*~*~*~*

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.

*~*~*~*