*~*~*~*

CHAPTER 10

Questions

*~*~*~*

In many ways, it was early yet in Éomer’s relationship with Lothíriel, but something about the moonlit dancing in Faramir’s gardens had confirmed for him what he already knew in his heart. This Princess of Dol Amroth was the only woman he would love, and the only woman who could reign at his side in the Golden Hall.

He had once thought it odd that Éowyn had given her heart over so completely to Faramir in such a short time, and he had questioned her purpose in accepting the steward’s proposal. Believing her heart to be firmly devoted to Aragorn, Éomer had been surprised at Faramir’s request for her hand and doubly surprised that Éowyn had already accepted him. But now he understood. This had not been love at first sight, certainly, but love had not taken long. They had no need for a long courtship. Their feelings ran deep and true, and the morning after Éomer had kissed Lothíriel, he sought her father.

Imrahil’s joy at his friend’s request was untempered. And so too was Éomer’s, for he knew he would please many by taking Lothíriel as his wife. It was now only a matter of asking her.

And it was not long before the opportunity presented itself. That evening the two found themselves alone in the steward’s great library. Éomer watched as the princess drew a volume from a shelf and leafed through it, swaying her hips gently as though she were unaware of his presence. At last, with catlike tread he approached, and when he was near enough, he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her neck.

Lothíriel lifted her shoulders and laughed softly, a silvery sound that seemed to fill the room despite its quietness. So too did her scent, for she smelled as though a garden’s sweet fragrance followed her throughout the day. “My lord,” she said, “the others. . .”

“Let them come,” he replied in a voice quiet and intense. Lothíriel looked over her shoulder then, setting her book aside. There was determination in her eyes, and when she turned around, she kissed him, sparing little for the possibility that someone might walk in at any moment. This was a moment of stolen pleasure for them, as their societies both frowned upon a man being alone with a young woman for any length of time. But as his arms went around her and her hands found occupation in his hair, he did not think of such things. His thoughts were only of the soft warmth of her mouth, the delicate strength of her figure, the quiet pleasure of her sighs.

It was a comfortable kind of kiss, with no demands or expectations. Éomer did not mind terribly when Lothíriel drew away from him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She captivated him then as she had the first time he had seen her, all those months ago in Minas Tirith, before anyone knew of the child Éowyn would bear. Lothíriel likely did not know her power over him now, but it was complete. Had she asked of him any great feat, he would have done it without a moment’s hesitation.

Unable to stay long within the depths of her strikingly blue eyes, Éomer held her closer, burying his face in the curve of her neck. To this she did not object and thus they stayed for a long time, as Lothíriel wove her fingers in and out of his hair. “Éomer,” she whispered at last, “what troubles thee?”

Could she read him so well now? They had had misunderstandings and mistakes enough to last a lifetime, so perhaps their contentious courtship had taught her to see into his heart. At last he lifted his head and released her, taking a step back. “I have never been a man of many words,” he said, “for I have not your cousin’s gift of eloquence.”

To his surprise, she laughed lightly. “Had I wished for a man of many words I would not have chosen you, my lord,” she replied.

And there she had given him and his leaden tongue the perfect window. “Have you chosen me, lady?” he asked. “Have you chosen me?”

She was a long time in answering, and her eyes searched his. “Aye, my lord,” she replied at last.

Gently he took her hand in his. “Then will you become my wife?”

Her countenance was calm. If she was surprised by the suddenness of his request she did not show it. Instead she gazed upon him long and steady, speaking a single word in answer that was to him the sweetest poetry in all the lands for which he and his comrades had fought.

“Yes.”

He did not kiss her again, for as they stood with hands clasped, the door to the library opened. Faramir entered, but Éomer and Lothíriel merely stood facing each other, aware of their surroundings but paying them little heed. When Faramir announced that Imrahil was looking for his daughter, she bowed her head and gave Éomer a tiny smile before departing to her father.

*~*~*~*

Faramir was by no means surprised to find Éomer and Lothíriel alone when he entered the study. Nor was he surprised to see his brother-in-law lightly gripping his cousin’s hand — not after what he had seen the previous night. Part of him did not wish to interrupt, but Imrahil did wish to speak with his daughter on a matter of some importance. Given the way Lothíriel was gazing up at Éomer, Faramir suspected that his uncle had good cause to wish it.

“Cousin, your father wishes to see you,” he said. Lothíriel said not a word, but Faramir saw the small smile she gave Éomer as she departed. And thus the two men were left alone, and Faramir cleared his throat. “Would it be wrong of me to assume,” he asked, “that you and my cousin have come to an understanding, Éomer?”

The King of Rohan was a long time in turning around. “Is it possible,” he finally replied, “that I am dreaming, Faramir?”

Faramir smiled mischievously. “Would it not be a nightmare, then, to find yourself betrothed to Lothíriel?”

Éomer shook his head. “I can hardly believe that she has consented to be my wife. Until last night she seemed to despise me.”

“The heart can turn in a moment, Éomer, if it sees and feels what is true,” the steward replied. “My cousin has always had a deep love of truth. Once she recognized it, she could no longer hide from it.”

“It is a rare gift.” The younger man headed toward the window, laughing softly. “I suppose my advisors will be happy now.”

“I imagine they will be.” Faramir did not join him at the window, but raised his voice. “I must tell you, brother, that if you hurt her, her brothers and I will exact a swift and harsh vengeance.”

“I would expect no less of you, Faramir,” Éomer replied. “I believe I said something similar to you when I gave my blessing to your betrothal to my sister.”

Faramir smiled. “And you know I am as serious as you were, though perhaps less imposing.”

Éomer looked over his shoulder. “If you had wanted to be imposing, you would have brought your sword.”

The steward laughed. “Then perhaps in the morning I shall bring it to breakfast, but for now I think I shall retire for the evening.”

“Good night, brother,” said Éomer, still at the window.

“Good night.”

*~*~*~*

On the following day the whole party departed from Emyn Arnen and journeyed to Minas Tirith. There they would stay for some days, as Elboron was to be formally presented to Aragorn as the heir of his father’s stewardship and princedom. By then they all knew of Éomer and Lothíriel’s understanding, and Éowyn assumed that that too would be formally announced in the City during the course of the visit.

For part of the journey she rode on horseback beside her brother, when Lothíriel was not occupying his attention. However, Éowyn soon learned that her husband’s cousin seemed to captivate his attention even when she was not in view. Éowyn often smiled at her brother’s state. She had never thought to see him so desperately in love.

She had wondered from time to time if all men who loved their wives were as effusive about it as her husband was, but it was clear now that this was not the case. Éomer’s feelings were clear, certainly, but he did not speak it with eloquent word or tender touch as Faramir would. Instead, he let it be known with his eyes, ever searching her out, ever showing his deep affection.

At last they drew near the great gates of the City, by which point Éowyn was in the carriage once more with her son. Lothíriel rode between her father and her fiancé, though none would suspect anything because of it. The two men were widely known to be great friends, so the young woman riding between them was hardly extraordinary.

When they arrived at the Citadel, Éomer let Imrahil have the right of helping his daughter dismount her horse, knowing that the father’s time for such a task was drawing to an end. But at the presentation in Aragorn’s Court Lothíriel stood at his side rather than at her father’s, which caused a flurry of discussion amongst all those present, save those who had come from Emyn Arnen. Had the Prince’s daughter finally chosen a husband? More importantly, had Éomer King decided to marry at last?

Éomer was not insensible to the whispers and the stares, but for the most part, he heeded them not. Yet the lingering glances of one man troubled him, for through the celebration which followed the ceremony on Elboron’s behalf, the man gazed upon Lothíriel in a manner which unsettled Éomer greatly. He went unto his brother-in-law for information, to at least know the man’s name.

“His name is Nadroth,” said Faramir, “a lord of some consequence from the southern reaches of Dol Amroth.” The two were walking the length of the great hall, crowded with guests, as Lothíriel danced with Elessar. Faramir lowered his voice. “My cousin has told you of him, I am certain.”

“What mean you?” said Éomer. “I have never heard that name.”

The steward raised his brows at this pronouncement and took a long sip of wine. “She was once betrothed to another, Éomer,” he said, turning his back to the crowd. “During the war, she was intended for Lord Nadroth. After the campaigns were over, it was broken off and he married another. I understand his wife lately died.”

“How?” Éomer asked, though he knew not why it concerned him. His eyes followed the man as he exited the hall into the courtyard beyond.

“In childbirth,” said the steward. “The child died as well.”

Their conversation was abruptly ended when Éowyn joined them. She smiled when Faramir kissed her cheek. “Where is our son?” he asked.

“Asleep at last,” she replied. “One of the queen’s maidens offered to stay with him during the feast.”

“That was very kind,” said Faramir.

Then for some time the two kept Éomer involved in conversation, such that thoughts of Nadroth were nearly driven from his mind. But inevitably he searched the crowd for Lothíriel’s face. When he did not see her, he left his sister’s side without a word.

To the courtyard he escaped, but there he would find no respite. The sky was overcast that night; neither moon nor stars gave him comfort. Only Lothíriel’s face now would bring him relief, or so he had hoped.

For in a darkened corner of the courtyard were two silhouettes, the taller approaching the shorter. One he knew immediately as Lothíriel, and the other looked to Éomer like the figure of the man Nadroth. Then he heard a whisper of her name on the evening breeze, and the man suddenly held her by her arms and kissed her.

She did not resist.

It was all Éomer needed to see. Enraged, he fled the courtyard, but not to reenter the feast from whence he had just come. A seed of doubt had been planted in his mind when Faramir told him of this man. Why had Lothíriel not disclosed this to him? She had had ample opportunity to inform him that she had once been engaged to this man of Dol Amroth. Why would she hide it from him unless she felt it something to hide?

Had she loved him once, and did she love him still? Her behavior in the courtyard gave him ample answer.

To the stables he went, and though rain had begun to fall, he took his horse out and rode away from the City. In his anger he rode hard, and he did not return for many hours, long after the feast was over.

*~*~*~*