We sail into the sun, our hope on the horizon. It seems we've arrived at an everlasting journey: a hungering and yearning rushes through our lives.

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August 3019 TA

Éomer had never been so hot in his life. Not in Minas Tirith during the summer, or the small cities that flourished in sight of the sea during the seasons where even the nights were hot and sticky and markets opened at dusk. Nor even on yearly campaigns in the Mark, where he could rarely take off his full armor and mail for the threat of orcs or Dunlendings.

The sun beat down on his back, and it burned his skin even through the handkerchief he had tied around his head to hang down his neck at the example of Aragorn and Imrahil. He kept his eyes closed, for the reflection of the sun off of sand beneath Firefoot's hooves blinded him. He wanted to weep for the pure misery of it all, for his tears would be disguised in the tracks of sweat that dripped from his head and down his body. The light cotton tunic and loose fitting breeches had helped him none, and as soon as the sun was halfway in the sky, he had withdrawn in his wretchedness. And that had been hours ago. He wished whole-heartedly that he had opted out of this endeavor. Imrahil had written for his company for the 'adventure' of it, not for the danger posed to Gondor. At least, Aragorn had assured them that there was no longer any threat from most of the Haradrim tribes. His assent has been easy enough to give, a favor for his friend, within the cool walls of Meduseld in the early spring that only hinted at the warm season to come. Work out a trade agreement with the desert tribes, Imrahil had suggested. See new landscapes, try new foods. Meet my daughter, married long since to a Haradrim lord. Share more stories and jokes with Amrothos. Ha!

Éomer pulled his water-skin from his saddle and drank deeply, wishing he could stop to share with Firefoot. The poor horse was bearing the heat much better than he himself. He had been the recipient of many hoots and jibes when he had tried to dismount for lunch, for the scorching sand had burned his feet, even with his shoes. The moment his feet had touched ground, he had yelped and pulled himself halfway back into the saddle quick as a wink, looking very undignified with his legs hanging.

"Think of the stories you will have to tell Éowyn and your marshals in Edoras," Imrahil had said, meaning well.

"I have had enough adventures for my lifetime," he grumbled to himself now. "I have naught to gain from this. If I had known this ruddy expedition would be too tiresome to enjoy the time with my friends, I would have declined."

"Come now, Éomer," he heard a jubilant voice beside him, and he looked to see Erchirion falling in. "One might think you are not enjoying yourself."

"I am not," Éomer snapped. "Take your jokes elsewhere."

"You should restore your good humor before we arrive," Erchirion said. "My sister will find no joy in playing hostess to one so ill-tempered."

"Her hostess skills had best be unmatched, for if there is no cool water for a bath and lovely ladies to rub salve on my burned skin, I am turning straight for home."

Erchirion laughed. "I only came to tell you the village is in sight, anyhow."

Éomer pulled his gaze higher, and squinted at the horizon. He could see several tents as well, close enough that they had no doubt been in sight for an hour or more. Erichirion rode on ahead to speak to his father, and Éomer was left to brood alone. If the village was any further, it would take more than a cool bath to satisfy me, he thought.

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There were crudely constructed pens that ushered the way into the makeshift village. Éomer was not familiar with Haradrim husbandry, but the flocks of sheep and goats seemed as thin as the ones back in the Mark. A few scrawny children were tending the animals, and gazed upon the company of northern men with great wonder.

A noble and impressive first impression he was.

The sun was finally descending, only an hour or so from disappearing completely. The light was now a vibrant orange, giving everything a golden glow. It did not help with the heat. He rubbed the back of his neck with the handkerchief for the hundredth time, and it did not give any relief, for the hundredth time.

The horses in front of him had stopped, but nudging Firefoot, he easily continued his way through to the front line, stopping next to Amrothos. He looked across at his companions, and saw that none were speaking, only staring straight ahead in solemnity, surprise, and anger. He turned to see what is was holding their attention so religiously.

Directly in the center of the circle of tents, there stood a single wooden pole, three hand-spans wide and probably three meters tall. To the pole, a naked woman was secured, her arms wrapped around her back and tied together with cruel rope. Her long, dark hair hung in front of her face and obstructed most of the view of her body, but even so, there was no question of her nudity. She was filthy and bruised, and very thin. She might have been burnt by the sun as well, or incredibly tan. Éomer could not tell, but continued to look on in the dreadful silence. He then noticed that the company was now tense and taut as a bowstring.

"Lothíriel…?" Imrahil's voice was a low inhale. The woman lifted her head, hair falling away from her face, and Éomer saw the features of his friends from Dol Amroth on it. Straight nose, large grey eyes, and a pronounced jawline. The woman only stared at Imrahil, eyes narrowing in recognition.

The prince jumped from his horse and ran to her side, quickly pulling a knife from his side to hack at her bindings. Amrothos was shaking beside Éomer, in greater fury than he had seen at the Black Gate. Erchirion had dismounted as well, and stepped forward a bit before stopping, his hands clenched in tight fists. Éomer felt righteous anger burning in him as well. For a high-bred lady to be treated thus was a crime in itself, made worse by her relation to his greatest friends.

The ropes fell to the ground, and Imrahil stood and held his hands to his daughter to help her stand. She did not take them, raising herself on visibly shaking legs, flipping her hair behind her. Her back was straight, chin high, eyes flashing. Armed with no weapons, nor indeed a stitch of clothing, Éomer quaked in his saddle at the sight of this dangerous woman.

"Five months!" she screeched, balling her hands at her sides. "Five months I have waited!"

Imrahil stepped back at the sudden onslaught, looking staggered.

"Five months! Did it truly not cross your brilliant mind, Father, that your Gondorian daughter may not be safe among the Haradrim after huge numbers of the Haradrim do not come back from a war with Gondor!"

Amrothos was on the ground now as well, and made a move to approach the scene, but the continued screaming kept him from advancing.

"And even then! Why was I left here during the war? Should my stay have been pleasant during that time? Did you truly think that Barul would not be summoned to fight for the Haradrim once open war was declared? That I would be safe among your enemies?"

Imrahil stepped forward, against the wailing that carried across the village, and no doubt penetrating every tent. The shepherds could probably hear as well. "Daugher, please…"

"Please nothing!" the woman cried. "I have been tethered to this ruddy pole for eight days. And before then, I had rotten meat thrown at me if I stuck my head out of my home! What, in the name of the Valar, made you think that I was welcome here?" She stood tall, nearly as tall as Imrahil, her nostrils flaring. Éomer was surprised there no spits of flame coming from her mouth. Her brothers and father had spoken of her so affectionately. Blinded by familial love, he thought. For there is little pleasant about this creature. Still, he admired her fury. She was so very elegant, nakedness and all.

Her wrath abated now that she had spoken her immediate complaints, Erchirion had crept behind her and threw a cloak over her shoulders. She made no move to cover herself. Éomer's eyes were dragged down by the sight of her breasts. Full, and made perkier by her posture. He fought to keep a smile from forming. Delectable though her body may be, as his friends' sister she was forbidden territory.

"Could we continue this inside?" he heard Imrahil ask gently. He had stepped close to his daughter to pull the cloak across her body.

"Inside!" Lothíriel's voice rose again to a piercing shriek. Éomer's ears rang. "I have been banished from my home! By Barul's first wife – if you remember that he has such. She burned my clothing and executed my horse!"

Executed a horse! Éomer now matched Lothíriel's brothers for madness.

The woman seemed to calm herself, taking a moment to rake her eyes over the company of guards, packhorses, and royalty that stood stock still at the entrance to the village. Her eyes did not linger on Éomer, strangely to his regret.

"I am returning to the land of my home," she said in a more level voice. "We will leave tonight." She strode from the scene, a serene figure in the dusk, and after she disappeared out of sight he heard her screeching again, this time directed at another person, and in a language unknown to him. Imrahil and his sons now whispered to each other, heads close together. Lothíriel appeared a moment later, dragging a massive cart behind her with her bare hands. Éomer decided that her anger was giving her greater strength, for no woman was strong enough to pull such a heavy object.

"We are taking this. Get a horse," she ordered, to no one in particular. Aragorn nodded at a couple of his guards, and they immediately got to work. "Two more," Lothíriel said, looking expectant. Once these men were produced as well, she showed them to a tent. "Take every third barrel," she told them. "Load them in the cart. Quickly now!"

Éomer exchanged glances with Aragorn. He cared for Imrahil deeply, but their task in this journey seemed now to be to contain a hurricane. This woman was so bloody bossy! But she was not done with her raging yet. She stalked towards the largest tent, throwing the flaps open with no ceremony and seeming to steel herself and breathe deeply before entering and continuing her shrieks.

Her voice would be hoarse in the morning, of this Éomer was sure, as would the voice of the woman that was answering Lothíriel's shouts with her own. Soon she exited, clutching a wooden box in her hands. She stopped for a moment to tell the guards loading the cart to fetch the two oak trunks from the large tent, and then walked straight up to Imrahil.

"I am ready," she said. "Please, no more delay. They can stay to finish loading," she added, gesturing towards the guards.

"Very well," Imrahil said. "If you will consent to dress quickly, and promise to explain further as we ride."

"I swear it," Lothíriel promised with venom. That would not be a pleasant telling, Éomer decided. Best to keep out of the way of his friends from Dol Amroth. At least they would be returning to less blistering weather sooner than expected.

The lady did not seek privacy to dress herself, stepping into a pair of Erchirion's trousers in front of the company. Most of the lads were looking away, but in the dim light, Éomer felt that his appraisal would go unnoticed. A spare horse was brought forward for her but as she was starting to mount, the flaps to another tent were thrown open and a woman came running out, throwing herself at Lothíriel's feet, howling laments in the language of the Haradrim. Lothíriel answered sharply, and then turned to her father.

"You did not, by chance, bring a maid servant?" she said.

"I did not," Imrahil answered. "This situation is...extremely unexpected, daughter."

"Very well. Maida will come," she turned to the woman at her feet and relayed the news. The Haradrim woman began to cry, kissing the hem of Lothíriel's cloak. So they had to wait for this woman to gather her belongings, which consisted of a young boy-child and a small sack. Éomer's heart moved with pity for the woman, who was undoubtedly a war widow. The situation was the same across Middle-earth. Surely this woman had no hand in the mistreatment of Imrahil's daughter, for she seemed to worship the princess.

The sun was fully gone by the time the company turned their horses back north and set off. They only went a mile before stopping to make camp for the night. Éomer made sure to set an extra pair of guards, for there was danger of vengeance from the town they had just left. Though would they attack to retrieve a princess they had bound and abused? He was not sure.

Éomer's squire pitched his tent that night three down from the princess's, but the weeping of her handmaid still entered his dreaming.

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Dawn broke early, and Éomer rubbed his eyes, groaning as he noticed the sweat already beginning to appear on his forehead. Ten days of travel, and they would be back in Minas Tirith. He wondered briefly as he dressed, if Mithrandir's famed eagles would consent to bearing him north, even north enough to home. The thought of cool winds only deepened his misery. He tugged at his trousers, which resisted him for the stickiness of his skin. Under his breath, he cursed the sun, the heat, the desert, the sand...

His friends were already eating a breakfast of biscuits and dried fruit when Éomer departed his tent. Accepting his portion from a guard, he stood beside Aragorn. The sand was far too hot to sit on, and trees for seating were completely absent from the landscape. The dying fire was allowed to sputter out, for that much he was grateful - the added heat would be most unwelcome. The noise of breaking camp swam around them, filling the air with familiar routine. It comforted him.

"What do you make of our new guest?" Aragorn addressed him, and Éomer quickly swallowed his mouthful of biscuit.

"I cannot know," he replied. "It is clear she is from a noble lineage, but she is wretched. I believe that if she were in her natural element, she would make a powerful lady, though not in physical fighting," At this he chuckled. "That is more Éowyn's talent. But Lothíriel would be a formidable administrator. If she had taken charge of this war, it might have ended three years earlier."

Aragorn joined him in laughter. "Your assessment is the same as mine, my friend," he said. "If I had known such efficency came from education at Imrahil's home, I might have docked there myself. I hear the weather is pleasant, if one likes salty air."

"Did someone mention salty and my father in the same sentence?" They were approached at that moment by Amrothos, who strode to their company with his usual swag. "I would agree," he continued as if he had not interrupted them. "In Dol Amroth we refer to grouchy old men as salty, because they have spend so much time by the sea. Though my father has spent his years coddled in the palace…"

Aragorn and Éomer shared an amused glance. "How fares your sister?" Aragorn asked, obviously intending to keep the conversation from teasing the prince.

Amrothos grimaced. "I do not know, for she will not see me."

Éomer laughed. "The first lady to have that reaction to your new face!"

Amrothos put a hand to his cheek, where a jagged scar marred his features. At his pained look, Éomer knew he was still sensitive about it, and smirked. This youngest prince had few weakness to exploit in a battle of wits, and so Éomer decided to press his advantage. He opened his mouth to speak, but the attention of all present was drawn to the recently rescued lady, who departed her tent in haste, and it seemed, in anger. Her father followed her out, clearly wanting to have words with her, but she pointedly ignored her father and helped herself to breakfast to the dismay of the guards meant to be serving it.

"Good morning, Lot," Amrothos said loudly. She nodded in their direction, but did not look at him.

"I hope you slept well, my lady," Aragorn said. "We are delighted to have your gracious presence on our trek. Perhaps you have some knowledge of these lands - I am much interested in any folklore or tales of the happenings."

Lothíriel finally looked at them, concealing her surprise quickly behind cool composure. "Of course, my lord King," she said, lowering her head slightly. "I would be happy to satisfy your curiosity in any way I can." Now that her eyes were sweeping the group, her gaze fell upon Éomer, and a look of interest sharpened her features.

"Lothíriel, this is the king of Rohan," Imrahil interjected quickly, trying to place a hand on her arm, which she rebuffed. "He has accompanied us on this venture as our great friend and ally. I apologize for not introducing you last night."

"Charmed," the lady said, giving him no less respect in her actions than Aragorn, though her words were stiffer. Formally, there were no faults in her conduct, but her true feelings showed through well enough. She did not like him, and he wondered as to the cause.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied.

"Please, let us depart in haste," Imrahil said. It was clear that he did not wish to linger in his agitated demeanor, and since the guards and soldiers had made short work of the camp, they were soon on their way.

The pace was slower than the day before, for the carts that the lady had insisted on bringing plodded behind them. Éomer would have risked a gallop in the heat, if it could mean that they arrive under the shade of trees sooner. He half-listened to Lothíriel's tales to Aragorn - legends of the land, peculiarities of the people, and of the great danger of sandstorms. It was not until a question relevant to him did his interest perk.

"What happened to your husband, my lady?" Aragorn asked. Éomer noticed that Imrahil had ridden near to them. He wondered if Imrahil's unhappiness was in part due to his daughter's refusal to confide in him. For she seemed disinclined in look favorably upon her father at the present.

"He was trampled on the Pelennor, by the Rohirric charge," she said, unhesitating. Éomer felt his stomach turn to lead, cold tingles creeping up his spine. He had never been accused of murder before, and now it did not sit pleasantly with him. He felt the acute accusation in the pointed way she refused to look at him, while the others were curiously trying to gauge his reaction. His color rose. "At least that is what I was told," she added. "When it comes to battle, who may know."

"I regret the death of all good men, whatever side they fought with," Éomer said, as a response was clearly expected in the ensuing silence. "I can personally attest that the twisted mechanisms of Sauron and Saruman have lead to the deaths of many misguided innocents."

"Of course," Lothíriel sounded surprised, and her piercing gaze shot to him. "I do not mean to offend, I certainly cannot hold you responsible for your entire nation, commander king or no. And I can hardly fault your actions, for though I have lived among the Haradrim these past years, I have never been aligned with the Dark Lord. His motives and methods were pure evil."

Éomer had not noticed the tension in the air until it was released, now, in a hiss. Had others been concerned for her alliance, as the wife of a Harad lord? He could not have doubted Imrahil's daughter, himself. Her nobility shone through her countenance like blazing light, with her steely eyes and proud chin. There was no deception in her. In that way she was not dissimilar to Éowyn, but this lady made him far more uncomfortable. He adjusted himself awkwardly in his saddle, still aware of her scrutiny.

"What stories do the Haradrim tell of the war?" This question from Erchirion, who was riding directly behind Éomer, who relaxed as the conversation was drawn from him. For the way the lady had looked at him, he had the distinct impression that she had a practiced memory, and that none of his words would be forgotten. Even as the journey continued, he still felt her sharp gaze on him every so often. What could she be thinking?

Best not to worry himself over it. He had enough on his mind as it was. What was the saying that his mother always recited? Sufficient are the problems of each day to itself. If the princess was truly someone to concern himself over, he was sure it would occur later. For now, focusing on not getting sick of heatstroke would be enough. Blasted sun.

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Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen. This story would not have come to full fruition if not for Riverdance. Most of the chapter titles are named after the dance or song numbers, and one's reading experience would be vastly improved if one were to listen to the playlist provided in my profile. Hint, hint.

NOTE: This story is not meant to be canon. It's meant to be fun! I've read many, many (read: all) of the Éomer/Lothíriel stories this site has to offer, and I decided that my own offering would try to take the commonalities in those stories and turn them on their heads. It's been challenging as a writer, but I've loved every minute of it. The events in 'Reel Around the Sun' take place every couple months, excepting a few at the beginning and end that follow consecutive days. As for deviating from dates, let's assume that a) Theoden is already buried in Edoras, and b) Éowyn convinced her dear brother to allow her to live in Minas Tirith leading up to her wedding, as she could not be parted from Faramir. I think that's about it, nearly all gap-fillers one could wish for will be resolved later in the story ;)

I only wish for your enjoyment! I will be posting updates every two weeks.

Cheers! I promise to never leave another author's note again.