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.

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CHAPTER 8

Nothing So Strange

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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.

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