"Éomer became a great king, and being young when he succeeded Théoden he reigned for sixty-five years, longer than all their kings before him save Aldor the Old. In the War of the Ring he made the friendship of King Elessar, and of Imrahil of Dol Amroth; and he rode often to Gondor. In the last year of the Third Age he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Their son Elfwine the Fair ruled after him."
J. R. R. Tolkien – The Lord of the Rings; Appendix A
Éomer son of Éomund, Lord of the Riddermark, clasped the saddle bag that contained the few belongings he would need on his journey from Ithilien to Minas Tirith and took a deep breath. He leaned against the delicately carved archway that led to his sister's orchard – of course, everything was delicately carved in Ithilien, as he had noticed with equal parts of disdain and wonder when arriving at Emyn Arnen where Éowyn lived with her husband and new-born son. For Éomer's taste Gondorian homes were too decorated, almost ostentatious, and they gave him the constant feeling of being a mûmak in a room full of glassware. He preferred the practical way of life that he was used to from Edoras; solid walls to keep out enemies, large fireplaces to keep out the cold, and a decent cup of mead in the evening to keep out the memories of blood and destruction that still crept into his mind from time to time when he was alone and unoccupied.
Granted, the latter happened quite rarely since he had taken his late uncle's place on the throne of Meduseld. He did his best to provide for his people, but two years were not a long time for a realm to recover from a war that had taken as many lives and goods as the war against Sauron had. The people of the Mark still struggled for their daily survival, although they got by quite well under the given circumstances. Éomer trusted in their tenacity; the Eorlingas and their land had endured worse and they would endure this. He still doubted if it had been the right decision to decline King Elessar's offer to send some crop and other relief supplies to the Mark before the winter, but he knew that his people would rather eke out a living on their own than accept Gondor's charity. They might be poor but they were still as proud and upright as the old songs described them, and he did not wish to trade places with any lord of Gondor.
He let his eyes wander along the elaborate carving of the archway once more before an almost inaudible snort escaped him. He looked at his sister who was busy weeding the herb patch in the garden. She had acquired some skills in the art of healing – who would have thought it – and took great pride in her home-grown herb supply. While pulling out the unwanted plants she hummed a lullaby to her son who was sleeping in a basket in the grass next to her. It was a peaceful sight and Éomer smiled to himself.
Éowyn at least had not changed: Still as dedicated and joyful in everything she did, she was a reassuring constant in Éomer's otherwise so uncertain life, even though she was not by his side anymore. He missed her presence in Edoras, most of all her contagious laughter that had warmed the halls of Meduseld, but of course it had only been natural for her to start a life of her own. She seemed content, which was the only thing that mattered. Faramir was a decent man and the two of them appeared to be genuinely happy in Ithilien. One less thing to worry about at his departure.
He cleared his throat. Éowyn became aware of his presence and addressed him in a hushed voice, "Good morning, brother! Is it time?"
"Yes, I came to take my leave of you," he answered. "Faramir is waiting." Éowyn sighed and nodded. She rose and picked up the basket with the sleeping child.
Together they walked to the stable where the king's escort as well as Faramir and his men were readying their horses. Éomer found his mount patiently waiting for him. He petted the large dapple-grey's neck and was rewarded with an affectionate snort. Éowyn caressed the horse's mane and said in a sincere tone, "Firefoot, my old friend, promise me to take good care of your master."
Éomer breathed deeply. "Well, dear sister, I'm glad I finally saw your new home and met little Elboron," he stated, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. "It's a great relief to see with my own eyes that you're happy here."
His smile must have looked very forced because Éowyn frowned and took his hand. "You don't need to worry about me," she assured him. After a short pause she added, "I miss you too, that's for certain, and I don't like the idea of you being all alone in Meduseld. But who knows, maybe things will change after your visit to Minas Tirith." On saying that, a cheeky grin appeared on her face.
Éomer could only just stop himself from rolling his eyes. He had hoped she would already leave him alone with her latest stroke of genius: setting him up with Faramir's youngest cousin. She had hardly talked about anything else than the oh-so-charming young lady of Dol Amroth during the entire two weeks of his stay and he feared he would go insane if he heard the name Lothíriel one more time. Granted, the girl in question was the daughter of his dear friend, Prince Imrahil, and Éowyn seemed to be very fond of her, but a pampered Gondorian damsel was the very last thing Éomer needed. He refrained from a comment and started grooming his horse while Éowyn kept smirking at him.
Éomer stayed calm for quite a while – after all, he had had a lifetime of practice in ignoring his sister's teasing – but eventually he could not bear her impertinent smirk any longer. "For the last time, Éowyn," he snapped, causing his horse to wince and little Elboron to stir in his basket, "what would I do with some eighteen-year-old princess who speaks five languages, writes poetry and plays the harp but can't tell a horse from a cow, let alone lead a people of farmers and herders? She would faint at the mere sight of Edoras, or freeze to death the first day of winter!"
Éowyn shot him a glare while trying to soothe her son back to sleep. When the child had stopped complaining, she turned back to her brother and whispered, "Lothíriel is twenty-two and very much able to distinguish horses from cows. In fact, her love for horses and life in the country was what first gave me the idea of introducing the two of you. She may be a sweet-tempered, refined young lady at first sight, but under all the layers of silk and poise she is almost as stubborn as you and she possesses a very… straightforward sense of humour. You will like her, I promise. Besides, she has led Imrahil's household ever since her mother fell ill, so she could undoubtedly manage Meduseld."
In the meantime Faramir had come over to them with his horse and suppressed a grin on noticing that the all too familiar subject was up once more. Éomer grumbled into his beard, put the saddle on his horse's back and fastened it. "That sounds very tempting indeed, but the last time I looked, Meduseld managed itself quite well without her," he gave back.
His sister's face reflected utter frustration at such ignorance. "You can't stay alone forever," she declared, still whispering for the child's sake, which made her agitation even more amusing to watch. "Eventually the Riddermark will need a queen – and as you seem unwilling to look for one yourself, I'm offering my assistance because I feel responsible for my homeland's future as well. Lothíriel is worth considering, isn't she, Faramir?"
She glanced at her husband suggestively, but he only shrugged and replied in his best diplomat's voice that he normally reserved for political negotiations, "I am hardly a fair judge of my own cousin's virtues." As Éomer was well aware, this was his brother-in-law's way of saying, 'She is the most magnificent creature you will ever lay eyes on and unless you treat her with the appreciation she deserves, the wrath of our entire kin will haunt you till your grave.'
He sighed and shook his head in resignation. "Fine, I will meet her and see for myself. I can't avoid her anyway, given that Imrahil and his family will be staying at the Citadel as well."
He attached the saddle bag and adjusted the stirrups, and when he considered his horse prepared for the journey, he decided to face the most dreaded moment of the day. "Farewell, little sister," he murmured and pulled Éowyn in a tight embrace. "You know you're always welcome to visit your old home."
"I know, and I hope to see you there next spring," she answered in a suspiciously coarse voice. "Greet dear old Mildgyd and Master Oswine on my behalf. Have a safe journey – and may the winter treat our people kindly."
The king mounted his horse and signalled his soldiers to get ready. Faramir kissed his wife and child goodbye, Éomer waved a last time and at last the company set out towards Minas Tirith.