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

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CHAPTER 9

Slow Burn

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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."

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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.