Hiya! This is the AU of Tell Me How (available in Drabbles), which I mentioned. Let's just say . . . Eomer and Lothiriel get off on the wrong foot. It's too long for a drabble but maybe too short for a real honest-to-goodness story, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. Cheers!

3017 TA

Éomer's hope was dashed the moment he met Denethor's eyes.

The Steward was perched on his black marble seat like a carrion crow, draped in black furs with the shimmer of chainmail visible at his throat. He was, at best, an unpleasant man; his voice was cold, and his eyes unwelcoming. Though he allowed Éomer to speak freely, Éomer knew Denethor had already made his decision. There would be no help from Gondor.

Still he tried. Having practiced this speech for weeks—ever since the idea of appealing to the Steward had come to him—Éomer spoke his plea with surety but without hope. Rohan was desperate, he explained. Orc raids were increasing exponentially. The wizard in Orthanc was harassing their borders. Dunlendings were on the move, harrying defenseless farms and towns.

Éomer was even prepared to answer any of Denethor's questions. But when he stopped to take a breath, the collar of his tunic feeling uncomfortably tight, the Steward raised a hand.

"I hear your concerns and your confidence," he said. "But I must stop you from wasting any more of your time, as I am sure you have duties to attend to in Rohan."

Éomer bristled at this remark; the hair on the back of his neck rose, and his fingers twitched into fists.

Denethor continued, "Unfortunately, I have no help to offer. You see, we are besieged on many fronts as well…"

"I am well aware," Éomer said, barely keeping himself from snapping. "We do not expect Gondor to save us. We ask only for a unified front; a strengthened alliance which would send a message to our shared enemies that we will not be so easily taken—"

The steward lifted his hand again, cutting off Éomer's words. "An alliance would bind us to save you," he said coldly. "Which we cannot do. I must refuse, young marshal."

The last glow of desperate hope in Éomer's heart burst. He inclined his head and turned on his heel; he would not waste time begging. Anger, white-hot fury was building in his chest, and he shouldered through the polished metal door at the far end of the receiving hall with his armored shoulders, the crashing bang bringing him some sick pleasure. He could only hope Denethor heard it.

Glancing down the east corridor, he saw that his men had left. They had assumed the audience would last longer. Well, they were all fools then, for thinking they could trust Gondor…

Éomer turned towards the west corridor, where his chamber was located, and stopped in his tracks. A tall young woman stood by the door to the hall, likely having just been missed by it in his violent wrath. She was dressed in a dark frock, which a silver circlet set in her black curls and a silk headrail hanging from it and down her back. Everything about her bespoke mourning. Some unknown emotion flickered in the depths of her icy blue eyes, and was swiftly quashed. Her gaze turned cool, and Éomer's shoulders stiffened at her scrutiny.

"I see your meeting with my uncle is over," she said, her elegant eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

He was horrified. "Your uncle?" That snake had loyal family? It did not bear imagining. To think that this lady—attractive as he admitted finding her—was at the bosom of such a hateful man…

"Yes, my uncle. And am I to assume he has rejected your offer?"

Éomer scowled; any guilt at behaving so rudely towards a lady was overwhelmed by his anger. "That is none of your concern," he shot. "Does your uncle know you have a habit of listening at doors for gossip?"

The woman lifted her chin, fearlessly meeting his challenge and his gaze. "I do not have to eavesdrop to know the outcome," she said coldly. "Your manner betrays that well enough."

"My manner and my offer are none of your business either, now that I think on it," Éomer said, and tapped the side of his head with a great deal of derision.

"That sounds just the thing a Northman would say," the woman snapped, all pretense of control gone. Her fists were clenched at her side, and there was a sneer pulling at her lips. "It is no wonder Denethor rejected you; you are nothing but a crude fool, sir."

At another time, another place—anytime but following such a disastrous interview; anywhere but gloomy Minas Tirith—Éomer may have softened his temper. But to be so rudely criticized by a woman whom he did not know, nor had any wish to, was beyond enough. The fire now surging through his veins had nothing to do with the bright flush in her cheeks and everything to do with her spite, he swore to himself.

"Better a crude fool than a well-dressed snake," he spat. "Do you harass everyone who has an audience with Denethor? Do you wait outside and strike at the weak? Or is it only the Northmen?"

"Only those who deserve it." She tossed her hair over her shoulder in vexation, revealing a tantalizingly creamy neck. Éomer clenched his jaw. "If you truly thought that Denethor was your ally—" The lady stopped, and snapped her mouth shut. A brief hesitation dimmed the light in her eyes.

Éomer saw a chance and took it with terrible glee. "Your uncle must be proud of you," he drawled. "You are just like him."

The pink flush in her cheeks turned ruddy, and he nearly faltered as he thought fiery sparks might fly from her eyes. But he must have imagined it, for she recovered with icy control; her face, now drained of color, was very pale. She flexed her fingers, forcing them to relax as she clasped them in front of her.

"Let me pass," she said in a horribly soft voice.

"Oh! Are you to see your uncle? Of course, my lady, of course…" Éomer made a grandiose, mocking bow, regarding her sardonically as he moved to allow her access to the door. She did not look at him again as she swept by; a flowery scent shifted the air by him, and his mind muddled for a half-second. Then she was through the door, slamming it so hard behind her that it sprung back open.

Éomer was not happy. Now that the woman was gone, he wondered at himself: why had he felt compelled to such rudeness? She had hardly deserved it...he had started it; at least he thought he did...he could barely think straight anymore.

Before turning to leave, he stepped forward to the half-open door, peering into the massive chamber and towards the dais at the far end of the hall. The woman was sitting by her uncle's feet, her hand on his, which lay on the armrest. The flow of her spread gown and trail of her headdress made an uncommonly pretty picture… Éomer shook himself. She was speaking very fast and quietly; he could not make out the words.

But he could guess.

Éomer let out a noise of disgust and stomped away, unable to bear the sight at all.