"Well met, my friend! Well met, indeed."
Eomer, King of Rohan, grinned and leaped lightly from the saddle to embrace Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. The man had been a stalwart companion throughout the campaign in Gondor and an immovable pillar of support as Eomer adjusted to the unexpected—and unwelcome—burden of kingship. He had known for some time, of course, that he would ascend to the throne one day, but the manner and timing of the actual event left much to be desired. Being King, even with all its dubious pleasures, was not worth the loss of his uncle.
"My lord King," Imrahil laughed, holding Eomer at arms length to better take in the sight of his friend clean and groomed and swathed in precious cloths. "Come in and take your rest. I will have refreshments provided for you and your men."
"I thank you on behalf of my men. But for myself, I would speak with you before all else," Eomer replied, his smile faltering slightly.
"I see." Imrahil gave a few rapid orders and turned, gesturing for Eomer to follow.
"I gathered from your letter that there was something on your mind," he continued once they had reached what Eomer assumed was his private study. "You must know that whatever you require will be yours if it is within my power to grant it. You need only ask."
"It warms my heart to hear you say so, my lord," Eomer said. "But I will not hold you to that until you have heard what I have to say."
Imrahil smiled. "Come, come, Eomer. It cannot be so very bad. What is it that you need? Supplies for the coming winter? I am well aware that your land has been ravaged by the war. There is no shame in seeking aid. We of Gondor owe you our very lives, my lad. Surely you can't think we would begrudge you a bit of grain."
"Thank you," Eomer said sincerely. "But I fear that is only the half of it."
"And the other?"
Eomer hesitated and fought the urge to look at the floor. "I have need of a wife."
"A wife!" Imrahil repeated, looking nonplussed. He quickly rallied. "Yes, I suppose you do. You need an heir and an alliance secured by marriage is beneficial to both realms, it's true. And, of course, my daughter is the highest ranking woman of marriageable age in Gondor."
Eomer remained silent, observing his friend keenly. Was he offended? In Rohan women were not traded like sacks of grain, which was essentially what this marriage he sought would amount to. Such dealings sat ill with him. Imrahil, however, was of Gondor.
"My daughter's dowry is likely the largest you will find on the whole of the continent; let us not forget that small detail," he added mildly, and smiled to show is clearly uncomfortable friend that he bore no ill will.
"So my advisers assure me," Eomer agreed a trifle sourly. "You seem to have grasped the essentials considerably more quickly than I did."
"I suspect it was not something you particularly wished to grasp, my noble-minded friend," Imrahil said with a smile, then grew serious. "I must think on this."
"My lord-" Eomer began stiffly.
"It is not that I think it an unsuitable match, lad," Imrahil assured him. "The King of Rohan—what's more, a man as near to my heart as my own sons—is certainly not unworthy of my daughter's hand. It's only...I worry for my daughter, Eomer. Rohan is very far away."
"You think I will not look after her?" Eomer asked, confused and indignant.
"No, no," Imrahil said, looking flustered for the first time since Eomer had met him so many months before. "It's not that, not at all. My daughter is...different."
"She's not simple?" Eomer asked bluntly. "At Cormallen your men sang her praises. The Star of the Sea, they called her. I certainly had no cause to believe-"
"No," Imrahil said again, more forcefully. "Lothiriel is quite intelligent. She is merely..."
"What?"
"You will soon see for yourself," Imrahil said cryptically. "We will speak of this again after you have met her. If you still wish to continue on this path, I will consult my daughter and learn her mind. You are both very dear to me, my boy. I would not have either of you pushed into a marriage you are not suited for."
"You are very kind, my lord," Eomer said, feeling slightly bewildered. "When may I make your daughter's acquaintance?"
"I truly wish that I could provide you with an answer, my friend," Imrahil sighed. "But alas, I have none. Come, let me show you to your rooms."
Eomer spent the remainder of the morning and much of the afternoon wandering around the palace of Dol Amroth to familiarize himself with his surroundings; or so he tried to tell himself. He knew he was actually hoping to run into his friend's elusive daughter. He had not seen hide nor hair of her all day; neither had she sent any word of welcome through a servant. In most households, such behavior from the lady of the house would be considered downright rude. When he finally threw all caution to the wind and asked a passing housemaid where he could find the princess, she merely smiled and shrugged. He received nothing more helpful; not from several men at arms, a stable hand, or, finally, her brother Amrothos.
"She'll turn up when it pleases her and not a moment sooner," Amrothos snorted, then amended, "No, that's not fair. If she were truly needed, she would come running. She always does."
"How would she know?" Eomer asked, intrigued.
Amrothos smiled and shrugged. "Erchirion and I are riding out; would you like to join us? We can go down to the water and ride along the beach."
After the slightest hesitation, Eomer agreed. As anxious as he was to settle this blasted marriage business, it did not seem likely that Lothiriel would appear anytime soon and he really was quite eager to see the ocean. Amrothos and Erchirion had described it at length during many a night's conversation in the field, but he had never truly grasped the immensity of it all. Seeing it for the first time as they rode through the mountain pass had left his entire eored completely speechless.
The reality was everything they had promised and more, and the young men returned to the castle in high spirits late in the afternoon. As they rode through the gates, Eomer noticed both his companions looking around the courtyard with worried eyes. It was subtle, but Eomer knew them both quite well from their shared experiences in the war. His own gaze swept the yard, looking for signs of danger.
"Murtagh...?" Erchirion called inquiringly to the stable master.
"Nay, my lord," the man replied, though no question had been asked—aloud.
"Erchirion-" Eomer began.
"Well, I'm off for a bath," Amrothos announced. "I must make myself beautiful for the feast tonight. I hear Lady Alya will be in attendance."
"That means Lady Alya's Aunt Maerwen will also be there," Erchirion warned him. "Not to mention her father and brothers."
"You'll just have to distract her with tales of your bravery and derring-do," Amrothos replied cheerfully.
"You want me to dance attendance on that dragon while you steal kisses from the prettiest girl in Dol Amroth?" Erchirion snorted. "Not a chance, brother."
Fully aware that the two were trying to distract him, Eomer sighed and pushed his curiosity aside once more. Declining the assistance of a groom, he took Firefoot to the stables himself and spent some time grooming and feeding the animal. Consequently, he was present to witness a scene of surpassing oddity in the courtyard some time later.
A waif dressed in ragged, faded skirts and a loose shirt entered the gates accompanied by an enormous dog that looked even more disheveled than its mistress. She rode bareback—and barefoot, he noticed— on a magnificent gray filly. His gray filly, in point of fact. At least, it was the gray filly he had given Prince Imrahil as a gift more than a year before. He fought down a surge of annoyance—was this how Imrahil valued his gift? But the gift had been given and there was no taking it back; Imrahil could do with it as he pleased. Eomer began to turn his back on the displeasing sight when he noticed a strange bustle surrounding the girl.
Eomer watched in complete bewilderment as the girl dismounted so lightly that she almost seemed to float to the ground. Laughing, she let the hound place its paws on her shoulders and ruffled the fur on its neck fondly before it loped off. Ignoring the several servants fluttering at her elbow, she returned Murtagh's bow with a dreamy sort of smile. She shook her head as the stable master held a hand out for her reins, which were little more than a length of twine. The filly wore no bridle, Eomer noticed, only a soft rope halter. As the girl turned, he caught sight of her eyes—wide, luminous gray eyes that seemed to shine eerily in the fading light. Her smile faded as those eyes met his and an oddly familiar sternness settled on her features. He frowned for a moment, then realized with a start that he was about to meet the Princess of Dol Amroth at last.
"Eomer King," she said softly as she approached him, her manner entirely at odds with her dirty feet and tangled hair. "I do apologize for my absence...I wished to gather my thoughts before speaking with you. Will you walk with me?"
"Certainly, my lady," he replied, only barely managing not to stutter. "Shall I await you in the garden?"
"Wait?" she asked, tilting her head quizzically to the side. "I need only settle Liadan for the night. With two pairs of hands it will take no time at all."
"As you say, my lady," Eomer agreed, bemused by this turn of events.
Eomer obediently helped the object of his—at least, his councilors'-desire brush down her horse and spread fresh bedding while the filly munched contentedly on a handful of oats. They worked in silence, although Eomer nearly spoke several times when it seemed that she was about to plant her royal foot in a pile of horse droppings. She avoided them easily, flitting about the stable with thoughtless grace born of experience.
"And now, my lord king, we shall talk," she finally said, brushing bits of straw from her skirts.
She turned and floated down the stable aisle, leaving Eomer to follow dazedly after her. He caught up with her quickly and adjusted his stride to match hers. After what seemed like an endless period of tense silence (for him—the princess seemed entirely unconcerned by it), he blurted out the first thing to enter his head.
"What is that in your hair?" he asked, gesturing to the tangle of seaweed wound about her head. Upon closer examination, he found it was studded with sea shells.
"It's my coronet," she replied with that same, dreamy smile. "A fitting crown for the Mermaid Queen, wouldn't you say? A fisherman's lad made it for me—Amonost. He's very gallant."
"Mermaid Queen?" Eomer asked, having nothing better to say.
"Mermaids are creatures of the sea. From the waist up they look like beautiful women, but below they have tails and fins like fish. They lure sailors from their ships with songs and promises of love," the princess informed him.
"And when they have these poor sailors in their grasp?"
"Some say they take sailors as husbands and live in the kingdom beneath the waves," Lothiriel said, looking at him with wide, guileless eyes. "Others say they drown their victims and eat them."
"Ah yes," Eomer replied lightly, trying to decide whether he was intrigued or unnerved by this...singular... specimen of Gondorian royalty. "I know the type; in the lakes and rivers of Rohan there lives a similar creature. However, the nokken preys on children and young women. Especially the pretty ones who wander off by themselves."
"A very good thing, then, that I have Beridhren to watch over me," Lothiriel returned, though she smiled at his gentle teasing.
"Beridhren is your hound?"
"My protector and my dearest friend," Lothiriel said with a nod. "He would never let any harm come to me. Father trained him personally."
"If any hound can protect a princess, I expect it would be one like him," Eomer acknowledged. "He is certainly impressive."
"Yes," she said simply, and fell silent once more.
"My lady," he began when the silence became unbearable.
"I know why you have come," she interrupted. She stopped and examined him closely while Eomer tried not to fidget under her disconcertingly direct gaze. "I can see for myself that you are strong and healthy; handsome, even. My father and brothers all hold you in the highest esteem, so I know you are a good man. Therefore I have only one question for you: are you in love?"
"With you?" Eomer asked blankly.
The princess shrugged, still holding him with her eyes. "With anyone."
"My lady, I-" Eomer stopped abruptly as his thought processes ground to a halt. What in seven hells was he supposed to say to such an outrageously inappropriate question?
"You seek my hand in marriage and all that comes with it, my lord," Lothiriel said, her eerie gray eyes fixed on his face. "I seek only honesty."
"No," Eomer said curtly, wondering if he had just ruined his only chance at feeding his people without having to resort to charity.
Lothiriel nodded solemnly, her face smooth and unreadable. "I will leave you now and go to my father. Make yourself ready, my lord king; I feel certain that he will wish to speak with you when I am through."
With a heavy heart and a distinctly uncomfortable sinking sensation in his stomach, Eomer returned to his rooms. Once there, he collapsed face-down on the bed and lay unmoving for several long minutes as he replayed the conversation in his head. The whole thing had taken perhaps a quarter of an hour, no more. Surely no other king in the history of the Riddermark and driven his country to ruin so quickly. True, he could still seek additional aid from Aragorn, but he did not relish the idea of spending the next ten years wallowing in debt. His friends could talk all they liked about repaying the Rohirrim for their contribution on the battlefield, but the fact remained that a debt of honor and a debt of grain were worlds apart.
A brisk knock on his door drew him out of his gloomy contemplation of the future. With a sigh, he sat up and called out, "Enter." A servant appeared and bowed smartly.
"Prince Imrahil desires a conference with you, my lord," the man said. "You may attend him in his study at your leisure."
"Thank you," Eomer said politely, though he would have liked nothing better than to throw something hard and breakable at the man's head.
He took his time dressing, unconsciously trying to put off the inevitable rejection of his suit. Perhaps it was for the best, he reasoned with himself. Perhaps Rohan would be better off with a queen born and bred in Rohan. Perhaps nothing, he snorted. Lothiriel was the best he could do for his country, and Rohan deserved the best. He would simply change her mind. His charms were not inconsiderable, after all, though rarely used and no doubt as rusty as an orc blade. Surely for the sake of his country he could manage it.
Eomer stood outside Imrahil's study and took a deep breath, feeling as if he were steeling himself for battle. He almost wished he were. In this instance, he would gladly face down a contingent of orcs rather than go through that door. In all his thirty years, how had no one ever found time to tell him that the most frightening ordeal a man had to face was not battle but matrimony? He felt cheated—betrayed-by his many older male acquaintances.
Long before he was ready, the door opened to reveal the one person he was hoping not to see at this particular moment. Lothiriel smiled her dreamy smile—a hair-raising sight, at this point—and stepped back to allow his entrance to the study. Her father sat at a small table set for three, looking troubled. Eomer bowed to both the prince and princess, trying to gather his thoughts.
"My lord..."
"None of that," Imrahil said, waving a hand carelessly. "Sit down, lad, and have a drink. You like you need it. You too, child. You're making Eomer nervous."
Lothiriel settled herself gracefully at Eomer's side. He noticed she had yet to bathe and change—in fact, he could smell the seaweed that still nestled in her hair. And yet somehow, she seemed the most regal personage in the room. Part of him shrank at the thought of attempting to seduce this confounding creature. She raised her silver eyes to his and patted his hand, smiling reassuringly. He was not reassured.
"Is it still your wish to marry my daughter?" Imrahil asked, and Eomer's eyes snapped to his friend's face.
"My lord?"
"Do you want to marry Lothiriel?" Imrahil repeated patiently.
"I...well, yes," Eomer said, trying not to sound sheepish. "But I had thought...when we talked, I had rather formed the impression..."
"My daughter informs me that she is not at all averse to the match," Imrahil said with a small frown. "But I must confess to some unease..."
You and I both, Eomer thought.
"I will leave Dol Amroth one day, Father," Lothiriel said firmly. "I must marry, I know that. Already the running of the household has fallen mostly to Elphir's wife. Soon there will be nothing for me to do, and I will only be in the way."
"Lothiriel! What nonsense—if that is why you would marry Eomer, then-"
"Do you want me to live out my days here in your castle, Father?" she asked quietly. "A spinster? I know you do not. So I will marry. Eomer is a good man, comely and strong. He is a king, and as his queen I will have meaningful work...a true purpose. The match is everything a girl of my situation could desire."
"I loved your mother dearly," Imrahil said, taking his daughter's hand. "I would wish the same for you, little flower."
"My heart has not been given elsewhere," Lothiriel said, the barest hint of a blush on her pale cheeks. "Nor has Eomer's, and he is both kind and fair to look upon. Love has grown in fields far less fertile than these."
"If this is your will, daughter, then so be it," Imrahil sighed, giving her hand a squeeze. "What say you, Eomer?"
"I am honored by the princess's acceptance," Eomer said steadily, though sweat sprang from his brow. "I will endeavor all my days to justify her faith in me."
"My lord is too kind," Lothiriel murmured with an inscrutable smile. "If it please you, Father, I must take my leave and ready myself for the feast. I fear my mermaid's crown will be ill received by a court of landsmen."
The princess rose and swept from the room, leaving behind a whiff of seaweed and an empty silence. Eomer slumped in his chair, feeling oddly deflated. The Princess of Dol Amroth was his, and his country safe. Why then, did he feel more unsettled than before?
"So," Imrahil said meaningfully.
Eomer looked up warily. "So?"
"What do you make of your future queen?" Imrahil asked, eyes twinkling.
"Damned if I know," Eomer said without thinking, and was relieved to hear his friend laugh heartily. "She is...she's very..."
"Different?" Imrahil suggested with a cocked eyebrow.
"Yes," Eomer agreed. "Different."
"Her mother was much the same," Imrahil said, smiling fondly. "On my wedding day I felt as if I were riding out to do battle with a dragon. But don't worry, lad; a man, especially a king, needs a woman to keep him humble."
"She seems to have a talent for it," Eomer said ruefully. "I only hope she will have mercy on this poor king and his household."
"As to that..." Imrahil's smile faded slightly. "Eomer, you have seen that she is not like other women, but this is no mere quirk of character. She goes where she will—you must not try to keep her fettered within your hall. The heavens and mountains know that I have tried and it has only led to sorrow. She is...as she is, and you must take her so, or leave her. You are soon to be my son in name as well as sentiment, but if I find you have made her unhappy I will fetch her home, wedding vows or no."
Eomer frowned. "The Riddermark is a dangerous place, my lord. There are still nests of orcs and wildmen that have yet to be dealt with. I will not have my wife wandering carelessly through the Riddermark with no protection."
"Lothiriel is well able to protect herself, and intelligent enough to know when she cannot," Imrahil said firmly. "I have striven to make it so, ever since I realized that any attempt to hold her is certain to be met with utter, inglorious defeat. I will warn you once more, Eomer, and then I hope I will never find it necessary to speak of this again. She is no docile sparrow and will not long survive a cage, no matter how fine that cage might be."
Eomer struggled internally for several long moments, then sighed. "Something my uncle used to say comes to mind."
"What is that?" Imrahil inquired warily.
"He always warned me never to give a command I know will not be obeyed," Eomer said with a wry smile. "No doubt his advice will serve me well in the coming years."
"Just so, my friend," Imrahil laughed, looking relieved. "Come, it is high time we joined the festivities."
Eomer followed his friend to the banquet hall, looking forward to a nice, bracing meal. To his dismay he received not beef and ale—though there was venison—but at least seven different kinds of fish and several creatures that looked like giant insects. It took the combined efforts of Imrahil and his sons to convince him that they were indeed edible. Although the meat was certainly not disagreeable, the tentacles and claws made it impossible to really enjoy the dish. To take his mind off it, he inquired after the princess.
"Has she still not come home?" Erchirion asked, looking alarmed. "I thought Father-"
"No, no, she has," Eomer hastened to assure him. "I spoke with her earlier. I just wondered why she hasn't arrived yet—to the feast, I mean. She said she was going to dress."
"She's always late," Erchirion shrugged. "The Valar only knows what takes her so long, because it isn't dressing. I don't know if you'd noticed, but she doesn't particularly care for pretty clothes and things."
"Or shoes," Eomer murmured.
"Or shoes," Erchirion agreed, smiling fondly. "So Father's accepted your suit, has he?
"He has," Eomer said gravely. "It will be my honor to wed your sister."
"From brothers in arms to brothers in truth." Amrothos cried happily, raising his wine glass so enthusiastically that wine slopped over the side. "How do you like that!"
"Exceedingly well," Eomer replied, lifting his own glass more cautiously.
"Ah," Amrothos said, his eyes shining with happiness—and with drink, Eomer suspected. "Here is your betrothed at last, lord king."
Feeling the back of his neck prickle ominously, Eomer turned to find himself speared once more by the princess's eyes. As always, it made him feel like a fish on a hook.
"I apologize once again for my tardiness, my lord," Lothiriel said, seating herself gracefully in the empty seat beside him. "I trust you have had an enjoyable evening thus far?"
"I have," Eomer replied, refusing to let his gaze drift to the tentacle-y remains of the mysterious insect. "It has been...most enlightening."
Lothiriel laughed merrily. "Indeed, my lord. I hope such unfamiliar fare hasn't disagreed with you. Sometimes the sea's bounty does not sit well with those who are not used to it."
"So far I have suffered no ill effects," he assured her, watching in amazement as she dismantled an insect creature in less than half the time it had taken him to dissect his.
"I'm glad," she said kindly, and smiled.
Much to his relief , she went on to chat politely but intelligently on various subjects and displayed a most gratifying interest in his people's customs and traditions. Gradually Eomer relaxed. Dressed in a proper gown and engaging in light conversation, she was the very picture of a well bred Gondorian noble lady. This he felt equipped to deal with. For the first time, he felt grateful for Gondor's somewhat restricting notions of decorum. It occurred to him that perhaps the very purpose of such rigid social structures was to provide a fool-proof framework of actions and reactions and thus prevent poor cads such as himself from dying of anxiety when interacting with the fairer sex.
Bolstered by this thought, he felt steady enough to ask his betrothed to dance even though Gondorian dances had been, until very recently, a dusty relic of his youth. Even then it had been purely an academic exercise—stomping about Meduseld's feast hall with Eowyn had not in any way prepared him for the real thing. Nevertheless, he asked, and Lothiriel accepted. She (naturally, he thought somewhat grumpily) danced as lightly and gracefully as a flower petal on the wind. Framework, he reminded himself as he galumphed beside her. Gondorian etiquette would certainly prevent her from commenting on the fact—or probably even privately acknowledging—that, next to her, he looked like a lumbering bear stuffed into a man's clothes. At the end of the dance she merely thanked him warmly and curtsied. By the time Imrahil announced their betrothal, he had almost convinced himself that they had merely got off on the wrong foot.
And so, when she asked him to walk with her in the garden, he thought nothing of it. He offered his arm with a bow and she placed her hand over his, her fingers barely brushing his skin. As they walked along the garden paths, Eomer waited for her to broach the next appropriate (but interesting) topic of conversation as she had been doing so successfully all evening, but Lothiriel merely floated along in silence, gazing upward—at the stars, Eomer supposed. He cast about, trying to think of something to say, but now that the silence had settled, everything seemed abrupt and out of place.
The princess gave a little sigh and lowered her head. It suddenly struck Eomer that perhaps she was expecting something from him. Was he supposed to...woo her? To his eminently practical mind, wooing seemed redundant at this juncture. Nevertheless, a mental voice that sounded strangely like his sister replied pointedly, a little effort would not be out of place. Eomer cleared his throat awkwardly and drew breath to speak, but she stopped abruptly and turned away from him before he could begin.
"We're here," she stated.
"Were we going some place in particular?" Eomer asked mildly.
"Yes," she said simply. "Follow me."
Slightly disgruntled at finding himself obliged to follow meekly after her for the third or fourth time in has many hours, Eomer nonetheless stepped off the neatly raked walkway onto a weed-infested footpath. Lothiriel led him to an overgrown section of the wall that was hidden behind some shrub-like trees. Here she removed her finely embroidered slippers, setting them on a conveniently located flat rock. Although made somewhat uneasy by this development, Eomer reminded himself that he already knew of her strange aversion to shoes. Nothing to worry about. When she proceeded to unlace the front of her gown, however, he became truly alarmed.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a strangled whisper.
"Taking off my gown," Lothiriel said, looking up at him in surprise. "My aunt Ivriniel put a great deal of effort into the embroidery and I do not want to ruin it."
"I—what?" Eomer sputtered, backing away as if from a dangerous animal. "What do you-"
"In the tunnel," she clarified, pushing aside some hanging ivy to reveal a dilapidated wooden door in the wall. Then, before he could say anything more, she stepped out of the gown and stood before him wearing nothing but a long cotton shift and a thoughtful frown. "You might consider taking off your tunic. We will surely get wet and possibly quite dirty—that velvet will be completely ruined."
"What, exactly, do you think we will be doing, my lady?" Eomer inquired, not altogether politely.
Lothiriel for the first time looked slightly unsure. "I...I only wanted to show you the sea-hounds and perhaps walk on the beach. I thought you might enjoy it, since it's your first visit to the sea."
"My lady—Lothiriel-I can't take you through a hole in the wall to who knows where. In your shift, no less! Your father would have my head."
"Oh, I see," Lothiriel said, her face clearing. "You're quite right, that wouldn't do at all."
Eomer nodded and smiled in relief, and opened his moth to suggest that she put her clothes back on.
"Allow me, then, to rephrase and set your mind at ease," she went on. Eomer's mouth shut with an audible click. "I am going to see the sea-hounds and perhaps walk on the beach. You may join me, if you wish."
Without another word, she disappeared through the door, leaving Eomer gaping after her, rooted to the spot in complete disbelief. For the briefest of moments, he considered going back to inform Prince Imrahil that his daughter had disappeared into impenetrable darkness—alone, and dressed only in her shift—then dismissed it as completely unthinkable. Instead, he whipped off his tunic (she was right—no point in ruining good velvet) and plunged after the princess, determined to bring her back—over his shoulder, if necessary.
"Princess," he called, edging along the damp wall. "Stay where you are—I'm coming."
"Don't worry," she called back. "The way is straight, for the most part. You won't get lost—but mind the spiders."
Cursing, he increased his speed, hoping to overtake her and proceed with his plan to forcibly remove her from the tunnel. After several long minutes spent stumbling through the pitch blackness and peeling spider webs off his face, the prospect of throwing her over his shoulder—or perhaps dragging her out by her hair—began to take on a certain allure. He was picturing the event with some relish when he suddenly came around a corner and realized the end was in sight. His quarry stood silhouetted against a patch of moonlight for a fraction of a second, then vanished yet again. He gave a growl of frustration and broke into a run.
By the time Eomer reached open air, he found himself at the edge of a nearly sheer rock face. At the princess's call, he looked down and saw her briskly making her way down the rock using natural handholds as well as metal spikes driven into the rock in strategic places. She beamed up at him, obviously delighted that her betrothed had decided to join her on her little outing. Seeing no other option (and he did look, very thoroughly), Eomer took a steadying breath and lowered himself over the edge.
When he reached the bottom, he turned to find the princess scampering up another pile of rocks. He set off once more in pursuit, managing the slippery, jagged rocks with far less skill. He was breathing heavily when he finally gained the top, more from anxiety than exertion. Lothiriel was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if it was possible for gray hairs to appear overnight. A vision rose to float before his mind's eye: himself, standing before Prince Imrahil's throne (which seemed somewhat taller and more imposing than it did normally), wet and dirty and telling him that his daughter was either drowned or lying among the rocks with a broken neck. Perhaps the prince would care to send out a search party to find out which fate had befallen her? She is going to kill me, Eomer concluded grimly, feeling completely justified in having fought tooth and nail for more than a year against his councilors' insistence that he marry. He looked around frantically, trying to find the princess in the maze of rocks and shadows.
"Eomer," she called softly, and he spotted her on top of a large rock, lying on her stomach. "Come and see."
He scrambled up beside her and drew himself righteously up, the better to deliver what would no doubt have been an ear-blistering scolding of inspirational proportions. But the words died in his throat as she yanked him down and pointed. Below them rested more than a dozen of the strangest creatures he had ever seen—and that included the monstrous insects he had eaten for supper. They scooted and waddled around on furry flippers but barked at each other with snouts like dogs. Their heads were sleek and round, with tiny bud-like ears. He watched a mother nuzzle her young, her eyes dark and liquid in the moonlight.
"What are they?" he whispered, filled with awe.
"Sea hounds," Lothiriel whispered back. "Aren't they magnificent?"
"They are, somehow," he murmured. "Yet they seem so awkward."
"On land," Lothiriel agreed with a smile. "But in the water they are more graceful than you can imagine."
"Are they all female?" he asked, noticing that nearly every one of them had a youngster nestled close.
"Yes," Lothiriel told him. "The male leaves after he's mated with all of them. I wouldn't have brought you if he were still here. Males are very territorial—and aggressive."
"It seems strange that he would leave them without protection," Eomer observed.
"The mothers all help to protect and provide for the babies—and each other," Lothiriel replied. "It's really quite beautiful. And obviously effective, or it wouldn't happen this way."
"Mmm," Eomer agreed dubiously, but continued to observe the creatures in wondering fascination.
They lay for some time in silence, their elbows nearly touching. Eomer found his attention split between the queer animals below and the equally queer but enchanting sight of his betrothed bathed in moonlight and shivering slightly in her smudged, damp—and clinging—shift. Her hair spilled down her back and across the rock like an inky waterfall. As she turned to him, her eyes caught the moonlight and seemed to glow. Eomer shivered, thinking suddenly of the tales his nurse had told him as a child. Many had featured the Good People; beautiful, otherworldly beings that occasionally liked to ensnare mortals with their magic and steal away their souls. He shivered again and told himself it was simply the sea spray.
"We should go," Lothiriel said regretfully. "I had hoped to have time for a short stroll—the beach is so lovely at night—but you took rather longer than I had expected. Father will start to worry soon."
She left him sputtering in indignation and seemed to simply roll off the side of the rock. All thoughts of the otherworldly fled his mind as he slithered after her, hoping desperately that he would land in one piece. The whole, uncomfortable chase began again, but in reverse. And, once again, he failed in his pursuit. He found her sitting peacefully on a bench in the garden, fully dressed, with her hands folded demurely in her lap. She rose with a smile and handed him his tunic. Fuming, he pulled it over his head—but not before he suffered her to brush bits of cobweb and dirt off his shirt, as if he were a dirty child come in for supper. Her slender white hands flitted about his chest and arms, which he found distracted him entirely from his indignation at this latest bit of unfairness.
"You'll do," she declared, looking him over critically. "It's lucky your shirt is dark, or we would have some trouble. Oh look, here comes Father—let's go tell him about the sea-hounds. He's made a study of them, you know."
"What? No, don't-"
But she did. Eomer trailed after, sweating profusely and trying to think of something—anything-he could say to Imrahil that would not result in the immediate dissolution of their betrothal. Lothirel reached her father and took his arm, chattering cheerfully away and digging Eomer deeper into an early grave with every word. The hound Beridhren trotted happily at Lothiriel's side, apparently quite happy to exchange Imrahil's company for hers. Imrahil listened gravely, his eyes locked on Eomer's face. When they reached him, Eomer stood motionless and silent, wishing fervently for the ground to open up and swallow him.
"In all, a most satisfactory adventure, I'm sure," Imrahil observed when she had finished her damning recitation. "But perhaps you should rejoin the dancing for a while. Your aunt Ivriniel has been asking after you."
"Oh, yes, I must thank her for this dress," she agreed. "The embroidery is so lovely. Beridhren, stay with Father."
She turned to him, curtsied, and extended her hand with that thrice-damned dreamy smile—perhaps dreaming up fresh tortures to inflict upon her soon-to-be-previously betrothed. Eomer bowed stiffly over it and then she was gone in a flicker of skirts, leaving him alone with her father. As he straightened, he closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Imrahil regarded him solemnly for what seemed like several eternities...and then laughed. And laughed, and kept on laughing until he had to lean against a statue for support with tears streaming from his eyes. Beridhren, perhaps thinking (not unreasonably, Eomer thought) that his master was having a fit of some kind, whined and pawed frantically at the prince's leg. Imrahil pushed him feebly away, laughing all the while.
Eomer breathed heavily through his nose, his long-frustrated fury at the whole situation coming to a boil. You will not hit him, he counseled himself. He is your friend, and also one of the highest ranking men in the known world. Do not hit him. On the bright side, he realized as his anger cooled in direct proportion to the decrease of the prince's mirth, perhaps this was a good sign. While deeply offensive, laughter did not seem an appropriate expression of fatherly wrath. Could it be that Imrahil was not going to retract his blessing and hurl him from the castle walls?
"My lord?" Eomer inquired, striving valiantly to do so politely. "Are you quite finished?"
"Yes," Imrahil gasped with what Eomer uncharitably deemed a giggle. "Ahem. I apologize."
"My lord, I tried to stop her-" Eomer rushed to say, but Imrahil stopped him.
"Didn't I say it was pointless?" Imrahil demanded. "I did. You were there, in fact. I remember it quite clearly. 'Certain, inglorious defeat' were my exact words."
"Utter," Eomer grunted, feeling light headed with relief.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Utter," Eomer repeated. "Utter, inglorious defeat. Those were your exact words."
"Indeed," Imrahil agreed cheerfully. "Come, my friend. I believe my daughter would like another dance with her future husband."
"Husband," Eomer repeated, trying to identify the strange feeling curling in his stomach and narrowing it down to either delight or dismay.
"Husband," Imrahil said firmly. He nudged Eomer, nodding toward the entryway. "And wife."
Eomer looked up. Lothiriel stood under the arch at the garden's entrance, watching them expectantly. He met her eyes—beautiful, eerie, otherworldly eyes, silver as his newly acquired gray hairs—and began to smile.