3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
Lothíriel's morning had been perfectly unremarkable. She was just departing from Merethrond after an audience with Faramir and happily anticipating luncheon with her father when, without warning, a hand grasped her arm and brought her stumbling around a corner, her back pressed against the wall.
She blinked up in surprise to see a rather tall man staring down at her with a wild look in his eyes. He was vaguely familiar—they had probably been introduced in the last few days. She was certain she had met every single lord and captain in both Gondor and Rohan since the war ended, and she was equally sure she could not recall a single name, even under pain of duress.
"Yes?" she asked politely.
"You are Lothíriel," he said without preamble, and they were close enough that his deep voice seemed to thrum through her being.
"Indeed, I am." She waited a moment for a response—perhaps even his name, but he was distracted, glancing down the corridor as if looking for someone.
"Daughter of Imrahil," he said, turning back to her.
"Yes, that too," Lothíriel chirped. "And who are you, if I may ask?"
"Éomer of Rohan."
Ah. That would explain why he had the gall to handle her so. His hand still gripped her arm, and gently she lifted a hand to pry his clenched fingers away. His eyes were flitting back and forth, and she was reminded of prey when cornered by a predator.
"Your brothers speak highly of you," he said, boring his eyes into hers again. "You are as noble as any of them."
"How kind of them," she said dryly. "I ought to have guessed they used their own virtues as a standard of morality."
He ignored her witticism. "Would you help a man in desperate need?" Éomer was looming over her—it was almost difficult to think. No other man combined so well height and breadth to fluster her in such a way, or even had the bearing of this king. He was very flustering!
"Perhaps," she said, "If it did not compromise my principles."
He frowned, and Lothíriel huffed in frustration. Did he suppose she had none?
"I am not going to kill anyone, even if you are in such 'desperate need'," she explained. "Really, I will help if I can, but it must be within reason."
"Oh—I require no such thing, I assure you. 'Tis a mere trifle."
"Then tell me your need."
Éomer was glancing down the corridor once more, and as her curious eyes followed his, she heard footsteps approaching, and the lilting voices of females.
"It would be best if I show you," he said, and before she could speak he grasped her face in his large hands, tilting it upwards before kissing her fiercely.
Lothíriel's sense fled. She had never before been kissed like this—his lips moved against hers with positive fervor as his beard rasped against her chin, and her body responded to him in the strangest way. Her hands were limp at her sides, and her knees numb. Hot flutters started in her belly, which she had never felt before, and before she realized what she was doing, she had leaned into him, returning the kiss as best she could.
"Why—I never!" came a voice echoing down the corridor.
They broke apart, staring at each other. If Lothíriel had any shred of wit left, she wagered that Éomer was just as startled as she. The glance he gave her was curious, even baffled. His hunted look was gone, and his eyes were—well, they were a lovely shade of green, firstly, and perhaps a little heated.
"King Éomer, you are a cad!"
They turned as one, Éomer's hands drifting down to her shoulders as if to protect her, and Lothíriel saw the steel-haired Lady Amdriel with her insipid daughter on her arm, both shocked and the lady angry.
"A cad, madam?" he asked smoothly. "I am sure I do not know what you mean."
A cad? Had Éomer been flirting with Amdriel's daughter, then? And wanted Lothíriel to present a competition? A reason to cry off serious intentions? She was sorely tempted to stamp on his feet, but she could not quite move her legs yet, as they remained numb from their rather excellent kiss.
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Lady Amdriel was saying, her voice booming down the corridor.
"I am sure I do not," Éomer responded, his resonating voice carrying easily down the corridor. "Unless you are referring to your idea that I wish to marry your daughter—I can hardly be blamed for your own imaginings."
Lothíriel decided to at least wait to hear his explanation until she stamped on his foot.
"My imaginings? Well! I never!" And with that repeated exclamation, Lady Amdriel turned on her heel and swished out of sight, dragging her daughter behind her.
Éomer visibly relaxed beside her, and Lothíriel might have laughed to hear his sigh of relief. It was not such a surprise, she supposed, that he wanted to deter Lady Amdriel—Amrothos had been shaking the woman for years. The lady, the gossips said, would stop at nothing to gain the highest title possible for her daughter. And she had seen enough proof of that to believe it.
"Thank you," Éomer said, turning his attention back to her with a beaming smile. It was an awfully heart-wrenching smile—Lothíriel, who was not usually so affected by men, felt her knees go weak again.
"You are welcome," she managed to say.
"I would have explained before they came, but the lady walks faster than a soldier with a full bladder," he told her sagely, and then a horrified look crossed his handsome face. "Béma! Oh—I am sorry, I did not mean to say such a thing—I forget what I ought and ought not to say to ladies—"
She could not help herself, bursting into trills of laughter at his expression. "You are too like my brothers," Lothíriel said, when she could speak again. "You may speak of bladders all you wish, my sensibilities are not so easily offended." Oh, there was that smile again. She flushed, too aware of how closely they were standing.
"Good," Éomer said, with a hopeful light in his eyes. "Do you think she will tell everyone she saw us kissing?"
"Oh, I do not doubt it."
"Excellent! Then I thank you again for your assistance—now you understand my desperate need. I should be quite safe from the overzealous ladies now."
Lothíriel blinked up at him, tilting her head to the side as she studied his face. It was a nice face to study, but she forced herself away from her imagination to ask, "Do you truly think that you kissing one woman once will keep the others at bay? Once they observe that our relationship, or whatever they suppose, is not continuing—they will pounce on you once more."
Éomer groaned aloud, running his hands through his golden hair and mussing it entirely. "Oh, Béma…"
"Indeed. And anyway, I would that you not leave my reputation in tatters. I am happy to help someone in need, but I must remind you of my principles. I do not go about kissing strange men, and I would rather not give the impression of it."
"I am sorry," he said, and his expression was sheepish. "I did not think—"
But she interrupted. "You were desperate. I understand."
Standing somewhat apart, Lothíriel tried to gauge the measure of this man. What would he do? His eyes were upon her, equally wondering as he gazed at her face. Her father and brothers spoke highly of the king of Rohan; though her personal dealings with him were limited to the last ten minutes, she was confident enough in her father's judgement to know she could trust him.
"You have been too kind already to allow my infringing upon your compassion," Éomer said at last. "But I have no other ideas for escape—I have scarce had a peaceful moment in this city! Might you have the goodness to continue helping me?"
"I might be persuaded," Lothíriel said, smiling.
"I promise I expect nothing of you beyond this facade. When I leave for Rohan, you needn't think of me again!"
She hesitated a scarce moment. "And you will not compromise me in any way."
"No! Of course not."
Though after that kiss, Lothíriel thought she might like to be compromised by this man… She shook this intrusive thought from her mind, lifting her chin. "Very well," she said. "I will pretend to be your—your devoted paramour, or however you want to call it."
Éomer laughed. "Devoted paramour! I like that. And I will be your...starry-eyed suitor."
"Oh! I have always wanted one of those!" she declared, joining him in laughter. After a moment they quieted, and their eyes met once more. Lothíriel felt sudden tingles crawl up her arms and shoulders. "Will you join my father and me for luncheon?" she asked abruptly.
He blinked at her, apparently taken aback by her notion. "If it is not intruding, I should like to! I have not seen Imrahil of late. But you need not tolerate my presence any more than you wish."
"Father will be delighted. He is always speaking of your many fine qualities—I daresay I could grow quite sick of you," she teased with a smile.
"I hope, for my sake, that you do not!" Éomer said, and with dancing eyes he took her arm through his, and they began to meander down the corridor. Lothíriel was not sure if walking beside him affected her more or less than standing. She was aware when her skirt swished past his solid legs, and it flustered her all the more. Would she be able to keep her wits about, enough to present a convincing appearance with him? Well—if her fear was being too attracted to him, that should hardly be a problem for their deception.
Together they strode through the great oaken doors, pausing on the steps to feel the warmth of the bright sun. Though the remains of the battle on the Pelennor Fields were visible far below, no sense of dread or fear had taken hold of the city for quite some time, and Lothíriel felt keenly the strength of the man beside her. She glanced up at him, and was surprised to see that he was already watching her, a smile on his face.
"I did not realize I had chosen the prettiest lady in the city to be my accomplice," he said. "Fortune has smiled on me today!"
"Oh! You can save your flirting for when others are around!" Lothíriel laughed. "You need not convince me."
"Nay, I am only speaking the truth. There is—"
He was interrupted by the sound of giggling, and as one they turned to see a positive gaggle of young ladies, fans fluttering at their faces as they caught sight of Éomer on the steps ahead of them.
"Oh, for Béma's sake," he groaned, though quietly. "Lothíriel—"
"Oh, just kiss me," she said cheerily, running her hand along his arm, as if to be possessive. "You did not ask the first time—why bother now? It will be most effective, I am sure."
Éomer laughed, and without pause she was drawn into his arms this time, and his nose nuzzled against hers.
"My," she managed to say over the pleasant turning of her stomach, "You really are going to play this convincingly, aren't you?"
"As best I can," he murmured, and his lips descended on hers.
Lothíriel did not know nor even care how the ladies were reacting to this show of passion; all her senses were given to the man holding her, gently teasing her lips and causing absolute coils of heat to spread once more throughout her limbs. Her arms wound about his neck, and she could feel the length of his body pressed to hers. It was not awkward, as she might have expected—but very, very pleasant.
How could she have gone through nineteen years of life without feeling this wondrous heat?
There was a pattering of slippered feet on the steps, the distant sound of a choked back whimper, and a wave of perfume. Then the noise faded away as they were left alone, but neither of them appeared to wish to break the kiss. Lothíriel certainly did not. She could live the remainder of her life in such a marvelous pursuit and be content.
To her utter disappointment, Éomer did eventually release her. His eyes were shining brightly, and he smiled down at her as he slowly ran his hands down her arms before picking up her hands.
"You have saved me again, miting," he said softly. "I cannot help but quail at the strength of your spirit to endure such punishment for my sake!"
"It is hardly punishment!" Lothíriel said with a shaky laugh. "And you had best find another name for me than 'miting'; I can be sensitive about my height! Or lack of it, I should say."
Éomer laughed, and taking her arm through his, they continued their course down the steps. "You are hardly short," he assured her. "Taller than most of the women of Rohan, to be sure."
"Well! I wonder how you came to be, I confess."
He glanced at her with a grin. "I have asked that very question myself! When I was a lad I thought that I had been cursed, for when I was merely thirteen years of age I was taller than most grown men."
"Oh, goodness!" she exclaimed.
"I have come to terms with it," he said wisely. "And I now blame my Dúnedan grandmother. Height has a great many advantages, and now that I keep the company of Aragorn, Faramir, and your own menfolk, I do not feel such an oddity!"
"You are hardly an oddity," Lothíriel said with a wry smile. "From my perspective, that is—I have had cricks in my neck due to abnormally tall men all my life!"
"I am sorry for your neck!" Éomer laughed. "I had not thought this would be such a painful experience for you."
"Perhaps you ought to crouch," she said cheerily.
"'Twould be fairer to you!"
The white-stone street from Merethrond which led to the Sixth Circle was relatively deserted; most of the nobility were at their business, with the new king or their own lords. There were not many merchants, either—likely they had guessed the lack of customers and were selling elsewhere. Imrahil's house loomed ahead of them, and trying to control the flush in her face, Lothíriel rapped smartly on the iron bars of the gate, and a guard rushed over to open it for them. She was informed that her father was already waiting for her in the small dining chamber, and they hastened forward.
Luncheon was already on the table, but Imrahil had not touched it—he lounged in his chair, a bound book in front of his face. The book was lowered as they entered, and one of his brows quirked upwards.
"I am sorry for the delay," Lothíriel said breathlessly. "I met Éomer, and he—er—" She did not know what to say. Would they even tell Imrahil of their deception?
"It is my fault," Éomer cut in. "Do not blame Lothíriel."
"I was not going to blame her," Imrahil's voice was nothing short of tranquil. "I was going to thank her. Lady Amdriel stopped by not five minutes ago wanted to see Lothíriel, and I was unfortunately forced to send her away disappointed. Nothing quite upsets my appetite like gossip."
Éomer and Lothíriel exchanged an amused look as he led her to her chair, and she sat at her father's left hand. A servant hastened forward to set a place for Éomer on Imrahil's opposite side. Her father folded the page in his book, passing it to the servant to take away.
"So," he said. "To what do I owe the surprise of your company, Éomer?"
Éomer's eyes flitted to her, and Lothíriel spoke up. "It is quite funny that you mentioned Lady Amdriel, Father. Éomer has been suffering at her hands—er, her ambitions, really. That is how we met."
"Oh?"
Another glance between them, and she busied herself with the asparagus to keep her cheeks from pinking. "Lothíriel has agreed to assist me in the matter," Éomer said at last.
"That is generous of you, Lothíriel," Imrahil said, cutting into a slice of cold chicken. "And to what end? I believe that Amrothos once jumped over a wall to avoid her—and landed in a heap of manure. Nothing so drastic, I hope. It is a terrible inconvenience for the laundresses."
Lothíriel pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Éomer was grinning, and he said, "If you do not object, Imrahil—your daughter has agreed to allow me to pretend to be in love with her, to divert the attentions of Lady Amdriel and the other ladies of the court. They have become quite a nuisance, popping out wherever I go!"
Imrahil paused, turning from Éomer to Lothíriel, a single brow raised. "Is that so?" he asked mildly.
"Yes," she said, trying not to blush. Her father's sentiments were nigh on impossible to judge, and so Lothíriel smiled winningly. "I saw firsthand today how Éomer is suffering. I would be pleased to free him from his—er—admirers."
At her words, Éomer nearly choked on his wine mid-sip, and after setting his goblet back on the table, he gave her a wink. Imrahil turned back to him, but Éomer was perfectly composed, offering the same sort of reassuring smile as Lothíriel had.
"Good heavens," Imrahil grumbled. "I have all but forgotten what it is to be young. Lady Amdriel is a nuisance at best, to be sure, but to require such a diversion?"
"She tracked my steps all morning," Éomer said. "It was only after she saw Lothíriel by my side that she at last ceased—is that not so, miting?"
"'Tis true," Lothíriel said stiffly. She glared past her father at Éomer, who only smiled innocently. Oh, how she wished to be taller at that moment! She could reach her foot under the table and give the king a good, solid kick for his teasing. Imrahil fortunately missed this tense moment, being busy with his meal.
"Well," he said slowly, glancing up. "I suppose—as long as you keep a standard of decorum, there is no reason why Éomer should not be relieved of his, er, troubles."
Decorum! Lothíriel decided that word could be interpreted as they needed, and if they were careful Imrahil would not hear of any misbehavior. Her father detested gossip, and even Lady Amdriel's tittle-tattle would not reach them. She would warn her brothers, for they were not so isolated, but they would understand Éomer's need, to be sure…
Her eyes lifted from her meal, and she saw that Éomer was watching her. Another wink, and she quickly looked back down, hiding a smile.
The remainder of luncheon passed by more quickly than Lothíriel wished; Éomer was excellent company, even with her father there, too, and there was much laughter between the three of them. She could not help the knot of disappointment when, long after the sweet course had been concluded, that Éomer regretfully declared that he must return to Merethrond.
"Though the business there is far less enjoyable," he said, his eyes on Lothíriel.
Imrahil did not appear to notice this, but once Éomer had taken his leave of them in the courtyard (with a chaste kiss on Lothíriel's hand), he said wryly to his daughter,
"For a man that seems so reluctant to have the acquaintance of women, he certainly seems to like you."
"Nonsense," she said lightly, tearing her eyes away from Éomer's back as he disappeared through the gate. Her hand was burning where Éomer had kissed it, and she clasped her hands together as she smiled up at her father. "I am sure I am a necessary sacrifice to him, that is all."
"Hmm." And Imrahil said no more upon the subject.