1 May 3019 T.A., Merethrond
"Éomer, you must smile! One might think you are staring down a horde of orcs."
Drawn from his gloomy reverie, Éomer glanced downward, forcing a smile for his sister. Éowyn had placed a hand on his arm, her eyes alight with the reflections from the candles in the massive hall and her own happiness. He could see Faramir standing somewhat behind them, obviously uncomfortable approaching in this personal moment.
"They are only ladies, Éomer," Éowyn continued with an ironic tilt of her brows. "Certainly no orc-pack."
"But just as frightening," he said, patting her hand. "It hardly matters, anyway. This will be your world, Éowyn, not mine."
She flushed then, and he wondered why. Of course—he was not supposed to know of Éowyn and Faramir. Faramir had not spoken to him about it yet, after all. Éomer could have laughed at that—the man was simply too formal sometimes! But it was the way of the Gondorian court. A blind man could have seen the affection between the new steward and Éowyn, and Éomer's sight was better than most.
"Anyway," he hastened to cover his blunder, "This great hall has little to do with me, sweoster. Do not let my brooding damper your enjoyment."
Éowyn's brows pinched together. "This great hall has very much to do with you! You are the superior of everyone. Apart from Elessar," she added as an afterthought.
"I would rather be riding with my éored," Éomer said dryly. "Or mucking out stalls or even keeping accounts—I do not like this sort of fanciness, Éowyn. Not at all."
"Then you ought to meet a lady. A woman would change your opinion, I am certain!"
Éomer wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. That particular response would only cause her to redouble her efforts against him. "Éowyn, I have no intentions of attaching myself to any lady here. I may be out of place, but I understand the ways of the court perfectly."
"There is nothing wrong with Gondorian ladies! How can you be so dismissive, and for whatever cause? I have yet to see any hunchbacks or pug-noses—"
He laughed. "I should hope you think better of me than to dismiss pug-noses out of hand! I am not so shallow."
Éowyn pursed her lips. "Shallow enough not to give these women a chance. Éomer, please! You are not required to wed any lady you speak to!"
"Very comforting."
His sister tilted her head slightly to the side, studying his face. Oh, Béma. Éomer knew that look. She was thinking—an extraordinarily dangerous pastime. "I cannot fathom your negativity," Éowyn said softly.
"Can you not?"
"Oh, Éomer. Surely you are not still thinking of Aema!"
He looked away, hiding a frown as he stared out at the colorful dancers who whirled about Merethrond, their laughter sounding far away. Éowyn might have a causal perspective towards the woman he should have married, but he could feel the same. It was his pride that was still bruised, not hers.
"Éomer!" Éowyn said sharply, and he turned back to her in surprise. "It was years ago; the last I heard, she was wed and had two babes bouncing on her knee! You must let her go." This information was likely meant to shock Éomer, but he was already fully aware of Aema's circumstances. So he merely lifted his brows at his sister, and she shut her mouth with a glower.
"You!" she muttered fiercely under her breath. "Éomer, you are an utter—"
But he was not listening; his attention was drawn almost against his will towards a tall, dark-haired woman striding towards them. She was smiling broadly as her scarlet skirt swept behind her, and before he could even wonder how he or Éowyn knew this lady and why she might be wishing to speak to them, she laughed and swept past them, and Faramir swooped her up into an embrace. Éowyn clenched her fingers on Éomer's arm, and he winced.
"Lothíriel!" Faramir said, and he was laughing too, setting the woman back on her feet as he kissed her on each cheek. "I did not expect to see you here tonight!" The happiness in the steward's visage was apparent. Éomer had never seen the lines clear from his face, and he looked years younger.
"We have only just arrived," the woman replied. "I could not wait! Faramir, I am so glad you are well! In Father's last letter, he said—"
But Faramir put his finger to the woman's lips. "That is over, cousin," he said gently. Éowyn's grip relaxed, to Éomer's relief. "Do not trouble yourself over the war any longer!"
The woman laughed again. "I have no intention to! But you must introduce me to your shieldmaiden! I wish to welcome her."
"Of course!"
And Éowyn stepped forward, dragging Éomer with her as the woman turned to face them. She first regarded Éowyn with a kindly smile as Faramir said, "Éowyn, my love, this is my cousin Lothíriel. She is the youngest child and only daughter of Prince Imrahil, whom you have already met."
Éowyn curtseyed low, but Lothíriel was quick to clasp her hands and pull her back upwards. "I am happy to meet you at last!" she said. "I have not seen Faramir so light-hearted in years. I thank you!"
"Faramir is responsible for my own happiness," Éowyn said, returning the lady's smile. "I thank you for sharing him."
Lothíriel laughed. It was a lovely, unabashed sound, and Éomer could not help himself from staring. This woman was far different than most of the Gondorian ladies he had met; she was not at all reserved, and the sincerity in her pleasure in meeting Éowyn made her glow. Her features were nothing spectacular—she was no Aema—but it was clear that this Lothíriel had a good heart. Or was he projecting Imrahil's goodness upon his daughter?
"And this is my brother," Éowyn said, casting Éomer a quick glance which he interpreted as, Do not dare mess this up, you dolt. "Éomer—er, King of the Riddermark." There was an awkward silence, and from the pang in his heart Éomer knew that Éowyn too was thinking of their uncle, who ought to be there celebrating. But he forced a smile nonetheless, and Lothíriel's eyes at last came to rest upon him.
There was a jolt in the region of his stomach. Éomer blinked stupidly. Her eyes were a warm grey, dancing with joy as she favored him with a lovely, beaming smile that quite transformed her face. Béma, he had been mistaken—she was beautiful! "My lord," she said, and made an elegant curtsey. "I am no less pleased to make your acquaintance. I have heard much of you from my brothers!"
"Only good, I hope," Éomer managed to say. Why was his throat dry? Could he suddenly not keep his wits around a woman?
"From Amrothos? I doubt that," Faramir interjected dryly. "Where are your brothers, Lothíriel? I should like to speak to them tonight."
"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea! They might have escaped, for all I know—Amrothos especially." The lady's color was high, and Éomer surreptitiously noticed strands of her dark hair escaping the knotted braids on her head. She was a perfect picture of liveliness. Her eyes flitted towards him again, as if she knew of his scrutiny, and he felt his ears burn red. But Lothíriel only smiled.
Éomer now noticed that Éowyn had released him, and taken Faramir's arm instead. He felt awkward standing alone, but it seemed he was the only uncomfortable one. Éowyn asked Lothíriel if all balls in Merethrond were this boisterous, and the lady laughed.
"Oh, no, this is a special occasion! Our more stringent customs have been quite thrown out the window since the war." As she spoke, a black-clad man had approached them, coming up behind Lothíriel. Without a word he placed his hands on her arms from behind, and leaned down to kiss her creamy shoulder.
"What tales are you telling the guests, Lottie?" he asked in a deep voice, his fingers reaching up to fiddle with her filigree earrings. Nausea rolled in Éomer's gut—of course. A noblewoman as beautiful and charming as she would have many admirers. Béma, didn't he just have the worst luck! This man was tall and dark-haired, slender as most Gondorian men were with an easy smile. His roving lips moved Lothíriel's cheek next, and she began to giggle.
"I never tell tales!" Lothíriel declared. She wove her arm through the man's, and if she was embarrassed at his show of rather shocking affection, she did not show it, instead prodding the man in the ribs with a slender finger. "But if you continue to creep up on me in such a way, I may start telling tales of you."
Faramir spoke next, drawing all eyes to him. "Lord Brenion! We were not expecting you until next week. Was your journey smooth?"
"Very smooth," the lord said, and with a grin he clasped the steward's proffered arm with his free one. "If I had known you were not expecting me yet, we might have lingered on our wedding journey a bit longer."
Éomer saw Faramir's brows shoot upwards.
"Did my father not tell you that we wed?" Lothíriel asked, blinking at her cousin in surprise. "He was there—it is no secret. Although Father was not entirely pleased at the haste, I suppose." Her husband chuckled at this, and smiling up at him she continued, "But waiting through two years of war to marry was difficult enough! Father agreed that there was no use in delaying any longer, and we married the day Brenion returned from the Black Gate." After a moment of stunned silence, Faramir began to chortle.
"I wish you both well, and congratulations!" the steward said. "Imrahil must have thought it would make a jolly surprise." At this the lady and her lord husband laughed. Éowyn joined in—the traitor—and Éomer forced a smile. He was all too aware of this Lothíriel, though he should not have been. Her devotion to Lord Brenion was clear as day. She was leaning slightly into him, as if to draw comfort from his very presence.
Yes, indeed; Éomer had the worst luck. The first woman he had seen in quite some time that he was attracted to, and she was already wed. As the daughter of Imrahil, Lothíriel would have been an excellent match.
"May I ask what you are the lord of?" Éowyn said curiously, once the laughing had quieted.
"Pelargir," Brenion said, holding Lothíriel's hand tightly as a light sparked in his eyes. "A glorious marble city that rests where the river Sirith meets the famed Anduin, famous for its trade and silk and—"
"And do not get him started, I beg of you!" Lothíriel interrupted with a laugh. "Brenion could speak of Pelargir for days and not tire!" Her husband gave her then a long-suffering look, though his lips were twitching.
Of course they were happy, Éomer thought uncharitably.
"Éowyn, a new dance is beginning. Shall we?" Faramir had leaned down to speak softly into Éowyn's ear, though Éomer could still hear. Lord Brenion, too, was whispering to Lothíriel, who smiled and flushed.
"I am glad to have met you, Lady Éowyn," Lothíriel said, breaking the spell. "I hope we may know each other better soon!"
"Naturally!" His sister obviously liked the lady already.
"And it was a pleasure, Éomer King." Lothíriel turned to him, and that beautiful, knowing smile was on her face again. Éomer only inclined his head, unable to speak without betraying himself. Then she was drawn away by her husband towards the dancing, and Faramir and Éowyn followed suit.
And Éomer was left alone again, feeling distinctly worse for it.
