” said Faramir. “And greatness comes with mercy.”

The oldest of Imrahil’s sons approached them then. “Cousin, will you come with me?” he asked of Faramir. “My father has been desirous of your company for some time.”

The steward nodded; and Elphir turned his attention to Éomer and Aragorn. “My lords, my father has anticipated this arrival and has had rooms prepared for you. My brothers will show you the way.”

And thus Éomer departed from Imrahil’s hall, not certain if he believed what had happened.

*~*~*~*

Faramir followed his older cousin Elphir in the other direction, leaving the way Imrahil had. It had been many months since last he saw Elphir, and despite the deep grief that had brought him to Dol Amroth, he felt compelled to ask after his cousin’s family. “How are your wife and sons?” he asked.

“Aira is well,” he replied. “Our sons are learning to avoid Father’s advisors for fear of being married to the first girls who smile at them.”

At this Faramir almost smiled. “I hope to see them soon.”

“You will,” said Elphir. “I imagine you have had little sleep since your son’s birth.”

“No.” The conversation felt out of place, given the circumstances. “Éowyn has recovered from the birth, however.”

“I am glad to hear it.” By then they had arrived in the area of the house in which the family resided, and Faramir was surprised when they stopped in front of the room which had been Lothíriel’s. Elphir knocked; and they heard Imrahil’s voice beckon them in.

Elphir opened the door, and the two entered the room. Imrahil stood in the middle of the room, but Faramir was drawn more to the other figure in the room, a woman seated, brushing her dark hair. Once the door was closed, he whispered: “Lothíriel?”

The woman looked over her shoulder, and in a moment she had crossed the room and thrown her arms around him. “Oh, cousin, I am glad to see thee!” she cried. As she spoke, her father and brother slipped out of the room.

For a long time, Faramir could not react. He did not move to embrace Lothíriel, for he knew not what to think of her sudden return from the dead. Nor did he speak, for he did not understand what had transpired. At last, Lothíriel drew back from him and regarded him curiously. “Faramir,” she said, “what is the matter?”

“Why was I told that you were dead?” he asked, bluntly.

She stared up at him in silence for a moment. “I published it that I had died because of Lord Éomer’s false accusations, to see if he still loves me,” she replied. “Why, what is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” he echoed. “Lothíriel, you have lied to your people!”

“They will be told the truth, Faramir. Even if Éomer does not show any sign of his former feelings, when the proof of my innocence—”

“Lothíriel, what have you done?” he interrupted. “Have you lost your wits entirely? I find it but a small wonder that Éomer would not trust you!”

“Faramir!” she cried. “Cousin, why speak you thus?”

“He spoke what he believed to be truth, and you answered him with lies!”

She gazed upon him with incredulity and mild anger. “It was not I he saw that night, cousin.”

“That is not what I speak of,” he replied. “He was wrong, very wrong, and he has suffered for that. This charade of yours would not have affected that. He would have suffered had he merely known that he hurt you without cause. What makes you think you have the right to torture him now as you have?”

“I do not torture him beyond what he deserves.” She tried to turn away, but Faramir grabbed her arm to prevent her from moving. “Cousin, cousin, let me go,” she insisted.

“No,” he replied. “You did this for revenge, did you not?”

Tears began to form in her eyes, but he knew Lothíriel well enough to know that she was angry at him, not upset. “And what does it matter if I did?”

“He is not the only one you hurt!” he whispered fiercely. “The people are in mourning because of this. And had Éomer not been the brother of my wife, I would have cut him down!”

“Cousin, I love him!” she cried. “To know that he no longer loves me would kill me!”

“That does not give you this right,” Faramir replied. “That does not give you the right to act like a spoiled, immature, selfish child.” The tears that were now flowing down her cheeks had little effect upon him, for these were words he knew she needed to hear. “Your father showed him mercy. You should have done the same.”

With that, he released her and left. He did not see her fall to her knees, shedding tears of shame at his words.

*~*~*~*

Imrahil found Faramir later in the day as he wrote to his wife. Though the prince advised against it, he sent word to Éowyn of the plot which Lothíriel had devised. But he agreed to hold his tongue among those in Dol Amroth, including Aragorn.

In exchange for this courtesy, Faramir demanded to know why Imrahil had acquiesced to Lothíriel’s will in the matter. The prince’s response was less than satisfying, though he could understand that the father’s anger had been nearly as great as the daughter’s. Yet he could not help but reject the idea. Lothíriel had been spoiled by a father widowed because of her birth and three brothers who were nearly adults by the time she was born. She was used to getting her way, and when this obstacle presented itself, she found herself overcoming it no matter the cost. Though there were reasons for her actions, there was no excuse.

After some discomfort had passed between them, Imrahil explained to his nephew that he had visited Éomer after leaving Faramir alone with Lothíriel. This too, it seemed, had been part of Lothíriel’s plan. Imrahil had spoken of ties needing to be strengthened between Rohan and Dol Amroth, despite the blood of Éomer’s grandmother in the royal line of Rohan. It was true that if he wished, the prince could take Éomer’s actions as an act of war. So Imrahil had proposed that Éomer take a wife from Dol Amroth.

The young king’s response had been no less than what Faramir would have expected of his brother-in-law. He knew that love, if it came again at all, would not come in the immediate future, and that he needed to marry. Convincing him to accept Imrahil’s choice of bride had been a simple matter.

“And so you will give him Lothíriel as his bride?” Faramir asked.

“If she agrees to it,” Imrahil replied. “She will give me her answer in a few days.”

Faramir shook his head. “After his behavior, I did not think him worthy of my cousin,” he mused. “Now I wonder if the opposite is true.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Imrahil.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” he replied, “but Lothíriel has not acted with honor.”

The older man paused and sighed heavily. “I suppose you are right. And I suppose I have been blinded by anger as much as she was. Can you forgive me for this?”

Faramir looked up, surprised at his uncle’s words. After a few moments of contemplation, he replied: “I have loved you like a father, Uncle, and where there is love, is there not also forgiveness?”

Imrahil nodded, and the two men embraced. “Let us hope Éomer and Lothíriel remember that before all is said and done,” he said quietly, and in his heart Faramir fervently agreed.

*~*~*~*

Sorry for the delay, folks. A project for another fandom derailed me on this one. I'm still not happy with this chapter, but. . . well, that's what revisions are for, I suppose.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 15

Awakenings

*~*~*~*

Late in the night, Lothíriel sought out her father. Since her encounter with Faramir, she had been able to think of little but his words. They stung like so many thousands of nettles, and she could not shake the disappointment in her that had been so evident in his eyes.

She had thought her plan was a good one. If Éomer still loved her, would he not forgive her deception? Yet she knew her cousin loved her, and he had been angry. The more Lothíriel thought on the matter, the more she knew that Faramir’s anger was just. She had had no right to deceive. But now, with regret weighing heavily on her mind, she knew not how to act.

So she went to her father, seeking his help. She wished to be away from the city for a time, to spend a few days in meditation on what she would do. Imrahil agreed, knowing that her continued presence in the palace heightened the likelihood of her discovery. And so, when all was said and done, she and the elderly lady who had been as a mother to her as a child departed Dol Amroth ere the sun rose, riding swiftly to a cottage on the Sea.

*~*~*~*

On the day following his appearance before Imrahil, Éomer no longer wished to remain in that house, despite his friend’s generous hospitality. And so early in the morning he rode out, alone, hoping that a day’s ride would assuage his spirits.

Down the coast he rode, until the sun was high above, and his thoughts turned to the city once more, knowing that his companions would be concerned if he did not return by sundown. But in the near distance there was a house, and Éomer slowly approached it, hoping that the person who lived there might spare a drink of water.

Then his attention was drawn toward the sea once more, to its calm blue expanse. It reminded him, in a way, of the plains of Rohan, but it was as though the fields had been covered with millions of sparkling jewels that danced under the sun’s rays. Far in the distance he saw sails of ships coming in to harbor in Dol Amroth; and for a moment he wished he was on one of them, to know why Lothíriel had loved them so much.

He thought again of how thirsty he had become, and his eyes drifted away from the horizon. Then, to his surprise, he saw a figure down below. A woman, probably young, was walking down from the cottage to the shore. Her hair was loose and wild in the breeze; her feet were bare. As she reached the water’s edge, she lifted her skirts and waded in, but the train of her gown floated on the water. Éomer dismounted his horse, and before he had taken too many steps, his heart began to tell him that he saw Lothíriel.

It was impossible, he knew. She was dead, and had been dead for days. His weary, grief-stricken mind had conjured this image of her, fetching and beguiling. Yet as he drew ever nearer, he could not help but wonder why this vision of her was so clear, and so enticing. At last, as he reached the water, he spoke. “Are you real?” he asked, not quite trusting his voice.

At his words the vision started, and the woman finally turned and faced him. Lothíriel’s face paled as though in fear. “Are you real?” he repeated, closing the distance between them.

With him so near, she was shaking. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered, as he dared to touch her cheek. Her skin was warm under his fingers. This was all so very wrong.

And before he had thought about what he was going to do now that Lothíriel was before him in the flesh, their lips had met. Éomer did not know which of them had moved, but neither did he care. For her lips were soft, as he remembered, and so susceptive to his touch. With great care he cupped her face in his hands, fearing to draw her nearer lest she vanish.

It was a long time before she responded, bringing her hands to rest on his arms. And Éomer could not help but notice that she yet trembled. He was gentle with her, and in his mind questions began to form. When at last he drew away, he gazed upon her long before he asked: “How can this be?”

In response she began to cry; and when Éomer began to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she only wept harder. “Lothíriel,” he said gently, “why did your father tell me you were dead?”

She choked back a sob. “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered.

“For what?”

Lothíriel would not look at him. Instead she took several steps back from him; and Éomer dared not follow her. “My father told you that I was dead,” she replied, “because I begged him to.”

And Éomer felt suddenly cold. “Why?” he asked, dreading the answer.

She looked toward the sea, her tears yet flowing. “I thought it was to discern your heart, to know if you loved me yet,” she replied. “But I know now it was to hurt you as much as you hurt me.”

“So you lied about this?” he said. “Of all the things you could have done to exact your revenge, you chose this?”

She did not respond, so he took his chances and continued. “Lothíriel, what have you done to your people?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Did you think nothing of the consequences?”

“No!” she cried. “I thought only of myself, and of my pain.”

“How could you be so unfeeling?” he asked, as much confused as he was hurt. “I did not think you capable of such cruelty to a people who love you.”

“Please, my lord, no more!” She turned to look at him at last; and her eyes were red with weeping. “This was not intended for my people.”

“I know,” he replied, taking a step nearer. “But whatever cruelties you devised for me, I deserved. Yet in this you hurt many who love you.”

She winced suddenly at his words. “I know,” was her mournful reply. “Yet I fear there is no remedy.”

And Éomer turned away. He had wondered more than once at what he would do if he were given but one chance to speak to Lothíriel again, and now that he had been granted it, none of the words he had wished to speak seemed appropriate. He had thought to beg her forgiveness, yet she had wronged him as greatly as he had wronged her. Now he wondered that he was not angry; for most of all he was sorrowed by her actions.

“Neither do I see a remedy for this,” he said, softly. And in truth, he did not. For his heart still yearned for her touch, and though she had betrayed him in a fashion worse than the betrayal of which he had accused her, he loved her. As much as his mind told him he had to give her up, his heart refused.

“What will you do?” Lothíriel asked, her voice a little stronger.

“I cannot marry you,” he said. “Not after this.”

He hazarded a glance at her, and he saw her close those beautiful blue eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It is not from lack of desire,” he added, softly, “for I desire none but you. But I cannot think of myself alone. I must think of my people.”

She nodded in understanding, but it was little comfort to either. Then, with a sureness which surprised even him, Éomer embraced her. Lothíriel began to weep again, but he did not release her. This was the comfort they both needed: the beginning of forgiveness, and the acceptance of the impossible.

And then they kissed once more. Lothíriel’s lips were wetted by her tears, but Éomer paid that no mind. Instead, he hoped to burn the memory of her lips in his mind, knowing that no other’s kiss would be the same. And though she yielded to him, he could still feel all the passion and fire that defined her in his mind. He knew not what he would do without this.

Till the tide had reached its zenith they stood in each other’s arms, sharing a last moment of respite. There was still much to be said, many words which needed to be spoken, but neither could speak them. Instead, she whispered his name upon his lips and trembled, filled with unspeakable pain, and with love. Yet very faintly Éomer felt hope, as though he were seeing starlight through heavy clouds.

But in the end, he released her, and wordlessly walked away. When she called out his name he paused, but did not turn. In silence, in determination, he left her alone, with only memories and dreams shared between them.

*~*~*~*

That evening Éomer was nowhere to be found at dinner, so when he appeared very late at Faramir’s door, the Steward of Gondor was quite surprised. “Brother,” he said, softly. “What is the matter?”

“I must speak with you,” Éomer replied.

“Of course,” said Faramir, stepping out of his brother-in-law’s way and closing the door behind them. The younger man sought out a chair and sank into it, clearly exhausted. “Where have you been all day?” Faramir asked.

“Riding,” was all the answer Éomer proffered, and for a long time the two men were silent. Faramir was about to suggest that Éomer get some rest and come back to speak on whatever troubled him in the morning, but suddenly, Éomer said: “Faramir, did you know that your cousin is still alive?”

Faramir took a deep breath and leaned back into the chair in which he sat. “Yes,” he said, cautiously.

“I saw her today,” said the Rohirric king. “I spoke with her, I held her. . . I kissed her. How is it possible that she has done this?”

“I do not know,” said Faramir, exhaling heavily. “Lothíriel has great knowledge, but she has not yet gained wisdom.”

“I will freely admit that what I did to her was wrong,” Éomer replied, “but how can I trust her after this?”

“You cannot,” said Faramir. Sadly he looked upon his brother-in-law. “She must earn the trust of those whom she betrayed, including you.”

In the silence that followed, Éomer rested his head upon his fists, and Faramir strongly suspected that the younger man was crying. “It would be better,” he finally said, “if she had died.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Then I could go on,” said Éomer, looking up. “Then I could marry as I ought, and not be troubled by the knowledge of the woman I love being alive, and unattainable.”

Faramir reached over and touched his friend’s hand. “Do you love her still?”

Éomer nodded. “To marry another would be worse to both of us than what has already transpired.”

“Then do nothing yet, but see what she will do.” Upon Éomer’s bemused look, he added: “Some things Lothíriel must do for herself, and so I bid you wait. She may yet surprise us both.”

*~*~*~*

Terribly sorry about the delay. Real life and other concerns took over for a while.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 16

Day of Atonement

*~*~*~*

After a few days came the first day of the month, when in Dol Amroth it was tradition that the Prince of the City hear any who wished to address him. Even the smallest child could come and petition the prince, and Imrahil would hear him. Imrahil told Éomer that he did not need to come if he wished to spend his time in other pursuits, but the young king said he had much to learn from him.

In truth, Imrahil wondered if the reverse were true. Only two days before Éomer had come to him with grave news, that he had seen Lothíriel alive and well. Imrahil was grieved when he saw the sorrow on the man’s face, for he had hoped not to hurt his young friend so deeply as he clearly had. In his anger at Éomer’s slander, the prince had forgotten that mercy is the greater part of honor, and thus had acted upon his daughter’s rash, foolish plan. But Éomer harbored no ill will. He was saddened by Imrahil’s deception, but not forever angered by it.

Lord Aragorn, in fact, was far angrier about the incident than Éomer was. No explanation could sufficiently absolve Imrahil’s guilt in the matter, until Éomer himself intervened. Rightfully, Aragorn wished Éomer would react more to the turn of events, but he would not. In the end, Éomer’s calm insistence that Lothíriel had done no lasting harm to any but herself, and that she and her father deserved forgiveness, convinced Aragorn to put aside his anger. The Prince of Dol Amroth believed it would be some time before the King of Gondor had truly forgiven him.

But for now, Imrahil was content to have him present as he listened dutifully to each petitioner. Many requests he granted immediately; others he promised to consider in the following days. By the end of the period, several property disputes had been settled, a request to aid a group of orphans had been granted, and many other matters had been resolved with little incident.

The last petitioner came alone, which surprised Imrahil considerably. Though life was not so dangerous now in the princedom as it had been in recent years, women did not often travel alone, even within the city. Yet Imrahil doubted even the hardest of criminals would have touched this woman. She was dressed in a gown of rich black, and a silvery veil obscured her face.

Lothíriel.

For a moment Imrahil ceased to breathe, wondering if his eyes had fooled him. But no, this was his daughter’s poise and gait, down to the tilt of her chin as she faced what was sure to be the worst moment of her life. And he wondered what she had planned, for in her steps he perceived a shaky confidence, something he had often seen when she was a child, and about to take responsibility for her own folly.

She knelt before him, which surprised no one in the room. Imrahil glanced at Éomer for a moment and knew by the set of his jaw that he too recognized this last petitioner. The prince turned his attention back. “What do you request of me, lady?” he asked.

“Forgiveness, my lord,” she said, in her rich, low voice, “if you will grant it.”

“What wrong have you committed that you would seek it?”

He could imagine the way she would be closing her eyes, half in annoyance, half in dread. When she was small he would always require that she state her misdeed before receiving her punishment, though he reflected rather belatedly that she had never been punished that often as a child. Yes, he knew the look on her face quite well.

“I have deceived my people,” she said, “and these noble guests, and I have involved you in my deceit, Father.”

At her last words, she lifted the veil from her face, and murmurs and gasps sprang up in the hall. The silver cloth fell to the floor, and she lifted her eyes to her father’s gaze. “In anger and pride I have deceived all those who stand in this room,” she continued. “I was wronged by a man’s error in judgment, and in my folly I hurt far more than he who offended me. I was blind to the pain I would cause, and to the dishonor I would bring my family.”

“My child,” he replied, “you are not the only one who has been blinded, for I should never have allowed you to act as you did. The fault lies with me as well.”

“No, Father,” said Lothíriel. “Let me be to blame. Let me be the one who must beg for mercy.”

Imrahil was quiet a long time, feeling the burden of anticipation on him as his subjects and his lords waited for his answer. What Lothíriel had done was reprehensible, and he had had a part in it. How could he be the one to forgive her?

At last he said, in a voice low and weary: “There is another who should be the one to answer you, Lothíriel.”

She closed her eyes, knowing his meaning. Without prompting Éomer approached her, as cautiously as he would approach a wild horse who had thrown him once already. She would not look at him, even when he stood directly before her. And so he touched her cheek and tilted her chin up to bring her gaze to his. “My lady,” he said, in soft tones, “I have forgiven you already.”

Then, without a word, he left. Imrahil dismissed the murmuring audience, and Lothíriel, now crying silently, ran straight to his arms. Long the father and daughter stood in mutual pain and comfort, and all the while he hoped desperately that she at least might be forgiven by their people as well as by the Lord Éomer.

*~*~*~*

The days since Éomer’s sudden appearance on the beach had painful for Lothíriel. She only took food when her maid insisted on it, and then it was not much. She had grown silent and pale, and nothing could take her mind from her troubles.

Her decision to come forward and reveal her deception was reached with much difficulty. All her efforts thus far had been focused upon Éomer’s guilt, Éomer’s need for repentance, and she had ignored the fact that what she was doing was very, very wrong, and that there was no possibility of her relationship with Éomer ever reforging after her childish behavior.

So in the end, when hope was gone, Lothíriel knew her only course of action was to expose the truth. She knew this road would not be easy, and thus far it had been quite painful. Yet she was strangely happy she had done it. Despite the scorn and ridicule she knew would come, she was glad to hide no more.

Stern words of displeasure had come from King Elessar, but from Faramir she had received a welcoming embrace. “You have done what is right,” he whispered to her, “and need no more reprimand from me.” She could only wish that she had not so greatly disappointed him.

It was difficult now, as she walked on the rooftop of her father’s house under the stars, to tell her feelings on her young Rohirric lord. That she loved him, she was certain; but after she had behaved so abominably toward him and he had freely forgiven her, she knew she did not deserve him.

“My lady,” said a voice, deep and familiar. Lothíriel did not need to turn to know who spoke, but she turned anyway and saw Éomer standing at the other end of the roof.

“My lord,” she replied, curtseying low.

He made no move to quell her obeisance, as he once had, but merely nodded in return. “Your brother Elphir told me I might find you here,” he said. “I must confess, I was surprised when he told me to try the roof.”

Lothíriel almost smiled. “Why would that surprise you?” she asked, puzzled.

“In Edoras it is easy to reach the roofs of most houses,” he replied, “but not so easy is staying on those roofs.”

For the first time in several days, she smiled genuinely, surmising that he spoke of thatched roofs. Then she looked down, and her smile faded.

“I want you to know,” he said, suddenly, “how much I am sorry for my part in what has happened.” Lothíriel looked up sharply. “I wronged you greatly, and had it not been for my temper none of this would have transpired.”

So unexpected was this proclamation that tears began to form in her eyes. His forgiveness had been most unexpected; an apology was unthinkable. “My lord,” she whispered as he crossed the space between them.

“Are we so far gone, Lothíriel?” he asked. “Can you not say my name?”

She drew near to him, murmuring his name in reply; and he embraced her. Perhaps she wished to weep, but tears did not come. Instead, they watched the Sea under the clear night sky, wondering what would become of them. After a time he pulled out the pins which bound her hair, and dark and light flew free in the wind. It was cold, but Lothíriel felt it not. Éomer was more than enough to keep her warm.

“What is this place?” he asked after some time had passed.

“Some call it a widow’s walk,” Lothíriel replied. “It is a place of watch. From here you can see every ship that sails into our harbor.”

“And. . . from here a sailor’s wife can watch for her husband’s ship to return,” he said, softly. “Aptly named.”

“My father came here the night I was born,” she said, speaking low. “The night my mother died.”

“You never knew your mother?” Éomer asked.

She shook her head, and her cheek brushed against the soft cloth of the tunic he wore. “She died within an hour of my birth. I wish. . .” She took a deep breath, taking in his scent. “I wish I had but one memory of her. Something. . . But my father came here that night. He made his decision then that he would not marry again.”

He was silent for a long time, and Lothíriel rested her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm. At last he said: “Is that the choice you have made?”

And she drew away from him, taking a step back to look on him. “It is the only course left to me with any honor, my lord,” she replied. “And I do not wish to marry where I do not love.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

Éomer touched her cheek, but it did not escape Lothíriel’s notice that he did not make a similar statement. “I wish I had not done what I did,” she whispered. “But I cannot be other than I am by wishing.”

They stood in silence, with only a step between them, and an impassable breach. At last, Lothíriel bowed her head, knowing it was her move. “I must take my leave of you, my lord,” she said.

He nodded, and she left without another word. That night she slept, and dreamt of things impossible, and when she woke in the morning, Éomer was already gone.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 17

Healing

*~*~*~*

The following days were painful. Lord Aragorn left not long after Éomer departed for Rohan, and while Faramir bided his time in Dol Amroth, his presence did not make things easier for Lothíriel. She had the forgiveness and acceptance of her family, but she desperately wished to make things right with her people once more. As days went by and her cousin returned home, she wondered if such a thing were possible.

However, she was determined to face her troubles on her own feet, and so she was often among the people of Dol Amroth, trying to restore their faith in her. Some, though clearly hurt, were ready to accept her contrition and forgive, but others were not.

It was a particularly rainy day, some weeks after Éomer’s departure, when Lothíriel met the worst of her detractors, a woman of noble birth who had always liked her before the incident. There had been several whose disapproval had been far plainer than this woman’s was, but they had never liked Lothíriel to begin with. Losing this woman’s favor was worse than the ridicule of those who had never approved of her.

And so, for the first time since Éomer had left, Lothíriel shut herself in her room and cried. She knew that she deserved every word the woman had said to her — indeed, all that any had said to her — but that did not lessen the blow. But shedding her tears helped soothe her spirits, and when she had exhausted the supply, she finally looked around at her room.

Her maid had come in while she was crying and left a tray filled with sweets. Lothíriel rose from her bed, dried her eyes, and proceeded to peruse the tray. She had popped a puffed pastry into her mouth before she noticed a letter amid the food.

Deathly curious, Lothíriel lifted it deftly from the tray and turned it over in her hand. From the looks of it, it had come some great distance, but she did not recognize the hand in which her name was written. Then she looked more closely, and saw on the back the seal of Rohan.

Despite herself her heart started beating faster as she slid a knife under the seal. As she unfolded the letter, she sank into the chair at her desk and began to read.

My dear lady,

I write to you now to inform you that my party and I have arrived safely in Edoras. Our return home was longer than expected, for we stayed a while in Emyn Arnen.

My sister, her husband, and their child are all well. They would wish me to convey their greetings, but I am certain your cousin has written to you by now. However, he may not have told you of the visitors who arrived while I stayed with my sister.

Without a doubt you have heard of the four halflings to whom we owe our very lives, whose valor in the war saved all the realms of Men. Two of these halflings, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, came upon the tidings of Elboron’s imminent birth. Many months they traveled to see the child, and their stay in Éowyn’s house was much of the reason for my delay in coming home.

I hope you meet them someday, Lothíriel. Though they stand no taller than a child of ten years, they have the courage and heart of a dozen warriors of Men. Meriadoc, who helped my sister slay the Witch-king of Angmar, is to be married when he and his cousin return to the Shire, I have learned. Your father may be interested to hear this news, as he spent some time with the halflings when Aragorn was crowned.

The country around Edoras is fresher and greener than I have seen it in all my years. The summer sun has nurtured rather than parched the land, and for this my people are most grateful. Before the war, our lives were not easy. Harvests were ever nearly too low, but now we have in abundance. Now it is as if the land has rejuvenated itself, giving forth more than we thought to ask.

As I write, it has begun to rain. I do not remember the last time it rained in August in Edoras. This is an extraordinary time indeed.

However, I am certain that you have little desire to hear of the weather in Rohan, and would much rather be in one of your little boats, though I still do not understand your affection for them. But I would by no means suspend your pleasure, and so I will end this letter soon. Know that I hope you are well, and your father and brothers also.

Yours,
Éomer

Lothíriel found herself smiling and rolling her eyes by the end of the letter, despite the stilted formality with which Éomer had begun it. It was a letter which communicated many things and nothing at the same time, and she was glad of it. For a time she had thought that the Rohirric lord would simply cut off all contact with her in an attempt to push her from his mind, but for once in her life she was happy to be wrong.

And his closing words made her heart ache to fly.

Still smiling, she folded it once more and placed it in a box on the table. Then, drawing out parchment and quill and ink, she began to pen her reply.

*~*~*~*

By midsummer Éomer had received a request from Lord Aragorn for assistance in building watch towers in the far reaches of his kingdom. As Rohan was to lend horses and labor to the effort, Éomer received word from this ally often, as they brought their forces together for the construction. But on one sparkling afternoon, when normally he would much rather have been out of doors, riding in the brilliant sunlight, he found himself desiring the privacy of his chamber.

Normally letters of a personal nature were separated from the rest, but the man who did that had seen the royal seal of Dol Amroth and assumed it was official business. However, Éomer saw immediately that the handwriting was a woman’s — not like Éowyn’s, whose hand displayed her impatience with everything. These lines were fine and even, the sign of a woman who took great care in everything she wrote. With a smile, Éomer slid a knife under the wax seal. He had written on a whim, and had not expected Lothíriel to reply.

My lord Éomer,

How glad I was to receive your letter this afternoon, my lord. I fear the time since your departure has not passed pleasantly for me, and so I was happy to learn that you are well.

Thank you for the tidings of my cousin and his family. I am grateful to know that Faramir, Éowyn, and Elboron are all well. And how lucky you were to be there when your friends visited! I must confess myself quite envious of your seeing them, for I have long wished to meet these little heroes. At times I am still cross with my father for leaving Dol Amroth in my care when he and my brothers went to war, for there are many whose names and deeds I know well, whom I should like to meet someday.

You say that the summer has not been too harsh in Rohan. I believe, then, that we must have had our places exchanged, for the heat here has been unbearable. Living by the coast does sometimes have its disadvantages, for a sea breeze cannot mitigate everything. I would wish to retreat to Minas Tirith or Emyn Arnen soon, if only to escape the weather here.

But I have promised myself that I will not leave my home until the winter has passed. If I leave, I fear I will only be escaping from my troubles here. I must confess, my lord, that the time since your departure has not been easy. Do not think that it would have been easier were you here; on the contrary, I believe this is something which I must face myself. But the disapproval of those who knew me before and expected better from me has not been lost on me. Many were they who praised me for my rule of the city two years ago when we were under siege. To have lost their good favor pains me greatly.

Yet I would not have you think that I do not understand the gravity of the folly which I committed. Indeed, I know full well that the scorn I have earned from my people is but a portion of that which I deserve. But this does not lessen the pain which stems from rejection, and it strengthens my resolve to restore their faith in me. For as my father has always said to my brothers and me, our mistakes are far heavier than those of a commoner, and our acts of charity worth far less. He has always said that that is a blessing to us, not a curse, for when our deeds are thus weighed, we are less likely to stray from what is good and just. My only wish is that I had not forgotten that all those weeks ago

I hope this letter finds you well. My father tells me that you are to lend your country’s assistance to Lord Elessar soon, and so I wish you well with that endeavor. Do not be surprised if you meet with my brothers then, for they too have wished to give our liege-lord and king whatever service they can render. I hope it fares well.

Give my regards to Fleetfoot. My poor little mare misses him terribly.

Ever yours,
Lothíriel

That she had written in reply was surprising enough to Éomer. That she had written in such terms of her trials was enough to trouble him as well. He wrote his reply immediately, hoping to offer some words of consolation to her. All the while he reminded himself that had it not been for his own folly and mistrust of her, they might have been married by now.

But would they have been truly happy, he wondered? During his last stay in Emyn Arnen, his sister had confessed to him the plot conceived by Lord Elessar, how he and Lothíriel had been tricked into confessing love for each other. Was that affection not as real as that which he now felt for her? Certainly the seeds of love had been there long before he heard Faramir, Aragorn, and Imrahil weaving a tale of Lothíriel’s love for him, but could an affection borne out of lies have ended otherwise?

Still, he did not blame his friends for their deeds. He blamed himself.

He kept these thoughts to himself as he wrote to Lothíriel, however, knowing she did not need to burden herself with such things. Instead, he wrote cheerfully about the events in Rohan, and that he would be glad to see her brothers soon. This time, when he sent the messenger to the City by the Sea, he found himself hoping that she would reply.

*~*~*~*

And so it was that a year passed, and the trickle of letters between Dol Amroth and Edoras became a steady stream, until Éomer and Lothíriel were writing to each other every day, without fail. Sometimes they wrote of little things, of nieces’ and nephews’ first steps, of the breeding of horses; and sometimes they wrote of things quite serious. By and by, their letters came to be the brightest parts of their days, and through them ties of friendship were reforged.

In the spring of the following year, Éomer found himself once more riding to Ithilien on the joyous errand of greeting his sister’s child. Éowyn was to give birth once more, and he knew that both she and Faramir wished for a daughter this time. Éomer amused himself along the way to Emyn Arnen that he would tell Éowyn that he wished the child was another son, in order to provoke a reaction from his younger sister.

A servant and a man of the White Company greeted him and his small band when he arrived at the stone house, but to his surprise, neither Faramir nor Éowyn were waiting for him. Instead, he came up the steps alone, and when he came into the foyer, he saw Lothíriel.

She was lovelier than he remembered, dressed in blue the color of the night sky and standing in the light of sunset as it filtered through the doorway. She seemed to glow, and she was blissfully unaware of his presence as he entered. In her arms was a child who, by his resemblance to Faramir, he immediately took to be Elboron. He was laughing and grabbing her nose, and Lothíriel was smiling and kissing his cheeks.

Then she turned and saw him. Her cheeks flushed, but then she gave him a shy smile. “Lord Éomer,” she said, nodding to him as best she could as Elboron grabbed a lock of hair.

“Lothíriel,” he replied, approaching her at last. He then took the child’s hand in his own and pried it open, freeing her hair. “It is good to see you once more.”

“I am glad to see you as well,” she said. “I had hoped you would come.”

“I would not miss it.” Then the boy in her arms twisted about to look at him, and held his arms out to him. Éomer glanced at Lothíriel, puzzled. “Surely he does not remember me.”

“Nay, my lord,” said Lothíriel, laughing a little. “But he is a friendly child, and perhaps you remind him of his mother.”

So Éomer lifted the lad from Lothíriel’s arms and held him out in front of him. The baby kicked and laughed delightedly, and Éomer did not fail to notice the smile that formed on the lady’s lips as she watched them. “Good day to you, Elboron,” Éomer said. “Were you and your cousin here to greet your uncle Éomer?”

Elboron babbled some nonsense, and Éomer laughed, holding him to his chest. “Yes, my boy, this is a visit shamefully overdue.”

At that moment, Éowyn’s handmaid descended the stair, smiling. “My lord Éomer,” she said, curtseying to him once she had reached the bottom. “My lady has been informed of your arrival and wishes to see you.”

Elboron decided then that he preferred Mithlomi to Éomer, so Lothíriel accompanied him up to Éowyn’s chambers. They walked slowly, talking with each other as freely as they had communicated over the last year in letters, yet Éomer noticed that his companion’s lovely blue eyes were alight with hints of mischief. He was on the brink of asking her about it when they arrived at Éowyn’s door, and then he no longer needed to ask.

Éowyn was sitting within, an infant sleeping in her arms. He was about to speak his amazement that the child had been born already when Faramir turned, revealing that he too held a tiny babe.

“Twins?” Éomer managed. He looked at Lothíriel, whose face was filled with glee. “Could you not have warned me?”

“Why, no, my lord,” she replied. “I am as much surprised as you are.”

“I will answer you later, lady,” he said.

Éowyn and Faramir laughed. “Can you not spend an hour in each other’s company without coming to some quarrel, cousin?” the steward asked. “Come, this little cousin of yours wishes to see you.”

While Lothíriel gladly took the tiny burden from Faramir’s arms, Éomer knelt at his sister’s feet. “When were they born?” he asked. “I expected to be here in ample time.”

“They were born a week ago,” she replied, shifting the blanket away from the child’s face. “We would have sent word, but they were healthy, and we knew you were already coming.”

He brushed his fingers across the babe’s soft blonde hair. “They are beautiful children, sister,” he said.

Then Lothíriel laughed lightly. “They look like you, my lord, more than they resemble anyone else in this family.”

“Here, brother,” said Éowyn, “hold your nephew.”

So Éomer stood and took the child from his sister’s arms. “What have you named them?” he asked.

“The child you hold was born first,” said Faramir. “We named him Meriadoc. Lothíriel carries Peregrin.”

Little Meriadoc squirmed then and opened his eyes. “I hope you wear that name well, little one,” he said. “The one for whom you are named is great indeed, though he is not much larger than you.”

Faramir and Éowyn laughed again at that, but Éomer looked up at Lothíriel and saw a peculiar look on the lady’s face. After a moment she looked back down at the child in her arms, but he thought he saw a faint blush on her cheeks. And she looked so lovely there, with her cousin’s child in her arms.

Then Faramir touched his wife’s shoulder. “I will have food sent up,” he said. “I am certain that you and your brother have much to talk of.”

*~*~*~*

Long into the evening the quartet stayed there with the children (as Mithlomi soon brought Elboron to his parents). Faramir was quite glad to see his brother-in-law and cousin so easy with each other. He had understood from Lothíriel that they had been writing to each other over the course of the last year, but he did not know that the fraying threads that had been left in Dol Amroth had been so expertly reworked.

Then as the hour grew quite late and Lothíriel gave out a very unladylike yawn, Éomer offered her his arm in escorting her to her chamber. They did not see the amused look on Éowyn’s face, nor hear Faramir’s soft laughter after they had exited.

“It is as if they had never been apart,” Éowyn commented, as she rose to extinguish some of the candles in the room.

And Faramir smiled, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. “Do you know what the poets would say to that?”

“What, my lord?”

“True love never dies.”

*~*~*~*

Some random notes from me:

First of all, the following was suggested by Sache8, a good friend of mine and Éomer fanatic. This just fits Éomer and Lothíriel perfectly:

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then, tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 120

Second, yes, I blatantly stole from The Princess Bride at least once in this chapter. What can I say, I was watching it as I was writing.

Third, thank you all for your lovely, lovely reviews. I don’t think I could have made it this far without your feedback.

And last but certainly not least, many thanks to Laureate05, who poked and prodded until this chapter was written. Here’s hoping she doesn’t disappear when Ivan hits Florida, so I can have someone to tell me “not good enough!” as I work on the last few chapters.

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 18

So Swift and Excellent a Wit

*~*~*~*

Lothíriel had never considered the idea of not being in love with Éomer, at least after she had finally admitted the truth of her feelings to herself. But a year earlier she had resigned herself to the fate of loving a man whom she could never have, and that he would eventually seek another. His behavior now was most confusing.

Possessing so swift a mind as was reported, Lothíriel was quick to realize that Éomer was still very much in love with her. Their letters had kept them close, and one evening in each other’s company had convinced her that his feelings had altered but little. He could hardly keep his eyes from her, and when he walked her to her chambers, they stood outside the door talking for at least an hour, trying half the time to keep from laughing so loudly the whole house would wake.

She did not sleep well that night. Images of his warm grey eyes refused to stay away for long; and when she thought of him, an image of her father surfaced as well. And the next morning it was so terribly obvious that even Mithlomi asked if she was well. Of course, she was able to take comfort in the sight of Éomer, who did not look as though he had slept much either.

But through the morning, they tested the waters once more and found that the old tendency to quarrel over the tiniest things was still there beneath the surface. Éowyn joined in once during a debate over the virtues of women riding sidesaddle, but otherwise the steward and his wife seemed most pleased to observe the arguments and laugh at them. Lothíriel found her opponent’s quarrelsome streak as frustrating as it was endearing.

And she was quite, quite happy that her father had chosen not to come to Emyn Arnen this spring. She was certain that, while he loved Éomer as he loved his own sons, he would not have approved of the way they were behaving with each other. A year ago they had all come to the conclusion that a marriage between them would be impossible, and while Lothíriel had mended many of the walls she had broken with her indiscretion the previous year, she did not think that those acts of contrition and charity would atone for her deeds. She felt that she would never be sufficiently absolved to set her hopes with a king; and she was equally sure that her father would agree.

But Imrahil was not there, and Faramir and Éowyn did nothing to discourage the familiarity between Lothíriel and Éomer. The pair went riding at least once a day, sometimes not returning to the house until late in the evening. Face to face they spoke as freely as they had in letters, and Lothíriel began to dread her approaching departure for home. Of that they did not speak, and she began to think of writing to her father to tell him she would be staying longer in Emyn Arnen.

A week went by, then two, and Lothíriel’s confusion mounted.

*~*~*~*

On one afternoon they chose to walk down through the woods rather than ride, a change which Lothíriel welcomed. Half the time their rides turned into races, which she inevitably lost. While walking, however, there was no competition, except perhaps in who could pull away faster when their hands brushed.

They found a clearing long after the house was no longer in sight. There Éomer indulged Lothíriel’s sudden urge to gather up wildflowers, even stooping so low as to hold some of them for her as she gathered more.

“I would not have thought this a hobby of yours,” he said, gazing with a critical eye at the small blossoms, purple at the heart and white at the tips.

“It is not,” Lothíriel replied. “But do you not occasionally indulge in something which is not a hobby?”

“Yes,” said Éomer. “I rule a country in my spare time.”

Laughing, she tossed a flower at him. It caught on his cloak and he brushed it away.

“I do not believe I have ever told you this,” he continued, “but you are not quite what you would seem.”

Bemused, Lothíriel raised her gaze to him from several feet away. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?”

“Your father once said you are a linguist of some considerable skill,” he replied. “I would not have matched that with your skill as a horsewoman, to start. Did you learn to read while riding?”

Lothíriel felt heat rising in her cheeks. “No, my lord,” she said, brushing a wisp of hair from her face.

Then he gave her a smile that made her breath catch. It was really unfair that he could disconcert her so.

“I should have guessed that your mind was remarkable,” he continued. “It would be a pity otherwise.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It would be too great a contrast,” he said, looking away from her, “for the fairest woman I have ever seen to be any less than you are.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip. “Forgive me,” he added. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

At the moment, his mere presence was making her uncomfortable.

Lothíriel took a deep breath. “If you would know,” she began, “my first impression of you seems to have been correct.”

“And what was that, my lady?”

“That you are easily amused.”

And he laughed long and hard, along with plucking several flowers from the ground and pelting them at her. “It is true!” she cried, smiling. “There your sister sat, just recovered from serious illness, and you could not keep your eyes from me.” She paused thoughtfully. “Éowyn called that your horse expression.”

“My what?”

“Horse expression,” Lothíriel repeated. “The one you have on your face when you see a pretty horse.”

Another flower flew her way. “A curse upon younger sisters.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to retort, but her words were drowned in a sudden roll of thunder. She looked up and saw that clouds had come in. It was very unlikely that they would make it back to the house before the rain came.

Éomer’s smile faded as he saw it too, and he looked down at her. “Come, we should hurry.”

No sooner were they out of the clearing than the heavens opened and the rain poured down on them. Éomer was swift to remove his long cloak and place it on Lothíriel’s shoulders, though the rain was so heavy it did little good. Yet on they traveled, trying to keep to the thickest groves to stay as dry as possible.

Unfortunately for Lothíriel, Éomer was no trifling amount taller than she; and thus the cloak he had so generously given her was so long on her it trailed the ground. More than once she nearly lost her footing on its hem. Then when they reached the white house of Faramir and Éowyn at last, they were forced to cross the well-traversed path leading through the trees. Because no grass grew on it, it was muddy beyond any expectations, and when Lothíriel tripped on the hem again, she could not stop herself from falling.

What happened was rather unclear to her. She felt Éomer’s hands somewhere on her, but he did not catch her. Instead, a moment after she landed in the mud, she heard another splash quite near her. Carefully, she pushed herself up partly and looked around. What she saw was almost too much for her.

“My lord?” she said, trying desperately not to laugh. There lay the King of Rohan, face down in the mud next to her.

He lifted his head, but did not glance at her. “If you are smiling when I look up,” he said, “I may never speak to you again.”

She made no effort to hide her smile, nor even to look at him, as he moved around. “Would you appear thus in your cousin’s house, Princess?” he asked.

Letting out something of an exasperated sigh, Lothíriel tried to flop down into the mud again, by then caring little for gracious carriage (or for that matter, cleanliness), given her state; but instead her head landed on something rather warm and solid. Her eyes flew open, and she found herself looking up at an amused expression on Éomer’s face. It seemed that while she had been looking elsewhere, he had rolled over toward her and sat up, and now her head was in his lap. “My lady?” he said, with the barest trace of a smile.

Under other circumstances she would have been horrified, but not when it was Éomer, and not when she was already covered in mud. Then, with one muddy finger he drew a line from the center of her forehead to the tip of her nose. “There,” he proclaimed. “Now it is complete.”

Rolling her eyes in a most unladylike fashion, she pushed herself up from his lap. To his credit, he seemed to think little of it, choosing instead to help her stand up. Then, after a moment’s laughter, they continued up the path and ascended the stairs.

Mithlomi was crossing through the foyer as the muddied pair entered. The maid’s eyes widened in abject horror as she beheld them. “My lady!” she cried.

“Mithlomi?” Éowyn asked as she hurried through a door. “Is something. . .”

Her voice trailed off as she looked in the direction of Lothíriel and Éomer. Her eyes were alight with questions unasked. “We were on the verge of sending a search party, brother,” she said.

“The path to your house is rather slick when wet,” Éomer said, quite calmly watching as Lothíriel attempted to disentangle herself from his cloak.

“And you felt compelled to roll in it?” The woman shook her head. “Mithlomi, quickly, tell the housekeeper to draw baths for Lord Éomer and Lady Lothíriel.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The girl curtseyed and left, passing Faramir, who entered as she left. “Éowyn, is something the matter?”

She turned to her husband. “Our guests seem to have disregarded the general standard of attire,” she said. “I wonder if muddy clothes are more comfortable than clean ones?”

By then Lothíriel had divested herself of Éomer’s cloak, and when he gave her a mischievous smile, she threw it at him. “Forgive me, cousin, for sullying your hall,” she said, turning to Lothíriel.

“I should make the two of you clean the floor,” the woman replied.

When Lothíriel looked up at her cousin, however, she saw a stern look on his face which reminded her fleetingly of Denethor. “Lothíriel,” said he, “explain yourself.”

She lifted her chin. “I fell,” she said quite simply. “I believe Lord Éomer meant to catch me, but lost his balance instead.”

“This storm started an hour ago,” Faramir continued. “Why had you wandered so far from the house?”

“Faramir,” she protested, “why speak you thus?”

“While you are in my house, you are in my care,” said he. “I do not take issue with you being alone with my brother-in-law, but you would do well to be more prudent.”

Though wholly confused, Lothíriel chose not to press the issue at hand. “Will you excuse me, cousin?” she asked instead. “While some women say mud is good for the skin, I can assure you it is not good for clothing.”

Faramir nodded silently, and she escaped up the stairs. Once at the top, she looked down to see Faramir speaking to Éomer in what must have been a very soft tone, for she could not hear him. Éomer glanced in her direction, and she fled.

*~*~*~*

After a long bath which started quite hot and ended quite tepid, Lothíriel was feeling much, much better, though her uneasiness about her cousin had hardly abated. Faramir had done nothing to prevent her from spending her time with Éomer; why now was he so displeased?

While she was busy combing her now-wet hair, there came a knock at the door. With some amount of trepidation, she crossed the room and opened it. “Faramir?” she said, seeing who stood beyond. “What brings you here?”

A smile touched his lips as he saw the disarray of her hair. “I did not mean to intrude,” said he, “but I wished to speak with you.”

She stepped aside and allowed him entrance. He looked a little uncomfortable, so she turned away from him, sitting down to continue combing her hair. Then Faramir laughed a little, took the comb from her hand, and began to do it himself. “Tell me,” she said, “does not Éowyn have a maid for this, or do you brush her hair for her?”

“Only when she lets me.”

Lothíriel smiled, but it faded slowly. As he worked out a particularly difficult knot, she asked: “Cousin, what would you say?”

His hand flattened and smoothed over her wet hair. “I would wish you to be more guarded, Lothíriel, for your own sake.”

“You do not think Lord Éomer would compromise my honor, surely.”

“That is not of what I speak,” Faramir replied, “though I would hope you would be more careful in your behavior with him. You should be glad that we are some distance from Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, and word of the manner of your arrival this afternoon is unlikely to reach your father’s ear.” He paused. “And I assure you, I have spoken to my brother-in-law at some length concerning this.”

Lothíriel felt her cheeks flush with the mild censure. Fortunately Faramir did not notice. “But I speak of what you told me when you arrived here and we told you we expected Éomer to come,” he continued. “You said he had resolved that he could not marry you.” When she nodded, he said in soft tones: “I would not see you heartbroken again, dear cousin.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, she tensed. “Do you think me in danger of it now?”

“I do not believe that love ever ends, Lothíriel,” he replied. “You loved him truly, as he loved you, and I do not believe you will ever stop loving each other. But I hope you do not place your happiness in a false dream. Did you not agree that you are out of each other’s reach?”

Sadly, she shut her eyes, remembering that day on the beach, when last he had kissed her. “Yes.”

They did not speak again, though Faramir stayed until he had finished combing her hair. Left alone, Lothíriel let herself weep, something she had not done since the day Éomer’s first letter had arrived. She wished she could go to him now, to have him hold her and tell her all would be well. Yet it was his very presence in her life which made her weep. He was so close, and so unattainable.

She did not come down to sup with the others that evening, and by morning she was filled with new resolve to keep her distance. But it all crumbled upon the sight of Éomer’s well-meaning concern, and his smile to see that she was well. More than once during the day, Faramir gave her a look of gentle warning, and she could but smile in apology.

That evening, Éowyn stood on the balcony of Faramir’s library, holding little Peregrin in her arms. Faramir was near the fire with the elder of the twins. Down in the gardens below were Lothíriel and Éomer, talking and laughing as they walked among the flowers.

“I believe my brother intends to marry your cousin after all,” Éowyn said at last.

Faramir joined her then, looking down into the garden as Lothíriel placed her hand on Éomer’s arm. The evident familiarity with which she did this suggested to Éowyn that this was not the first time they had walked thus, and it surprised Faramir. “I believe you may be right,” Faramir mused.

“I am surprised that either of them would think it possible,” said Éowyn. “Imrahil must be consulted, and I fear he may not give his consent as easily a second time.”

“Perhaps not.” He sighed. “And Lothíriel departs for Dol Amroth in a few days’ time.”

“And I know my brother,” Éowyn added, “well enough to know he will not be happy with any woman but her as his queen.”

“Do you mean to speak with him?” Faramir asked.

“Not yet,” she replied. “I will let him do as he sees fit for now, and if *~*~*~*

And on the following day, something extraordinary happened: Éomer allowed Lothíriel to ride Fleetfoot.

In truth, it was somewhat more complicated than that. Éomer caught her sneaking sugar to his horse the evening before she was to return to Dol Amroth. At the sign of her sheepish guilt, he laughed outright, for he had often wondered why Fleetfoot seemed ever to prefer her when she was present. And so, once her blushing had subsided, Éomer placed his hand over hers as it rested on the stable door and asked if she would care to ride him.

More than somewhat surprised at the suddenness of the gesture, Lothíriel made some protest, but Éomer pressed her, his warm eyes pleading with her. It took little persuasion on his part. Of course, Fleetfoot would not take a saddle, and he was much, much too large for Lothíriel to ride alone, so Éomer was obliged to be with her on the horse.

And so they rode out through the forest and into the hills with dizzying speed. Éomer left Fleetfoot to his own devices, for the most part, as they rode, yet still he kept his arms on either side of Lothíriel as he was seated behind her. There was a kind of secret thrill to it, for his arms were strong, and he was very close.

Once they reached the crest of the hills at last, the sun was setting in a glorious splash of reds and yellows and oranges. Though it was little different from every other sunset, Lothíriel found herself breathless at the sight of it. Perhaps it was the coign of vantage from which they observed it, or perhaps it was the fact that she was riding one of the Mearas with the Rohirric king whom she so adored.

There they stayed until the sun had sunk low into the horizon, and as twilight descended upon them, Fleetfoot turned back and slowly traveled down to the house. Neither Éomer nor Lothíriel spoke, but at some point he rested his hand on her waist, though she did not need his support. She did not protest.

It was growing dark indeed by the time they returned. Once within the stables, Éomer dismounted and placed his hands at Lothíriel’s waist to help her down. Her feet hit the ground and she looked up to find herself very close to him. The horse meandered his way toward his stall, but they did not move. Her hands were yet on his shoulders, his at her waist. When they moved at last, it was because Éomer bowed his head and touched his mouth to hers.

It was soft at first, with all the sweetness of the twilight that surrounded them. Neither seemed willing to give much more than that. But as time went on, it seemed to Lothíriel that a year of loving from afar and without hope had finally ended. Éomer’s arms encircled her, and without thinking she moved her hands into his thick hair. All her senses were filled with him, and she wished to drown in the feeling.

In a little while, she found that he was holding her so tightly that she could barely breathe, even when she wanted to. She made a soft whimpering sound as the kiss deepened. Their year of mutual loneliness seemed to melt away, and not even the prospect of losing him again could dissuade her from seizing this moment of stolen pleasure.

Yet eventually it had to end. Lothíriel rested her head against his chest, and Éomer held her gently, in sharp contrast to the possessive passion he had just displayed. They did not speak, for words were not necessary.

When they left the stables, hand in hand, darkness had come to its fruition. And when dawn came the next day, Lothíriel departed for Dol Amroth as she had planned, though her heart ached to stay.

*~*~*~*

After luncheon, Éomer found himself wandering through his sister’s house, feeling suddenly very alone. Though he had expected to see Lothíriel on this visit, he had not expected to find himself still in love with her.

He had tried to put aside his feelings for her during the last year, despite writing to her. He had not kept himself from the company of ladies, knowing he had to find a bride. But he had not realized that Lothíriel still held his heart captive.

It had taken less than a day in her company for him to realize this, and to suspect that the lovely woman’s feelings were much the same. He found her coy, even coquettish, and he found himself enjoying it more now than he had before. In their hours spent together Éomer was drawn to her.

Perhaps kissing her had been a mistake. There were many obstacles in their path, and the easiest path would be to relinquish all hope of the union. Yet Éomer had never been one to take the easiest path when it was not the best one. And so he hoped against reason that someday the barriers would be destroyed, and he could have the woman he so loved.

Thus lost in thought was he found by Éowyn, on the porch, watching the sunset. “Brother,” said she, “will you not come inside? We have hardly seen you today.”

“In a little while, Éowyn,” he replied. “In a little while.”

She turned as if to leave, but then she took his hand. “This will not bring her back,” she said, softly.

“I know.”

“You still love her.”

“I do.”

For a while, brother and sister stood watching each other, and Éomer wondered if Éowyn had received a similar confession from Lothíriel. Then Éowyn smiled and asked: “Why are you yet here, brother?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She squeezed his hand and laughed. “Go to her, Éomer,” she replied. “Your heart is with the Sea now, and nothing Faramir and I can do will bring it back.”

Then she kissed his cheek and gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the stables. “I will send your men down directly,” she added.

Éomer watched her enter the house again with some amazement. Yet a moment later he knew she was right, and he ran to fetch his horse.

*~*~*~*

*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 19

The Greatest of These

*~*~*~*

Some days later, Éomer and his men dismounted before the palace of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and as he had the year before in this place, he felt no small amount of apprehension. But this time, it was for much different reasons.

The doorman asked their business, and the captain of his guard stepped forth and announced: “The King of Rohan has business with your Lord Imrahil.”

The man bowed before Éomer. “I will instruct a servant to take you to him directly.”

Éomer directed his men to take care of the horses while he followed a servant. Through the vaguely familiar corridors they wended, passing stairs and courtyards all along the way. Then suddenly, as they turned a corner, he saw Lothíriel.

“Éomer!” she cried, apparently caring not for propriety.

Several people turned and stared, but he heeded them not. “Lothíriel,” he replied, taking a few steps forward. Dressed in deep red, she looked stunning.

Quickly she shook her head. “My lord, what has brought you here?” she asked. “You said your intent was to travel home the day after I left Emyn Arnen.”

He hesitated. “I have come,” he began, haltlingly, “on a pressing matter which has commanded my attention.”

Her eyes widened. “What of my cousin and his family? Is something the matter?”

Éomer took her hand in an attempt to reassure her. “No, my lady, they were all quite well when I left them. Set yourself at ease.”

Still looking rather like one who had narrowly escaped death, she nodded. Then he kissed her hand impulsively; and when he looked at her face again, her expression had only intensified.

Without another word he left with the servant, who showed him to Imrahil’s study at last. The man entered, and a moment later summoned Éomer within and left the two lords alone.

Imrahil had been sitting behind a large desk, but upon Éomer’s entrance he stood, quill yet in hand. “My lord Éomer,” he said, “I did not expect you to come.”

“In truth, my lord,” Éomer replied, “I did not expect to come myself.”

“My nephew’s family is well, I hope,” said Imrahil, taking his seat once more and gesturing to a chair nearby.

“They are well.” Imrahil opened his mouth to speak, but Éomer spoke first. “My lord, I do not wish to delay this with idle talk.”

“What is the matter, friend?” The prince set aside his quill at last.

Éomer shifted, a little uncomfortable. “I have come to ask your permission to seek your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Perhaps something else might have shocked him more, but Éomer doubted it. It was a long time before Imrahil spoke again, and when he did, his voice seemed strange. “My daughter told me a year ago that you saw no circumstance under which you could marry her.”

“Has she also told you of the last year?” Éomer asked.

“I know you have written to each other frequently,” the father replied. “But has that changed your mind so completely?”

“Has not her people’s opinion changed as well?”

Imrahil looked away, sighing heavily. “My father’s last advice to me was this,” he said. “When a ruler is just, his people are just; and when a ruler is merciful, his people are merciful. Though these are not your people, Éomer, your forgiveness of Lothíriel has served as a great example to them, and in time, they have learned to forget.”

“Then is it so impossible that I too have learned to forget?” Éomer asked, softly.

“It is not impossible, but there is something I must ask,” Imrahil replied, “for this change seems abrupt to me. I know that last year, my nephew saw no impropriety with you often spending time alone with my child, and I cannot imagine that his mind has changed that dramatically. Should I have any reason to suspect my daughter’s honor has been compromised? Is that your reason for wishing this?”

Éomer stiffened somewhat, though the potential shock of this question had been lessened by his conversation with Faramir a few days before. “No, my lord,” he replied, relatively calm. “I have never solicited your daughter in that manner.”

“Then I have but one question to ask of you,” said Imrahil. “Why are you so willing to overlook what she has done? Why take for yourself as queen a woman who has acted so irresponsibly in the past?”

“I love her,” Éomer replied, softly. “I love her, and I have forgiven her. It is Lothíriel whom I need, both for myself and for my country.”

Imrahil grew very quiet. “Have you spoken with her yet?” When Éomer shook his head, the prince rang a bell, a servant appeared, and was then dispatched to fetch Lothíriel.

The two men spoke but little as they waited for her. When she arrived, her eyes rested first on Éomer, and he thought he perceived her breath quickening. Then, almost as an afterthought, she looked at Imrahil. “Father,” she said, almost a whisper.

“My child,” he said, “Lord Éomer has come to Dol Amroth with a request I did not expect.” Éomer watched her grip the back of a chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. “He has come to ask for your hand in marriage.”

She swallowed hard. “And what have you to say to it, Father?”

Imrahil looked a little surprised. “I wish to know your thoughts, Lothíriel.”

A torrent of emotions seemed to cross her face, and she would not look at Éomer. “I cannot feel myself worthy of the honor he offers to bestow.”

“Lothíriel,” Éomer said gently, “are your sins that much greater than mine?”

At last she looked on him. “I do not understand, my lord.”

“I have not led a perfect life,” he replied. “Yet I am king. Are these two at odds?”

“No, we none of us are perfect.”

“Your father tells me that the people of Dol Amroth have accepted you once more,” he pressed. “They have forgiven you, as did I.” He held her gaze, long and steady. “Forgive yourself.”

And it seemed to Éomer that this was something she had never considered. For a long time they simply watched each other in silence as she did battle with her own demons, her own fears. Then she turned back to Imrahil. “Father,” she said, “I would receive Lord Éomer’s request with great joy.”

With a hint of a smile, Imrahil took Lothíriel’s hand in his left and Éomer’s in his right, and joined them. “Éomer Éadig, I promise you my daughter, Lothíriel, that you shall be wed with my blessing. Thus you are betrothed in the sight of the Prince of Dol Amroth,” he said. “My child, give this man the honor due him; and love this woman as she deserves, my son.”

After embracing them both, the father left them alone for a little while. As soon as he was gone, a tear slipped down Lothíriel’s cheek, and Éomer brushed it away. “Do not weep,” he said.

“It is not of sorrow, but of joy,” she replied. “I dared not hope, and I yet wonder if this is but a dream.”

Then Éomer pulled his betrothed into an embrace. “You need not hope,” he said. “This is real.”

*~*~*~*

It took at least a full day for the shocked relief of them both to turn to unmitigated joy; and the happy couple appeared before the people of Dol Amroth, who celebrated with their princess in her choice of husband. Then before them all, Éomer kissed her, and those who were witness to it rejoiced.

The tidings spread to Minas Tirith and Emyn Arnen as well, and swift messengers brought back the elated greetings of their friends in both places. Nothing could have lifted their spirits more than the true joy which they and their family and friends shared. To Lothíriel, it was the joy which comes in the morning after heavy rain, when all is well with the world and flowers continue to blossom and grow.

In truth it was all a little overwhelming for Lothíriel. She was almost deliriously happy to know that it would not be long before she and her beloved Éomer were wed, but such joy after such grief was dizzying in its magnitude. She had been engaged once before, but during the war for their freedom there had been no time for celebration, or even for happiness. Now, in peace, there was no time for doubt.

Nor was there need. As Lothíriel came to the roof of her father’s house late one night, as the stars were peeking through the wispy feathers of cloud, things began to grow as clear to her as was the night air around her. That she loved Éomer and was loved by him in return was not a matter for debate. Long had she loved him, despite his flaws as well as her own. There was something glorious in the knowledge that her love for him was so deeply requited.

Then, as the night wore on in her inexorable rhythm of starlight in darkness, Éomer joined her.

“My lady,” he said, drawing her attention down from the night sky when he alighted on the roof.

Lothíriel gave him a warm smile. “My lord,” she replied in kind.

“What brings you here?” he asked, walking toward her.

“The cool and quiet of the night,” she replied, “and the beauty of the sea. And you?”

“You,” he said, quite simply. Lothíriel felt her cheeks flush. Once before she had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she did not wish for a man of eloquent tongue and graceful speech. Her desire had not changed, but Éomer’s quiet expressions of simple truths would yet take her by surprise.

He placed his hand at her waist, a simple gesture he had come to use often since his arrival in Dol Amroth. As they were quite alone, she leaned back against him, and he kissed the top of her head. “It is a beautiful night,” he said. “I believe I have come to understand your love of this land. I will be sorry to take you from it.”

She smiled. “Could you not rule Rohan from this port? Surely it would not be too inconvenient.”

He laughed. “Your brothers warned me of your wit,” he replied. “I heeded them not.”

“And yet you love me.”

“I do.”

They were silent for a while, watching the starlight dance upon the water beyond the city. Then Lothíriel turned and set her arms about him. “When must you leave?” she asked, knowing his answer would be sooner than she would like.

“In two days,” Éomer replied, running one hand through her hair. “I have been away from Edoras far longer than I should have been.” Lothíriel looked up at him. “I have never been glad to leave you,” he added, “but the pain will be at its worst this time.”

“It will not be long,” she said, balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders as she raised up onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “I will come to thee soon.”

With his broad palm he cupped her cheek. “It will not be soon enough.”

Then they drew nearer to each other and kissed under the starlight. It was far too brief, as their kisses ever seemed to be, but for the moment it was what they needed. Gentle, chaste, and pure, it gave them both the reassurance they desired, that this separation would not be forever, that though darkness would fall, there would always be the dawn.