“Éomer, just because it would be good for relations between Dol Amroth and Rohan doesn’t mean you have to marry her.”

“Do not think I do this because I am forced, Eowyn.”

“Why, then?”

“It is my duty.”

Éowyn shook her head sadly. “Duty? Is that all marriage will ever be to you?”

Éomer sighed, pacing from one side of the study to the other and back again before answering. “Éowyn, I am truly happy that for you love and duty both coincided, but it cannot be so for everyone. Princess Lothíriel would be a wonderful match, and strengthen the ties between Dol Amroth and Rohan.”

“Éomer! You talk about her as if she was some horse you wish to purchase—or a treaty to sign—not like the woman you hope to wed! If you really wish to wed her at all…”

Éomer looked up in surprise at her outburst. “Of course I wish to. From all accounts she has grown into a beautiful lady, and—”

“‘From all accounts’?” Éowyn scoffed. “Just listen to yourself. You need to listen to other people’s accounts to learn about her? You have not so much as seen her since you were both children.”

“What would have you have me do then, sister? Ask Prince Imrahil not to bring his daughter? Ignore the fact that Rohan is ruled by a king without an heir?”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t marry her,” Éowyn said, her voice full of frustration.

“But you just said—”

Éowyn interrupted, her voice turning concerned, “I merely wish you wouldn’t automatically decide whether you are or aren’t going to marry her, as if you were dealing with livestock. Why can’t you wait, talk to her, court her, see what she’s like, and then—if you love her—ask her?”

Éomer paced over to the window impatiently. “Of course I won’t ask her to marry me right away, but I do owe it to Rohan to choose a bride soon, and if she won’t have me than I must look elsewhere…”

Éowyn laughed outright at this. “Oh, I know, dear brother, you’re not getting any younger.” She walked over to him, scrutinizing him with exaggerated care. “Just the other day I thought I spotted a grey hair…”

Éomer didn’t laugh, his brown eyes brimming with their habitual solemnity. “I’m serious, Éowyn.”

“But, Éomer, everything is serious with you. Can’t you even afford a little light-heartedness where your future wife is concerned? Anyone would think you don’t want to marry at all!”

Éomer faced the window, unresponsive.

Éowyn moved closer, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you want to marry?”

“I do not think I would…mind it.”

The look of almost boyish hesitation on his face couldn’t fail to make Éowyn smile. “Oh Éomer… Must all of life be so full of duty and cares to worry about? Couldn’t you smile a little more often? The war is over—I wish you would act like it.”

Éomer licked his lips nervously, hardly knowing how to respond, for he realized the truth of her words. He hadn’t let go since the war. Ever since he could remember, his life had consisted of learning how to accept his duty, and to make sacrifices for the greater good. Even though his marriage was a personal matter, by default he looked upon it as yet another duty he must perform. Not that the thought of marrying out of love hadn’t crossed his mind, but he hadn’t met any woman who stood out to him more than the rest. There was no woman he loved in particular, so why not a marriage of convenience? It was only practical, since he did need an heir…

As if reading his thoughts, Éowyn spoke softly, “So it is to be a marriage of convenience only, then.” She sighed heavily. “Tell me truthfully, are you really doing this only out of political reasons, and to produce an heir?”

Éomer hated it when Éowyn looked at him like that, with that sad, disappointed look on her face. Wishing he could break the mood, he replied with abnormal flippancy, “No, I would also greatly like to get Councilor Veoldrik off my back. I swear, every time I attempt to ride out on the hunt he nearly has a heart-attack. Until I have an heir, I fear he will never allow me to ride out alone…”

His flippancy didn’t do the trick. Éowyn just watched him talk, arms crossed. When he finally trailed off, she spoke angrily, “I’m beginning to pity Lothíriel. I have half a mind to warn her about you.”

“Éowyn!” His tone was partly reproachful, partly placating: from Éowyn’s stance, he could tell she was almost ready to storm from the room.

“Éomer, you have got to be the most unromantic person I have ever known!”

The door closed with a solid click behind her. Éomer slumped down dejectedly into a chair.

-o0o-

“Lothíriel, just because it would be good for relations between Gondor and Dol Amroth doesn’t mean you have to marry him.”

“I know, Father, I know.” Lothíriel held up a hand, stopping her older brother before he could get started, and finishing for him: “And if he so much as looks at me wrong you’ll punch him, Elphir. Yes, I know that too.”

“And I’ll help him,” Amrothos added.

“Don’t count me out of the fun,” Erchirion chimed in.

Lothíriel laughed. “Thank you, all three, for your show of brotherly affection. I feel very, very safe. But I don’t think you need to worry about King Éomer showing a lack of manners.”

“Yes, well he better court you properly, not just take your compliance for granted,” Amrothos growled. “It may be a good match—and an obvious one—but he will treat you right.”

Lothíriel clear blue eyes sparkled with unhidden amusement. “Oh, ‘Roth, you’re the worst of all! Poor Lord Éomer, he probably won’t dare look at me at all, much less wrongly, or with intentions of wedding me. Warrior-King or no, he’ll run in terror at the sight of you three.”

None of her brothers looked too unhappy at the prospect. Amrothos didn’t even try to cover his smirk.

Imrahil shook his head in fond exasperation. “You three, get out of here. Make your plans to terrify your sister’s suitors elsewhere.”

Elphir, responsible as ever, put on a convincing display of innocence. “Terrify her suitors? We’re only looking after our little sister, Father.”

Imrahil waved a hand dismissively at them. “I want to talk to your sister now, without the three of you distracting her with your ridiculous ‘offers’.” When the door was firmly closed behind his three sons, he turned to his youngest child, and only daughter. He sat down in one of the large, comfortable chairs, and smiled fondly at Lothíriel, who was curled up in the window-seat, arms hugging her knees to her chest, resting her chin resting atop them. “Those three, honestly—punch the King of Rohan, will they? Who taught them politics? I’m not letting any of them near Lord Éomer. If he does so much as look at you the wrong way, I’ll be the one punching him.”

Lothíriel chuckled at the picture of her diplomatic father actually punching the King of Rohan.

Imrahil sobered. “Lothíriel, I do mean it. If, upon meeting him, you find you do not wish to marry him, I will not force you.”

“I know you won’t, Father. But I will do my best to like him. I know how much this would mean, consolidating our ties to Rohan.”

Imrahil felt pride at her words. She spoke like a true high-born lady of Dol Amroth. She knew she might be called upon to sacrifice love for duty, and she was willing. But he felt determined not to make her take that sacrifice. She was right, a marriage between her and the King of Rohan could only bring good. It would strengthen the tie between their two countries, and it would give him personal satisfaction to see her married well. But, he also knew his daughter’s more predominating nature. She knew her duty, but also longed to marry for love, rather than for a title, or wealth, or even for her country. He wouldn’t see her tied down to an unhappy life so far away from the sea she loved, not unless it was truly necessary.

“Yes, it would be a perfect match in many ways, and I would be happy for you both. I have fought at Éomer’s side, and he is a good man. If you can learn to love him, you have my blessing. If you cannot bring yourself to marry him, you still have my blessing.”

Imrahil rose and crossed over to where she sat, leaning over to kiss her forehead. He turned next to leave, but she reached up to embrace him. Leaning down again, he returned it, and she buried her face in his shoulder. A muffled “Thank you.” reached his ears. He smiled, running his fingers through her long dark hair, and replied softly, “Get some sleep, Ría. We’ll be leaving at first light tomorrow morning.”

-o0o-

Éomer clasped Imrahil’s arm in greeting. “It is good to have you in these halls again, my Lord.”

“It is good to be in Rohan, Lord Éomer.” Imrahil smiled warmly. “You and my three sons are already acquainted, but allow me to introduce my daughter, Lothíriel. I believe you two were quite young the last time you met.”

“My Lady.” Éomer bowed over the hand she offered him and kissed it, before finally looking up to get a proper view of the woman who’d occupied much of this thoughts for the past week.

Imrahil continued to make polite conversation, but Éomer was only half listening. The rumors had been true: the Princess of Dol Amroth was indeed beautiful. But that was not what struck Éomer immediately. It was her smile. Her smile was so full of joy that, for a second, he felt sure she must be looking at someone else in recognition. He resisted the urge to look behind him, and then realized with surprise that she was looking straight at him. The genuine smile of greeting was meant for him. It made him feel unusually awkward, being the sole recipient of such attention. He also became acutely aware of Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos, all gazing intently at him, and giving him the very uncomfortable feeling of being not only observed but tried and judged as well.

He started when he became conscious of just how long he’d been looking at her, speechless, half frowning in thought. He cleared his throat. “Meduseld is…graced by your presence, my Lady.”

If possible, her smile brightened. “Thank you, my Lord.”

He turned back to Imrahil. “You must be tired from your long journey. The servants will show you your rooms, if you wish, and then we shall feast together.”

-o0o-

“Well, I wonder where everyone else went off to in such a hurry…”

Éomer turned at Lothíriel’s words to look behind them, noticing for the first time that they were, in fact, alone in the garden. The walk had started out as a group outing, with Imrahil and several others accompanying them. Now, it would appear, he’d been abandoned. Albeit, abandoned with one of the most beautiful companions he could think of… But, if he was honest with himself, that was exactly what was so intimidating about the situation.

It was embarrassingly obvious why they’d been left alone. At the thought, Lothíriel’s face was diffused by a soft blush, and she hurried to fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence. “Really though, you don’t suppose they could be any more subtle about it?”

Éomer’s chuckle ended up more like a choke, but he felt relieved to have the truth of the matter out in the open. If still felt awkward, but not quite so awkward.

Lothíriel generously continued to keep the conversation flowing, making up for his lack of a response with polite small-talk.

While Lothíriel talked, Éomer was given a chance to relax. He answered in monosyllables when he could, unable to think of anything more to add to the conversation, and wondered at her ability to come up with more topics. In comparison to her, he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious and gruff. Even though the situation was obviously less than comfortable for her as well, she bore it with grace.

Lothíriel, while she did bear the brunt of the conversation with ease, was beginning to feel increasingly uneasy about his continued silence. Had she said something wrong? She could scarcely bring herself to believe that, for he hardly appeared to be listening. Besides, none of the subjects she’d addressed could possibly have given rise to the coldness with which he was treating her.

Was he annoyed with her? Did he want her to leave him alone? Was she chattering on like a mindless idiot? She’d always been repulsed by the displays some “ladies” put on in public, so she dearly hoped she wasn’t talking too much. But what could she do when he refused to talk at all? The question was, was it ruder to talk—and risk talking too much—or was it ruder to let the conversation die a natural death and leave him alone? She decided on a purposeful course of action: talk until she ran out of subjects, and hope that by then he’d begin to elaborate on his responses, or retreat if he did not.

She rambled on rather pointlessly for another full minute, and could almost imagine she saw the set of Éomer’s shoulders relax just a bit. He wasn’t actually frowning at her—a good sign, surely. He even nodded in agreement once or twice over her comments on the weather. Thus encouraged, she scrambled for something else to say. “This garden is very lovely.” They rounded a corner, and her attention was snared by a row of roses. “Oh! Those are such beautiful roses—I don’t think I’ve ever seen any quite like them,” she exclaimed, truly delighted to see such an wonderful example of the flower.

“They were brought here many years ago, from Lossarnach.”

Lothíriel looked up from where she’d been examining one of the flowers, surprised at actually getting a response. “Really? They were brought nearly all the way from Minas Tirith?”

Éomer nodded. “My grandfather, King Thengel, spent many years in Gondor, and while he was there, he met Lady Morwen in Lossarnach. They were married in the vale of Imloth Melui. These are wild roses from that valley, which Thengel brought here to make her feel more at home when they came to Meduseld.”

Lothíriel smiled softly as she listened. “They look very well tended after.”

“Yes, Morwen took good care of them, and worked hard to acclimate them here, and now that she is gone, they are looked after with special attention.”

After Éomer’s veritable “outburst” he became quiet again; however Lothíriel could see he wasn’t quite so ill at ease as before. The conversation came to a lull, but the silence wasn’t a tense one, as they walked towards the waist-high stone wall that encircled the garden. Lothíriel leaned forward against it, facing the wind, allowing it comb through her hair. She closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure.

“The breezes here smell so very different than those at home…”

Éomer stood next to her. “I suppose to you the smell of grass and horses wouldn’t appeal quite so much as the smell of the sea?”

“Oh…I wouldn’t say that. Sea breezes are what I am used to. The smell of the plains is different, but not unpleasant.” The sun was beginning to set, and out before her the spreading grasslands of Rohan were turning from gold to grey beneath the haze of the spreading darkness. She could almost imagine the undulating hillocks as the rolling swells of the sea, rather than solid ground. “Your country holds a beauty all its own,” she added quietly.

“Thank you.” Éomer knew it wasn’t a personal compliment, but somehow it felt even more gratifying to have the land he loved so well appreciated.

The wind blew against their backs, bringing with it the sweet scent of wild roses. Lothíriel closed her eyes briefly as she inhaled the fragrance, and when she opened them again she found herself staring straight into a pair intense brown eyes. For a full ten seconds their gazes remained locked. For a full ten seconds, Lothíriel received a look at the true Éomer, an Éomer few ever saw. In those brown eyes she read both weariness, and unexpected kindness. Not that she hadn’t thought him kind—she had heard many times about how honorable and good he was—but the kindness she saw reflected a far more gentle and sensitive personality than she ever would have guessed belonged to the outwardly rough Rohirrim that stood before her. Those seconds were all she had, however, for after that, he abruptly looked away.

Éomer was glad for the growing darkness. Hopefully it covered his embarrassment. Surely some insanity had stolen his reason from him, to cause him to look at her like that, baring his soul… For when those clear blue eyes had looked into his, that was exactly what he’d done. Rarely had he felt so vulnerable, as if his every thought and emotion was suddenly open for examination. He’d looked away quickly, and felt rude for the gesture, but couldn’t help it. All of a sudden, he wanted to get away from her. Away from the garden, and the roses with their romantic memories. He swallowed hard, bowing stiffly to her. “Please, excuse me my Lady, there are a few…things I must see to yet before I retire. Feel free to stay in the garden as long as you like.”

“Lord Éomer—” Lothíriel called after him, but the King was already striding through the high-arched door.

-o0o-

Éowyn had been struggling all morning to keep her temper under control, but it was a hard feat, and she could tell she was losing the battle. “Brother,” she snapped. “if you pace across this room one more time I swear to you I’ll tie you to that chair!”

Éomer’s head jerked up, briefly, to observe his sister’s display of temper. He wasn’t impressed at all, having inherited the notorious royal temper himself. He resumed pacing.

“Éomer, won’t you at least talk to me? Stop and rest for a moment—you’ve probably walked ten miles today already, and you haven’t even left Meduseld yet.”

“Éowyn, if my actions are bothering you, you are welcome to leave.”

Now Éowyn knew something was wrong. “Éomer, brother… Please, tell me what troubles you?”

Éomer ran a hand absently over his face. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about her…”

“And?” Éowyn prodded.

When he next spoke his voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “I can’t marry her, Éowyn.”

“But you’ve been so certain that you had to marry her, why this sudden change? I thought it was your duty.”

“Well…yes. That was yesterday. But, now that I’ve met her, I…” Now his voice turned the opposite direction, becoming uncharacteristically hesitant. “Now that I’ve met her, I just don’t think I can marry her.”

Éowyn stared at him in confusion. “What I wouldn’t give to know what is going on inside that thick head of yours. One day you’re going to marry her no matter what, and the next day—after meeting her and finding her to be a beautiful and gentle-mannered lady—you tell me you cannot marry her. Have you found something out about the Lady Lothíriel’s character that none of the rest of us have?”

Éomer shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. She is very…pleasant.”

“If it’s the Lady’s beauty that you question, let me tell you here and now Éomer, you’ll be hard pressed to find someone more beautiful than her, and still so sweet and modest.”

“Of course I can see that the Lady Lothíriel is…attractive.”

“’Pleasant’, and ‘attractive’?” Her smile was full of irony. “You always were such a incorrigible flatterer, brother…”

Éomer interrupted her with unexpected ardency. “No, I know I do the lady injustice, for ‘pleasant’ doesn’t even begin to describe her presence. And as for her beauty… A man would have to be blind not to see just how beautiful she is.” For a moment, he seemed to forget his sister was still in the room with him, listening to his entranced description of the woman he was being forced to wed. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen…” his voice was merely a wondered whisper. “I don’t deserve her, I can’t marry her. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Understanding, and then disbelief, crossed Éowyn’s face. “Éomer, you can’t be serious. You mean you…you…love her?”

“Yes,” Éomer hardly seemed to dare to speak the word, all the while looking down at the floor as if he’d just confessed to murder.

“You, really, really love her?”

Still looking down at the floor, Éomer reiterated quietly, “Yes, I do.” When Éowyn flung her arms around him, he was caught completely off guard.

“Oh Éomer, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed joyfully, enthusiasm lending an almost painful strength to her embrace

Éomer didn’t immediately catch the enthusiasm.

“Brother, why so gloomy? You’ve just told me you’re in love, but you certainly don’t look it. Loving the woman you feel duty-bound to marry is nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Éowyn teased.

Éomer’s eyes darted uncertainly to hers. “But Éowyn, we have only just met, why on Arda would she love me?”

Éowyn’s voice rang with certainly, “Because you’re my wonderful, handsome, strong, brave brother, and no woman in her right senses could help but fall in love with you. Besides, you’re going to woo her.”

Éomer shook his head, doubt still clinging to him. “I just don’t deserve her, you said yourself I was the least romantic man you know. How…?” He left the question hanging.

“Forget that I said that.” She put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “You are going to sweep the Princess off her feet.”

Éomer looked slightly unnerved at her last statement, but none-the-less hope began to burn brightly within him with new determination.

-o0o-

When he saw her, leaning there against the garden wall, he felt his courage flee him. Éomer refused to leave, but at the same time it felt physically impossible to get any closer. Don’t be an idiot, Éomer, you’re just here to make polite conversation. It’s not like you’re proposing to her…Yet. He forced his legs to move.

He’d admitted to himself, and Éowyn, the fact that he really did love the Princess of Dol Amroth, and the prospect of confronting her with that mind-set terrified him. But his sister had pushed him out the door, and he couldn’t very well go back to her without having at least talked to Lothíriel. Éowyn would just push him right back out again.

He took a deep breath, and walked boldly forward. Lothíriel looked up at his approach, and to his joy—and increased nervousness—she smiled brightly at him. She looked just as happy to see him as she had yesterday, though why he still couldn’t see. Last night, he’d been brisk with her, even rude, leaving like that. He felt like such a blundering lout, and she… She was everything that he wasn’t: refined, gentle, graceful, and elegant. Éowyn had told him not to mind any of that. She had told him, eyes twinkling with amusement, that Lothíriel might not find him so very unattractive.

“Good morning, Lord Éomer.”

Éomer inclined his head in greeting. “My Lady.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for last night, leaving you so suddenly. Something came up and…well, I…”

“No need to apologize, I know exactly how it can be. Eru knows my father has had to run out on me enough times…” Her continuing smile belied any bitterness. “Kings and leaders have responsibilities. I suppose it’s their duty, their purpose in life, whether they want it to be or not.”

“And what is your purpose in life, my Lady?” Éomer immediately felt foolish asking the question, but she’d looked so wistful, he wished he could know what she was thinking.

She looked surprised, but not unpleasantly so. Lothíriel’s thoughts had been far back, on all the times her father had turned grim under his responsibilities. Those had been the times she’d taken it as her mission to cheer him up. It had always worked, both when she was a child, and now that she was grown. She’d always known how to make him smile again. Now she looked at this somber Rohirrim lord, seeing in his eyes the pain of loss for loved ones, as well as the weight of so many duties, and her heart went out to him.

“Right now…” At first, the words came hesitantly, then with a smile, she said resolutely, not caring how foolish it sounded, “Right now, Lord Éomer, my purpose is to make you smile.”

And so the romance truly began. Éomer did begin to woo Lothíriel in his own manner, and to his wonder she didn’t seem to look at him as the clumsy oaf he knew he was.

The romance was much whispered and wondered over in the court of Meduseld. How had it ever happened? Despite the many declarations otherwise from women who knew better, most of the men who knew Éomer’s gruff and eminently practical nature had sworn secretly that he would never truly win a woman’s love, even if a marriage of convenience were arranged. But there was no denying that the Princess Lothíriel and Éomer-King were in love. One by one, those who claimed that Lothíriel and Éomer would never be able to keep up a show of affection for each other were finally quieted.

After the engagement was announced, some still clung to the belief that they were both simply performing an act, for the better of both countries. Although they might go through with it, it was all out of duty, nothing more. Everyone knew they were both devoted to serving their people at any cost. But when the wedding came, there were no more knowing glances or whispers. The bride and groom were fairly glowing as they said the vows. Lothíriel looked radiant. And as the customary exchange of words was finished, the smile that lit up the King’s face was genuine and filled with a happiness that erased any further doubt. Apparently, for the King and Queen of Rohan at any rate, duty and love did not have to be mutually exclusive.

The End