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Vairë Was a Weaver, or, Real Men Wear Corsets  by Celeritas

The meal was over, and servants were standing discreetly around the tables, ready to remove, or at least rearrange them, as soon as they were emptied.  There were no directives from the royal hosts tonight; they seemed to be caught up in matters far more pressing.  Merry had suggested that, in lieu of dancing, the hall be strewed with tables and chairs to lend an atmosphere reminiscent of an alehouse.

Éomer caught a servant staring holes into his head, and took note of the fact that they were probably barring him from his duty.  Lothíriel seemed to notice the same, for she said, “Oh, look at all those barrels—like a market, only for drink!  Have you ever seen the like before?”

“Not all in one place,” said Éomer.  “Shall we make a round?”

“I should be delighted to.  You know,” she said, smiling coyly, “my parents always told me that beer was not a lady’s drink.  I’m glad the King appears to think otherwise.”

Éomer snorted.  “In the Riddermark, a lady may drink whatever she pleases without fault.”

“And so, it seems, in Minas Tirith—at least, tonight.  I shall be most interested in furthering my education, for it is difficult in Dol Amroth for a lady to obtain unladylike beverages.”

“I should be happy to teach you.”

Slowly they made their way around the perimeter of the room, stopping at each barrel and pulling at the tap.  Lothíriel would take a sip, remark on it, and then hand her cup to Éomer and ask his opinion on it.  After a brief discussion, she’d move on, the cup still in Éomer’s hand, and she flitted from barrel to barrel so quickly that Éomer found himself with the happy chance of having to finish it off so it would be ready for the next sample.

When they were almost done with one of the walls, Lothíriel stumbled for an instant and had to lean against one of the barrels.  Éomer belatedly realized that he should have tried to catch her, but there was no reproach in her eye.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “My, this—this hasn’t happened to me since Erchirion’s wedding!”

“Are... you not well?”

“I’m fine,” said Lothíriel, “but I shouldn’t have more.  Do you mind if I lean on your arm a bit?”

Éomer nodded, though, truth be told, he did not feel entirely steady on his feet, either.  He normally only went the pace Lothíriel had set him when he was with his men.

Lothiriel clutched his arm and patted it.  “Your tutelage was much appreciated, my lord.”

Éomer looked back at the line of casks.  Surely she could not have drunk that much!  “Perhaps I was right about Dol Amroth women,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Lothíriel said, looking at him with open curiosity.

“Nothing!” he said, a little too loudly.  “Nothing.  I was thinking aloud.”

“About Dol Amroth women?  Surely you were not acquainted with us before!”

“I was not.  ‘Twas just something rude I said to the Lord Faramir earlier…”  Éomer dimly realized his tongue was running far ahead of his wits and snapped his mouth shut.

“Rude?  That is an odd thing to say.  The Rohirrim are uncouth, surely, but rude?  What did you tell him?  I shall take you to apologize to him now!”

“No!” Éomer shouted.  “That… won’t be needed; I only said it to test his mettle.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.  And so I fear his revenge.”

“But Cousin Faramir is a gentle and kind man!  Surely you must know that!  What did you say to upset him so?”

Even now, Éomer knew that to answer her question was folly.  But ale was in his veins, and he was tired of playing these courtly games, and just then Lothíriel looked up at him so sweetly…  “I hinted that his mother’s early passing was due to her own weakness.”

Lothíriel gasped, and dropped his arm in shock.  “Éomer!  You couldn’t have!”

Éomer averted his gaze.

“Was—was that why you have been so nervous all evening?”

Éomer nodded.

“But you said it concerned not me, when clearly it did.  She was my aunt!”  Lothíriel turned from him and ran outside, to the Court of the Fountain, weeping a torrent.

Éomer gazed after her, slack-jawed with horror.





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