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The Only Love-Gods  by Melyanna

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.

*~*~*~*

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

*~*~*~*

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.

*~*~*~*

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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