Author's Note:

Hello!

This chapter is pretty simple. I get that and I want it that way.

I got this idea from one line in the 300, said oddly enough, by David Wenham.

If you are a real hard core Tolkien cannon-ite, maybe this won't be for you,(it's by no means an AU as it happens post War of the Ring) but Tolkien leaves so much to imagination it's great to just let your mind wander on what could have happened and ask what if! It's great we know so much about some characters and know so little about others. All we know about Lothiriel is her date of birth and who her father and brothers are. We know nothing about her mother, where she was from, how Imrahil met his wife, or what happened to her. We don't know when and were Eomer and Lothiriel meet, why they marry, when elfwine is born, or, well... you'll see.

So this is my take on a Eomer/Lothiriel story, so let's let our imagination run wild!

My goal here is to tell a story about how two people fell in love. My other goal is to present characters as real people. Eomer is a 29 yr old man. He should act like it. He's not prince charming like I see in so many other stories. He is a can be a jerk and an ass, and I will not apologize for writing him that way, and that is what makes this story stand out from all the others. He is a man and a barbarian and, I think, realistic to the times. If you're going to start reading this and think he will be some 15 yr old girls idealogical perception of what men are like, stop reading now. You won't like this story and you'll not fall in love with hiim. He is no Edward fucking Cullen. We all know how this story ends, so i will say right now, Eomer is the hero that Loti needs. To me, when i write, they are real people with histories and hang ups who live in a real place were life is not easy.

Thanks ahead of time! Hope you are entertained.

First Year of the Fourth Age

Summer

Near Pelagir

"You were my enemy. I was supposed to hate you."

Those were the last words she spoke to him.

She slept now on their camp bed in a miserable wind blown tent, far from any real home she has ever known. She slept in that awful bed, so unfit for her sublime presence…So unfit for a Queen of Rohan…

EomerKing sat on the edge of the bed, clasping her limp hand with both of his. He did not feel like a king, only an ordinary man tortured by leaving his wife with out saying goodbye.

He must leave to fetch their son from his sister's house. If he didn't leave now, he never would…

She would leave later this morning, stopping first in Minas Tirith for a few days, before awaiting his arrival. When he met her again they would return home to Edoras.

At least she would not be alone. Her father and brothers would make the long journey back. They had insisted. It would allow them the precious time they needed to get reacquainted.

He brought her smooth, pale hand to his lips, and pressed them together for a long moment, his eyes closed, dreading the ride he must make with out her by his side.

And remembering the day they met…

Reluctantly, he replaced her hand and quietly stood; he knew she would not wake. He lingered defiantly, gazing down at the only person he had ever loved more than himself. Her love touched him in a place men never talked about. She had captured his soul and wrapped herself in it, loving him for everything he was not. It was she who had done the saving that day in the woods near the border. It was she who rescued him from a world of war, hate, anger and a life time of loss. She had become the light to his darkness; the silvery stars in his midnight sky.

Only now did he realize how frail she really was, yet she had more courage than a legion of men, more strength than the entire army of the Riddermark.

He could not say the same about himself.

He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging.

Never once did she lament the life she was born into.

She would hate him if she knew he felt sorry for himself. She would hate him if she knew he both pitied and envied her.

Her light brown hair flowed around her like a glowing halo, an aura illuminating her flawless elegance. He fondled the long tresses between his fingers as he would do when they lay in bed. He shut his eyes and conjured the image of her brown locks cascading over her sun kissed bare shoulders and back, concealing the firm perkiness of her chest, and grazing like silk against his chest when they made love.

He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, her creamy complexion begging to be kissed. She felt cold against the warmth of his skin and he pulled the blanket higher in a futile attempt to keep her warm. She hated being both alone and cold in bed. She would cling to him in the night until he took her into his arms. Then she would wriggle against him, and fall asleep on his shoulder, her veiled nakedness so close to his own.

There were so many promises he made to her in those cold nights that winter when she shared his bed. He said he would take her back to the Mark forever. She could leave her unspoken past and find blissful peace in his homeland.

He would keep his promise.

This time she would enter Rohan as his wife, no longer the King's southern slut. She would return to the Golden Hall of Meduseld a Queen. She would find her desire for tranquility there; a pastoral serenity spent with her doting husband and baby for eternity. Today she would leave to find that heavenly peace with him and Elfwine, forever.

Elfwine… What a silly name for a future King of the Mark. She didn't want him to have a name from the south; a name born from his enemies. So she left it to his sister and her husband to name his son. He would have preferred his heir to be named after his father, but he had not been there at his son's birth. It was his deepest regret, and, therefore, he let her name him whatever she wished. Today, he was glad he granted her that one small favor. At the time he did not know it was the only child she would ever bear him.

Men stirred unobtrusively outside the tent, waiting for the King to finish his farewells. He pulled himself upright as a leader should, gathering his emotions, suppressing his guilt, with the knowledge he must leave now.

Now…

He leaned down and brushed her bangs from her forehead, kissing it as if it were the last thing he would ever do.

"Sweet dreams, my love," he soothed, though she could not hear his wishful words.

He stood again, vehemently fighting off the soreness in his throat and the heaviness in chest as he breathed ragged and quick. Decisively, he turned to exit, and wiped from his cheek the single hot tear he allowed himself to shed.

Hers would be the unforgiving dreams of the wickedly cursed…

The restless sleep of the eternally damned…