Title: Walk With Me In Winter (or Things I Did Not Tell You At The Time)

Rating: T

Pairings: Éomer/Lothíriel

Genre: Romance/Drama

Summary: A companion piece to And Every Winter Change To Spring.

Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction, written for the enjoyment of myself and others. No financial profit is made by writing this.

Author's Note: See the end of chapter for details.

She's something new, something hopeful. Like spring to my deep winter.

- Pierce Brown

The first time I see you is in Mundburg.

I am weary from the war, I long for my home on the great green plains, and I have barely started to admit even to myself how scared I am of what waits for me back in the Mark. Often I wonder if there is something wrong with me, what with the way I can't seem to take joy in the ending of war like others do. Perhaps it's because I barely know what peace is. Now, after spending my adult life riding from one battle to next, I'm supposed to know how to lay down my sword and rebuild a kingdom.

At night, I can hardly sleep. I think about my sister and the bright future she has before her, the price I will have to pay when she goes, and the gut-wrenching fact that I have no idea of how I will mend that war-torn land I call my home.

And yet, and yet, all of that falls away when I first set my eyes on you in the Citadel of Kings. You come with your father and brothers around you, laughing softly with them, your hand resting on the arm of Imrahil. I admit that I am curious: Éowyn has spoken well of you, praising the kindness and patience you showed her while she was in the Houses of Healing, and your brothers won't spare their loving words when they mention you. Brothers' pride and love I understand, but Éowyn's regard is harder to win. She tells me your name means flower-garlanded maiden.

I hold my breath, though I do not know why.

You move closer and Amrothos is declaring something in a loud, boisterous voice. It makes all five of you laugh. Like the rest of your family, you wear blue and silver, and your dark hair is cascading down your shoulder in a shining braid netted with pearls. You are simply lovely, and it's not in the distant, unearthly fashion of the Elves that I am soon to meet, but in a way that speaks to my mortal heart. For you are a sudden ray of light after long dark and the first fresh breath of air in this strange, restrictive court.

I know I'm staring, but you have not yet noticed my boorish self. Surrounded by your family, you glow with joy and relief of having them return alive to you. For the briefest moment, I envy the easy cheer, the sense of wholeness that is about you and them. Almost all my family is dead and the only one living is leaving me soon. But you have your father and your brothers, and after all these celebrations are done, you'll be going home with them and you'll never feel lonely again.

My envy vanishes the moment I meet your eyes, kind and bright and warm, and I am ashamed. A thought crosses my mind: Béma, keep this one safe.

I cannot guess what is your first impression of me, but I suspect it's nothing too positive. The warm glimmer of your eyes is suppressed when your father introduces me and our gazes lock. I'm still staring, and though I know I'm making a crude impression on you, I can't come up with of anything pleasant to say. You must think me something hideous, the way your cheeks grow red and you avert your eyes. I want to kick myself.

We part ways soon enough, much to your relief. Soon you are laughing again with your brothers, forgetting about the crass foreigner. Perhaps that is for the better. I do not expect a maiden of the south see much that they'd like about a northern barbarian.

Éowyn flutters to my side, eyes bright and excited. She wants to know what I think of you, her new friend. I mutter some superficial pleasantries, but she reads me like an open book.

I can tell she's disappointed.

I see you at times at the Citadel. There are so many gatherings, it's not possible to avoid meeting one another. You are always polite, but every time we are face to face, I see that uncertain look return to your face. I feel like you are afraid of me, and I hate it. That is the last thing I wanted, but I don't know how to make it better. There are always people around, and I feel like I'd only make a fool of myself.

Best not to say anything. I'm going home soon, anyway.

After Éowyn is married, I will probably never see you again.

Things are as I expected them in Rohan. So many burned homes, ruined lives, ravaged fields… how does one man fix this? Granted, I have the help of some of the best men and women I've ever known. But none of them have the answers I need, and I know that it is I who must find the way.

I bury myself in work. There is so much to do, it doesn't seem like days have enough hours in them. And yet, though I am on the move from dawn till dusk, I still lie awake at night. Did my uncle ever lose sleep like this? How did he deal with it? Is this why he was easy prey to Wormtongue?

How I wish I could talk to him now. I'm not ready to be king.

I have never felt more alone.

Éowyn presents me with the idea when we are on our way from Mundburg to bring Uncle's body home. She would like to invite you to stay with her until the wedding – provided that Imrahil will allow you to come. My sister has already come up with a list of reasons, but most of them are lost to me. Instead, I'm wondering to myself: what is the worst that can happen?

Coming winter may not be easy in the Mark. Will a southern lady be willing to endure it, far away from her family? Yet I have seen your warm friendship with my sister, and I know your father and brothers to be hardy men. Éowyn will be facing many challenges in her new life. If anything, or anyone, can make it easier for her, then I am only glad. So I tell her yes, much to her delight. She wastes no time in asking for Imrahil's permission and writing a letter of invitation for you. Perhaps it will be all right… even though I both fear and expect it.

What is the best that can happen?

Finally, I find the strength to visit Théodred's grave.

I have avoided this moment. To see the grave is to really accept that he's not coming back, and somehow, somehow, I've had this dream that it will all prove to be some sort of a ruse, and my cousin will soon come riding home to put things right. But the grave is unavoidable proof, and grief almost overwhelms me.

My cousin, my brother – my Prince is truly gone.

In some ways, it's the blackest moment I've yet had. I recall Théodred's life and all the things he taught me, all the ways he was a better man than I am. It's strange, that this quiet, calm place should somehow pull me under like so after I've already lived through thinking my sister is dead, losing my uncle, and marched to the hope's end at the Black Gates.

It is I who should have died, not Théodred.

I return to the camp, quiet and grim, and my men know to leave me alone. I retire early but I cannot sleep. So, eventually I get up again and walk outside in moonlight for a while. There's a ceaseless ache where my heart is supposed to be as I wander and think about all the things I should have done differently.

There is a sudden movement in the night and I halt, thinking it must be an ambush. But all thoughts fall from me when I see mearas for the first time since I became King.

My company returns to Edoras. Most of the journey I spend thinking of my cousin, brooding to myself and even forgetting that you will have arrived already. Éothain looks at me in concern but doesn't say anything. No doubt he'll corner me at some point and try to make me talk. But at least for the moment, he is postponing it.

My mind is full when we reach the capital, and so I do not see you until you let out a surprised little cry. I look down and there before me sits a girl in a puddle, and it's somehow the most absurd thing that could happen right now.

I am speechless. I forget that I should get down and help you up; instead, I just stare at you like the fool I am. You stare back, until bright crimson colour spreads across your cheeks and you stumble up. You stammer Sire and go hurrying up the stairs to Meduseld.

I have no idea of what to think.

Guilt and regret rest heavily on me still. They are like a storm stuck in a valley, unable to move any way, and so it pours and pours down ceaselessly, whipping the ground without mercy. I wonder if it will ever go away.

I don't even try to go sleep, and so I wander the quiet halls of my new home. So many days of my life I have spent here, but I still struggle to feel like it belongs to me. Now more so than ever, for the memory of Théodred is heavy on my mind.

Eventually, I find myself in the feasting hall. It's quiet at this time, but a low fire is burning in the hearth. I approach it and poke it back to life. My mind wanders as I stand there, and I think of the days gone by. How I envy my sister sometimes! She has her eyes fixed on the future, but I feel like I'm stuck in the past.

I am still standing there when I hear your soft slippered feet whisper against the stone floor. I look around and there you stand, dressed in white and hair tumbling down your shoulders – the furthest thing from the scene of earlier today. Once again I'm struck by how very lovely you are, and how your appearance still feels like a breath of air to chase away the shadow. And because of that, I cannot help but just reveal myself to you.

You probably wonder why I'm suddenly blurting out my brooding thoughts, especially seeing the discourteous way I behaved earlier. Anyone would, I think. And yet as I speak of my guilt, you look at me with such sympathy that it overwhelms me.

And then you reach for my hand, and you whisper: It's not your fault.

It's just the briefest touch, and I still feel like the brush of your fingers shifts my world a little bit. My heart grows lighter and my shoulders stronger under the burden. I let out a breath I have been holding much too long. For the first time since the war ended, I feel like I can breathe.

When you have left me, I go straight to bed, fall asleep, and have no dreams.

The next day I hear from an advisor that you saw mearas on your way to Edoras. It seems that there are only a few days between your sighting and mine. What does it mean? I ask myself.

And dare I consider the obvious idea that almost at once springs to my mind? The lady who has seen mearas after so many months of their absence, so near to the time when I myself did… is this a sign for me?

Should I ask for your hand in marriage?

And what would I do if you said no?

I dare not think of it.

You seem nervous when I enter my rooms, joining you and Éowyn for dinner. She's light and energetic, though, easing the atmosphere with her good cheer. She is excited to talk about your lessons, even though the topic quickly becomes bitter and grim. But you speak to us with tact and respect, never implying that you see your greater sophistication as grounds for arrogance. I like that about you.

And I already know that whatever secret hurts I happen to spill, you'll treat it with delicacy and understanding.

You and Éowyn stay awhile after dinner. Our conversations are light again, and I'm enjoying myself more than I have in some time. Still, there are moments I envy the easy friendship Éowyn has with you. Perhaps it's because she's so happy now, so full of light, just as you are. I still fear that something I say will bring back that uncertain, fearful look to your face.

I wish I could ask you to stay. But it's late and we all have long day ahead of us tomorrow.

When you and Éowyn go, I resign myself to another long and lonely night.

I have to ride out again. Usually it is effortless; I've done it so many times, it's a second nature for me. But now it feels… odd. Something is holding me back.

You come with Éowyn to send me on my way. She holds me tight and tells me to come back safe and sound. I promise to be home for Harvest Feast.

And then I turn to you. There you stand, eyes wide and grave, and I think maybe you care just as much as Éowyn does. For the first time, you speak to me in my own tongue, telling me to stay safe under Béma's eyes. The sound of your voice sends shivers down my spine and I find myself wanting to touch you again, even if it's just your hand, even if it's just for a second.

But I know I can't. I pull back my hand – when did I move it towards you? – and turn away.

The journey back is agony. I am hurt, more so than I'd like to admit. It feels like every inch of me from below neck to toes is bruised, each breath I take is like a lance of pain in my ribs, and my head is spinning as we ride through the rain. Éothain is furious when I nearly fall from my saddle, sick and exhausted. I can't blame him.

But I promised to get home for Harvest Feast. I promised.

It could be the last time Éowyn spends the occasion in Meduseld.

At last, we limp through the doors of the Golden Hall and there you are by her side again. Your face grows white as bone when you see me and you rush to meet us, like you are meaning to catch me from falling. Perhaps that would be a fine thing to do, indeed.

My sister is so angry. She lectures me all the way until we reach my rooms, and starts again once Éothain and my squire have peeled the armour off of me. She doesn't even stop when the healer arrives to examine me, although the poor man looks mortified. I don't try to argue with her. I know they are right, her and my captain. I should be more careful.

I need to be more careful.

Eventually I fall asleep, and my sister is watching over me. Yet I still have dark and disturbing dreams, even with her tranquil presence near me.

When I wake up, I don't at first realise I am really awake. For you are there now, sitting where Éowyn did before. How come you are here? I do not think you could ever appear in a nightmare of mine – unless, of course, it was something horrible happening to you.

You jump on your seat when I speak, looking up at me. You are unsure at first, but gradually I see your confidence growing. And then you come to me and your hand presses against my brow, and I close my eyes. What soft, gentle fingers you have; do you not see how it comforts me? I'm so addled, I don't even realise at first my own indecent state, not until I see the way you look at me. I wonder what it means. Are you pleased by what you see, or embarrassed at the impudence of a bruised and battered man daring to sit so close to you?

Either way, this is the first time you reveal your own doubts and fears to me, and you tell me of how it feels like to be in the middle of celebrated heroes. And so I speak to you in a much bolder way than I intended. It is true, all the same. I only started to breathe again after the night we first spoke in the hall. But I do not tell you that. Maybe I never can.

I go to sleep again and this time, I dream of spring.

You are still with me in the morning. You have fallen asleep in your chair, and though I know it must be uncomfortable, I can only think of how sweet you look there. I dare not disturb you at first, but just watch you for a while. Then you stir, and I swiftly look away.

I can tell something changed last night. There is unguarded warmth between us now, not unlike that easiness I wished for when watching your and Éowyn's friendship. How it delights me to hear your teasing words! I would take a thousand of them, even with the pain in my ribs. Now I see that laughing maiden I first met in Mundburg, and I'm relieved to know that whatever haunts me doesn't drive you away anymore.

It may be an unusual thing, for the fact remains I am a Northern warrior and you a fair lady of the South, but I think this could be the budding of a rare and invaluable friendship.

Stranger things have happened.

It's my first Harvest Feast as the King of Rohan. The feeling is unreal, as though the shock of being saddled with this burden is falling on me all over again. I feel a little unwell, not to mention sore, but I can't skip this event.

It is my first Harvest feast as the King and I know that many eyes are watching my every move – trying to decide if my succeeding Théoden King is a good or a bad thing.

I saw mearas, I tell myself whenever I doubt. And then I remember that you did, too.

The Feast is every bit as trying as I expect. There are a few bright parts, though. Moments spent with Éowyn surely are like little pieces of gold, and I store these dear memories to keep with me. And just when I'm starting to despair in the middle of a group of noblemen, you come to me, expertly snatching me away from the oppressive company. I have needed a breather and somehow you knew it.

You take seat next to me and I finally relax a little bit. I feel more drained than usual and I can't hide it from you. But as tempting as rest sounds right now, I know I must endure this. No doubt Éowyn will lecture me again if she notices I'm struggling to keep up, but I will deal with it then.

Sometimes I wonder where she gets that temper of hers. And then I remember I'm not much better in that regard.

We speak and I forget about my sister, about the feast even. I think of how beautiful you are tonight, how you glow with grace and dignity, and yet you don't seem to even know it. And so my tongue runs away with me, and I'm telling you about the night we first spoke in the hall and what it meant to me. I know I shouldn't. But I'm finding it harder and harder to remember the lines.

Your eyes widen. There's something in them… a spark that speaks to me, in a tongue I didn't know I could understand. And so I keep on going and begin to tell you how beautiful you are.

Of course it can't happen. I should know that, and not feel so surprised and disturbed when Déorwine lumbers to the scene, demanding to have a dance with you. Heat flashes through my veins and I wish to tell him how we would not even be having this conversation if I could just move properly. I want to give him a verbal thrashing so bad that I have to bite my tongue, and taste bitter iron in my mouth. And yet at the same time I know I'm out of line.

I have no right to claim any of your dances.

You get up, take his arm, and you are gone.

What a lovely pair they make. Such wonderful dancers!

The words are whispered nearby as though to taunt me. My head is throbbing and I can't tell if it's from my recent fever or not. I try not to look your way, but my attempts are futile.

They are right, though. You do make a picture with Déorwine, both of you dark-haired and graceful in the manner of those of Númenor's blood. And the way you are smiling! No wonder you and him spent the entire banquet in conversation. You look like you belong there at his arm, or at the arm of someone like him. You were born for the glittering courts of the south, and there your road will lead again once Éowyn is married. It would be madness to expect anything else.

The lies I've been telling myself are laid bare before my eyes. I see now where this road would have lead me, hadn't Déorwine appeared when he did. I have been falling, perhaps ever since I first saw you. Béma, I never thought such a thing was possible, least of all for me.

You saw mearas, but I know now I cannot ask you to marry me.

But if that is the case, then what does any of it mean?

To be continued.

Author's Note: Usually I prefer to write a story's first author's note at the start of the chapter, but with this one, I thought the things I wanted to say would be better explained when the reader had got in the mood and style of this fic.

I started to write this piece after getting some reviews asking to get a chapter from Éomer's point of view. It simply didn't work for me in the frame of the original story, but the more I thought about it, the more I too wanted to explore his thoughts. So, a separate companion piece seemed like the best option. But then I started to think of how to write it, and soon enough I realised there were three things that I wanted: one, it shouldn't be too much like the main story; two, the story would be built around/from the working title "Things I Did Not Tell You At the Time"; three, it should read a bit like a love letter.

Hence the usage of present tense and Éomer speaking directly to Lothíriel. I normally don't like reading stories that use the present tense, it's somehow jarring to me (though there are some exceptions). For this story, however, it seemed like the only possible option. I didn't just want to copy and paste the original story, because that didn't seem interesting to me. But hopefully this way, it will give some additional value to And Every Winter Change To Spring.

The length of this side story depends entirely on how long the main one will be, but I doubt it will be longer than two or three parts. I shall be leaving for holidays in a couple of days, and may not be able to update And Every Winter Change To Spring before the New Year. In any case, I wish you all Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays!

Hope you liked it, and let me know what you think!