A/N: just a bit of quick fun with my favourite couple. Enjoy!

***

Flotsam (Chapter 1 of 2)

Flat and shimmering, the bay stretched out before him like an enormous mirror, reflecting clouds streaked orange and pink by the rising sun. Nothing broke the smooth expanse except for a low island, its beach littered with dark boulders.

Éomer took the last few steps down the stairs to a tiny, sheltered cove, where the water lapped against the shore with a sound like a sigh. Behind him rose the castle of Dol Amroth, stark and forbidding, but this was the side turned away from the town and its harbour. There was nobody else about, not even guards.

The solitude was welcome. He had woken early, though feeling little rested. Not wanting to disturb his squire – the boy slept until midday if he let him – he had wandered off along the corridors of the castle in search of some food and had instead found the postern gate that led down to this tiny scrap of beach.

Sitting down on the bottom step, he listened to the water caress the pebbles. They had made good time across Southern Gondor and arrived early, so for a change he had no obligations to fulfil. No lengthy talks about trade, no discussing their next military venture, but above all no polite conversation to make with tongue-tied Gondorian maidens. There would be a banquet and a dance later that night, but he need not face that just yet.

Unseeing, he frowned down at his boots. Oh, he agreed with his advisers that it made sense to strengthen their ties with Gondor, but did all Gondorian women need to be so…meek? It was as if they had all attended the same school of deportment, turning them into smiling, perfect little dolls. He sighed. Still, they were very pretty dolls and there had to be greater sacrifices for the Mark than taking one of them to his bed. Sometimes he just wondered what they would talk about, once he was shackled to one for the rest of his life.

But at twenty-eight years of age, it was high time for him to get married, not least to ensure the Mark’s succession. Once that had been accomplished, they could lead quite separate lives, like so many noble couples in Gondor did. The banquet would be a good opportunity to inspect the unwed maidens of Gondor – not least his host’s daughter, whom he had not yet met – and make up his mind which one to choose. Nevertheless, the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Éomer gave himself a mental shake. He was turning maudlin! And it was a beautiful day. While he had been brooding over his situation, the sun had risen, turning the sea a vivid turquoise. Beyond the central island, a small fleet of fishing boats was making for the entrance of the bay, their white sails catching the gentle breeze.

On an impulse, he slipped out of his boots and took off his clothes, leaving them in a tidy pile on the stairs. The water looked so inviting, and he was a strong swimmer. One turn to the island and back again would drive the silly fancies from his mind and give him a good appetite for breakfast.

The day was a gift. He would accept it.

***

Lothíriel was fuming.

A whole day stolen. All because that oaf of a Rohirrim king could not be punctual. She had planned to take Carach for a long sail to the outlying islands, enjoying the last bit of peace and freedom, and instead she was reduced to taking a short turn around the bay.

Still, she told herself, it was only for a week, then he would be gone again. There had to be greater sacrifices for Gondor than organising a few banquets and dancing with a foreign king. And that was all she would do. Oh, she knew what her father had in mind, why he had invited his as yet unwed friend for a stay. But she had no intention of turning into a decorative ornament at the court of Rohan, its only purpose to provide the country with an heir.

Anyway, there were plenty of aspirants to the position. From what her sister-in-law had said, all the eligible maidens of Minas Tirith had been after him. By now the man probably had a head like a bloated jellyfish from all their flattery.

She adjusted the sail to catch more of the pitifully weak breeze. Out beyond the entrance of the bay, whitecaps promised excitement, but her father had made it very clear that he expected her presence at the breakfast table. Already she could feel the familiar numbness spreading through her mind at being forced to come up with polite bits of conversation. As her aunt liked to say: for a noblewoman, voicing an opinion was as improper as showing her legs.

Involuntarily Lothíriel glanced down at her trousers, borrowed from Amrothos. Luckily Aunt Ivriniel had moved down the coast to Edhellond some years before to establish a select seminary for the education of Gondorian maidens. And even more luckily, Lothíriel had so far been able to talk her father out of sending her there. Her presence at the breakfast table was a necessary compromise to maintain that state of affairs.

With a sigh, she altered course. Dol Amroth stood high on a narrow promontory, cutting off most of the morning breeze, and she didn’t want to get caught against that steep, rocky shore with no wind to manoeuvre. Much better to sail around it and make for the harbour on the other side. It would take some time though. But hopefully the King of Rohan would want to sleep late after his long journey.

She patted Carach’s gunwale. “Or we could just let the King of Rohan do whatever kings do and race across to the islands and back?”

The boat, borrowed from Amrothos like her trousers, did not reply. At their sluggish pace, she could not even hear the sweet sound of water rushing past.

“You’re probably right,” Lothíriel conceded. “The breakfast table it is.”

Her course took them past Tol Draugaer. Idly she glanced at the colony of seals that made their home on the sandy beaches of the island. Suddenly a piece of pale flotsam caught her eye. She frowned. How strange, it seemed to move. Yet surely that was no seal in the water there.

It couldn’t be.

Nobody with any sense swam near Tol Draugaer.

***

Soft as velvet the water glided across Éomer’s skin. It had been colder than expected, but the exercise kept him warm. To his surprise, the funny shaped boulders on the island’s beach had turned out to be animals. At first he had been alarmed when a group of them swam past him, but then he realised they had to be seals. One of them even stopped to survey him for a moment with large brown eyes, its moustache twitching with curiosity.

Smiling, Éomer struck out for the island again. He would have a quick break, warm up a bit and then swim back, all in plenty of time not to be late for the breakfast table. Imrahil had been most insistent with his invitation, probably because his daughter was expected to be there, and he did not want to disappoint his friend. However, he need not think of that yet.

Suddenly he noticed a fishing boat approaching, heading straight for him. Surprised, he stopped to tread water. Another pod of seals shot past him that moment, their bodies sleek and dark. They seemed agitated; he wondered if the boat had disturbed them. It was quite small however, though built on elegant lines. As it got closer he saw that it had a pattern of triangular shapes painted on the bow, looking almost like a row of teeth. How strange.

A young lad was at the tiller, the only crew apparently. He let go of the sail, and the boat drifted to a stop not far from Éomer. The boy frowned down at him, his cool grey eyes assessing Éomer.

“What do you think you’re doing? Get in at once.”

Éomer choked on a mouthful of cold water. A girl! And with the clipped accent of the nobles of Gondor. Coughing, he stared up at her.

“Are you deaf as well as stupid? What are you waiting for? Climb in.”

He blinked at her peremptory tone. “Now listen, I don’t know why you should think I need your help. I’m perfectly fine.”

Had she thought he was drowning? If so, she had a very rude way of offering her help. To prove his point, he began to swim towards the island again, ignoring her.

“Fine?” she echoed his words. “That’s Tol Draugaer over there.”

The island of the Sea Wolf? Uneasy, he faltered.

Her eyes narrowed as she seemed to take him in properly for the first time. “Oh, you are one of the Rohirrim.” It was said with a mix of pity and resignation. “You had better climb in. I can’t stop here all day, you know.”

Éomer eyed the island. It wasn’t all that far, really. “As I said, I’m fine.” He had his pride. “Besides, I’m not wearing any clothes.” Any Gondorian lady he knew would faint away at this point.

She only raised a finely drawn eyebrow. “I commend you for your modesty, but don’t you think becoming shark bait is rather a high price to pay for it?”

“Shark bait?” He couldn’t help it, his voice rose.

“Seals are their favourite food. Of course you might be too bony for them, but that’s not much of a consolation, since they’ll probably find out too late.”

He was already halfway across the gunwale. Scrabbling for purchase, he landed in the bottom of the boat with a bump. Despite her assured manner, the girl blushed at this incursion of a naked man into her boat and quickly looked away. Éomer grabbed a fishing net lying around to cover himself, but it proved rather inadequate.

Her cheeks scarlet, the girl rummaged through a locker next to the tiller. “Perhaps my brother left some clothes behind.” She pulled out a couple of empty wineskins, a coil of rope, some sharp looking tools and a single lady’s sandal. “Ah.” Without looking at him, she threw him a bundle of cloth. “Perhaps this might serve.”

Shaking it out, Éomer found that it was a delicate pink shawl with rows of scarlet bobbles stitched along the bottom. He stared at it in disbelief. “You must be joking!”

“Well, that’s all I’ve got. Probably one of my brother’s…lady friends…left it behind. He likes to take them out boating.”

Well, it would only be for a few minutes. Reluctantly he wrapped the shawl around his middle and knotted it at the side. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, I can get you a shirt and trousers in the harbour.” The girl reached for one of the many ropes and adjusted the sail. Slowly it began to fill, and the boat started moving again. Away from the land.

In the harbour? “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed. “You have to drop me off over there.” He pointed to where he thought the little cove was situated. It was actually quite difficult to spot, the cliffs were so sheer.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? I can show you where to–”

“This is a sailing boat,” she interrupted him in the kind of voice used to a child. “Carach needs wind to manoeuvre, especially near such sharp rocks. My brother will kill me if I scratch her paintwork. Besides, the tide has turned and we can’t stem the current. So we’ll have to round the headland and put into the harbour there.”

“But–”

“You’ll just have to put up with it. A boat is not a horse that you can point in any direction.”

Éomer considered the distance to the shore. He could swim that easily. But when he peered over the side of the boat, he hesitated. Was that a pale shape deep down in the water? He couldn’t tell if it was real or just his imagination.

For a moment he thought about taking control of the boat away from the girl. How difficult could it be to sail this thing? As if she could read his mind, the girl’s hand moved towards a heavy boat hook lying by her side.

Not wanting to frighten her, he settled down in the bottom of the boat. “Very well.”

It was still early, there might not be many people about to see him. He would have to make sure no word of this got to Éothain’s ears though, or he would never hear the end of it. Éomer sighed inwardly. He supposed that he owed the girl his thanks. But wasn’t it just his luck to be rescued by the grouchiest noblewoman he had ever encountered in Gondor?

***

Lothíriel shot a covert glance at her unwelcome companion. For a moment there the man had suddenly looked dangerous. Only the fact that she was so much more at home on a boat than him had given her any confidence.

Now that he sat moodily staring at the shore, she felt foolish for her alarm, that sense of being in the presence of a wild and unpredictable predator. She was starting to sound like Aunt Ivriniel, who regarded any man as inherently dangerous to a gently bred maiden.

Perhaps it was his size. With the legendary height of Númenor having passed her by completely, she was used to the men of her family towering over her, but this rider from Rohan was at least as tall as her father. And he had the physique of a swordsman, the scars on his chest bearing witness to his calling. She wondered if he had received any of them in the battle of the Pelennor Fields, following his king.

He should have looked ridiculous, wearing that pink scarf with its silly bobbles, but instead he carried it off with unconscious grace, as if he couldn’t care less what people thought of him.

He turned towards her and she quickly averted her gaze, looking up at the sails and studying the wind.

“I am grateful for being rescued by you, my lady,” he said, sounding stiff and formal.

She gave a cautious nod.

“Are there many sharks in these waters?”

“Oh yes.” She tried for a more friendly tone. After all it wasn’t fair to blame him for her day being ruined. “As I said, they like hunting seals, so this bay is a favourite place of theirs.”

She motioned to the mast, where Amrothos had strung up some of the curious triangular teeth on a string for decoration. “Those are from a shark my brothers killed a couple of years ago. We counted them and it had over two hundred of them.”

“Two hundred!” He fingered one of the teeth with its sharp, serrated edge.

“It’s said that if they break one, a new tooth grows in its place.”

He shuddered. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t encounter any sharks.”

“Yes, they’re impressive. The biggest are nearly the size of this boat.” Lothíriel patted the tiller. “That’s why my brother called her Carach.”

“Jaws?”

“Yes, because that’s the last thing you see when you meet one.”

He swallowed. “Do many people get killed?”

Lothíriel couldn’t resist it. “Oh, no more than two or three a day,” she answered.

At his stare, she chuckled. “Only joking. Nobody sane goes swimming here. I think it’s been over five years since the last attack.”

The man gave her a frown. Apparently he did not think it funny. “How long until we get to the harbour?”

She cast another look up at the sail. “With this wind? Perhaps an hour.” And a long one, she couldn’t help thinking.

He raked his fingers through his long blond mane, which was drying rapidly, and muttered something in Rohirric that needed no translation. Would he be in trouble when they missed him? Well, that made two of them. The detour around the island in order to pick him up had delayed her. Her father would be more than displeased when she wasn’t there at the breakfast table to exchange polite nothings with their illustrious guest.

Above her, the leech of the sail was starting to flutter. She would have to gybe.

“Duck,” she said.

He stared at her as if she had spoken in a foreign language, then looked around uncertainly. “Surely those are seagulls?”

Was he slow-witted as well as foolish? “You have to duck.” She mimed lowering her head.

“Why?”

“I need to manoeuvre.”

“Oh.” Slowly he slid lower down.

Really, was he as sluggish following orders on the battlefield? If his king told him to charge, would he argue first? Again she had to remind herself that he was not to blame for her bad mood. But there was something supremely irritating about him. Suddenly it struck her why: he acted as if he was in charge, as if he was only humouring her by letting her sail the boat.

She hauled on the mainsheet and the boom swept across, finally making him duck more quickly. Carach changed course. If they were lucky, they would clear the entrance of the bay on this tack and round the point. Lothíriel threw a longing look at the open sea. Out there, the fishing boats had reefed their sails, flying along under mere scraps.

Frowning, the rider had straightened up again. “You might have warned me.”

“I did.”

His mouth thinned. A grim silence fell. She was so looking forward to getting rid of him.

Slowly Carach approached the bar at the mouth of the bay. With the tide receding fast, this was marked by a change in the colour of the sea to a muddy brown.

The rider was drumming his fingers on the gunwale, looking up at the castle on its spur of rock. “Can’t this boat go any faster?”

“We’re in a sheltered bay with very little wind. What do you expect?” It took an effort to keep from snarling. Perfect sailing conditions out there and she was stuck ferrying this clod around. And all because of his king deciding to arrive early.

“I suppose so,” he conceded. “But it’s like riding a plodding donkey.”

Her anger ignited. “You dare to call Carach a donkey?”

In his eyes, she saw an answering flash of temper. “Well, it is. Compared to riding Firefoot–”

“Duck!”

He learnt quickly, she had to give him that. Even so he probably felt the boom sweeping past the crown of his head.

“What do you think are you doing?” he spluttered.

Lothíriel pointed Carach towards the open sea. “Showing you the meaning of speed, horse-lord.”