Lothíriel was shaken awake by an apologetic maid before dawn after a scant few hours' sleep. Her limbs were heavy and cried out to be used so early, but she pushed those thoughts determinedly away and rose from the warmth and comfort of her bed. She had a king to catch.

Her riding habit—the only riding habit she owned—had been laid out, and after washing her face with cool water, Lothíriel donned the soft grey velvet. Despite not caring for horses much in general, she could not very well avoid it entirely and so if she must ride, she would do so in style. The outfit was uncommonly attractive on her; accentuating her trim waist with the hem brushing against the top of her jaunty boots. It was enough to bolster her confidence despite the early hour. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly in rebellion to this activity, so she forewent breakfast and went straight for the stables.

She did take time to thank her lucky stars that her father had offered his stables for the king of Rohan and the majority of his party. It could not have worked out better if she had planned it herself, Lothíriel thought wryly. Of course—she would take credit for what happened that day, assuming it was in her favor.

She had overheard the king of Rohan the previous night, out of sight behind a pillar, speaking to his men. Between them they had agreed on an early morning ride before they would be required to attend meetings. Lothíriel would wager that none of the other ladies hoping to snag the king were as clever as herself, and therefore had not heard the conversation nor decided to accidentally meet him in the stables. It would be out of sight of other women and competition, and Lothíriel was positively gleeful at the prospect.

Until she saw the horses.

The smell of beast and manure, and the soft huffs as they breathed nearly sent her back, but she steeled herself and pressed forward. Unpleasant, but not enough to stop her. A little time with horses was certainly worth regaining her pride.

There were voices coming from outside—Lothíriel had cut it close! She rushed towards the stall which held one of her brother's horses, and began to stroke its nose. The horse was unimpressed by this show of reluctant affection, but she pretended to coo at it anyway. There was a creak from the main doors as they opened.

The talking ceased. Which did not matter since she did not know the tongue of the Rohirrim anyway. She ruffled her fingers through the horse's mane, studiously ignoring any stares at being in the stables at dawn. Most ladies did not do such a thing as general rule, preferring to keep later hours, and she hoped it would increase her chances of success.

"Lothíriel?"

She started, and turned. The king of Rohan, heading a group of five or six men, gazing in surprise at her. He was looking unnaturally fresh for such an early hour, and wore the same plain tunic and breeches as the others. Lothíriel returned the smile shyly.

"My lord! I did not expect to see you this morn."

"Nor I you," he said, grinning as he strode towards her. The men dispersed to find their own mounts, clearly dismissing her as their king's business. Said king bowed low to her before regarding the horse. "Are you on good terms with Amrothos's mount, then?" he asked, scratching its whiskery chin.

"Of course," Lothíriel said stoutly, justifying the lie by remembering that she and the horse were not on bad terms; not precisely.

"What is his name? I do not recall Amrothos ever mentioning it." The king glanced at her, and though he was smiling, there was a shrewdness in his usually warm eyes.

"Oh—it is, um—Siladur."

"Siladur?" The king's brows rose.

"Yes. Shining victory, in Sindarin."

"Do you ride him often?"

Lothíriel blinked in the face of this unexpected inquiry—the answer was, of course, no I have never ridden him before and nor do I ever wish to. But the king's interest seemed to imply more than a pleasant inquiry. "I have not for some time," she said, choosing an answer between the truth and what he would likely want to hear.

"If you have no other plans this morning—if you are not waiting for anyone else, that is—I would be happy to accompany you on your ride."

Shining victory indeed! She pretended to consider this waveringly, biting her lip as if conflicted. "I would be happy to accept your companionship, my lord," Lothíriel said, and smiled up at him.

"Éomer," the king said, returning her smile. "You must call me Éomer, if we are to be friends."

"Éomer, then." Her stomach turned with pleasure. How well her plan was unfolding!

"May I saddle him for you?" Éomer glanced over at his men, and then leaned close to her to whisper, "I have a squire who normally saddles my stallion for me—sometimes I feel quite useless! I hope you will grant me this opportunity to be of use."

Lothíriel giggled conspiratorially. "I suppose I will!" she said. "I was thinking I would take Morfast—he is in the last stall over there."

"Not Siladur?" Éomer's brows rose at this. "Here I thought you were romancing him before you ride him. Is that not how it is usually done?"

Her cheeks pinked—had he meant his comment in the way it sounded? Great Ulmo below, he was a vastly bewildering man. "I can greet him if I wish," she said stiffly. "There is no custom against that."

"I suppose not!" he agreed. "Well—why do you not ride him anyway? I doubt Amrothos will be up before noon today, and we shall certainly return before then! It can be our secret."

A secret! Lothíriel felt secret smugness bubble inside her, and she assented before she realized what she had assented to. Éomer grinned, transforming his expression into one of mischief, and he unbolted the stall door to enter. She backed away quickly at the sight of Siladur's thick legs and huge hooves, nearly bumping into a stablehand. Fortunately Éomer did not see it—he fetched a blanket and saddle from where they were stored on pegs in the stall, and began to whistle an unfamiliar tune.

Lothíriel felt awkward, standing in the middle of the stables, watching his men lead their own saddled mounts towards the courtyard. They were all so large! Both the horses and the men—even Éomer's squire, who could be no more than thirteen, was taller than her. She felt very, very small, and not a little overwhelmed. Perhaps it would be better when she was astride Siladur.

Éomer led Siladur from the stall by the reins, and held out his free hand to her with a beaming smile. "Shall we?" he asked.

She nodded primly and took his hand. To her surprise he laced his fingers with hers instead of holding them. Fortunately he did not see her flush with confused embarrassment as they walked out of the stables. The morning was no longer grey but a watery yellow, peeking through thin clouds and causing the fog about the city to shimmer. In the slight chill of early spring, huffs of plumed breath were coming from the horses.

"May I help you mount?"

Lothíriel smiled up at the king, whose hair glinted gold in the sun. His warm brown eyes held hers, and there was a strange swoop of heat in her belly. Taken aback by this, her response was stammered, "I—I thank you for your courtesy, my lord."

"Éomer," he corrected her.

"Éomer."

Before she could say anything else, his huge hands encircled her waist and lifted her up. Panicked, Lothíriel grabbed onto poor Siladur's mane, and the horse stamped underneath her as she was set gently in the saddle. Her face burned scarlet at both Éomer's overly-familiar touch and how it was intensifying the heat she felt. She gave her attention to swinging her leg over the other side, adjusting her seat so she was straight-backed. The blasted horse was so wide! Her legs stretched painfully, and she was sure she looked a fool atop such a massive warhorse. Éomer was chuckling under his breath as he adjusted the stirrups for her. She decided not to ask, and adopted a prim expression.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked when he was finished, handing her the thick leather reins. She took them, thankful for the riding gloves she wore which disguised her clammy hands. Lothíriel managed a demure smile.

"Indeed, thank you."

There was withheld laughter twitching his lips, and he left her to fetch his own horse. Lothíriel glanced down at the ground and immediately regretted it as her head swam with dizziness. But she gritted her teeth and looked around at the others. Éomer's men were all mounted and talking amongst themselves, not sparing her more than a curious stare every so oven. She wondered if Éomer often invited ladies on rides. An odd sense of jealousy twisted her gut, but there was no time to consider it, for Éomer trotted towards in her direction and reined in alongside her, astride a stallion as tall as Siladur.

"Will a trek along the perimeter of the city suit you?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, certainly, certainly." Lothíriel dug the heels of her boots into Siladur's side, but the horse did not budge. She tried again, and his ears twitched. Oh, no—was Éomer looking at her? She glanced at him, saw his amusement, and grimly dug in her her heels a third time.

Siladur snorted and pranced forward, and she pulled the reins taunt in sudden fright. But this the horse ignored, and trotted out the gate with its confused rider bouncing on her saddle. Were there snickers behind her? Lothíriel clenched her jaw, vowing destruction on anyone laughing.

Éomer caught up with her in the deserted street, and primly she held her chin high before he spoke. "I am not entirely convinced Siladur likes your touch," he deadpanned.

"No, I think not," she said shortly. Only recalling her purpose in enduring this humiliation kept her temper in check, and the agitation of being so far above the stone-flagged street. If Siladur stumbled and she fell out of the saddle, she would be dead for sure. How in Arda could anyone like riding?

"Do you prefer the company of horses when your feet are safely planted on the ground?" Éomer said, and though he kept his lips pressed together, Lothíriel was sure he was teasing. She relaxed—teasing was a step forward—but his thinking she did not care for horses was not.

"Oh, not at all!" she said airily. "I do enjoy riding, very much—but Siladur and I are unaccustomed to each other. And I worry for Amrothos's reaction when he finds I have filched his horse," she added, glancing over at Éomer with a colluding smile. He laughed.

"If Amrothos mentions it, tell him it was my doing," he told her. "I forced you into it, after all. And I have the excuse of not being a meddlesome little sister, but a man who risked the goodwill of his friend for the sake of riding with a pretty lady."

"Meddlesome!" Lothíriel cried, color suffusing her cheeks. "I take exception to that!"

"I was only thinking of my own sister—I apologize."

If she was not mistaken, there was an unfamiliar weight in his voice, and she looked at him curiously. Éomer saw this, and relented with unusual seriousness. "I should not have extended Éowyn's opinions to yours," he said. "She only said something to me last night which has been on my mind. Again, I apologize."

Had the tone not turned so thoughtful, Lothíriel might have pried. But she could not—she dared not. Perhaps somewhere between Éomer's good-natured conversation and his lack of regal manners, she had forgotten he was king. No! She had not forgotten. His kingship was the reason she was riding a blasted monster of a horse at dawn, anyway.

"Your thoughts are too serious for such a beautiful morning," she said gently, to draw him from his clearly weighty musings. He glanced at her, eyes crinkling as he smiled. A pleasant shiver crept up her spine, and she could not help returning his smile.

"And too serious for the company of a beautiful woman! I am chastened," Éomer said, and he inclined his head.

Lothíriel could not hold his gaze any longer; it was entirely too warm. Self-consciously she touched the collar of her outfit as she looked away. She wondered if his men were near enough to hear them, and turned slightly in her saddle. They were some distance back, and she let out a breath of relief. Listening ears were the last thing she needed.

"Well!" she said lightly, settling herself forward once more. "It is a quiet morning." And indeed it was—they had passed few in the streets, and the houses around them were silent. Smoke rose from chimneys, but little else indicated life in Minas Tirith.

"It is the best time to ride," Éomer said with a roguish smile. "Fewer people to accidentally trample, as I have learned from experience."

"You would never, I am sure," Lothíriel declared. "I cannot see you so careless!"

"A learned habit, to be sure. I have been party to a broken foot or two in my time! Though admittedly, in those days I was no more than a clumsy youth."

She fluttered her eyelashes with a shy smile. "Clumsy? Surely not! I thought you a marvelous dancer last night."

"Ten years ago, I would have trod on your toes! I thank Béma that my youth ended long ago," Éomer laughed. "Though to be fair, I would not have been able to speak a word in your presence, either. I am doubly thankful."

Lothíriel lifted her brows, awaiting further explanation.

"You cannot lay too a harsh judgement on me," he said, his eyes mischievous. "Most young men cannot keep their heads around a woman."

"I am sure I have not induced such nervousness in any man," Lothíriel replied, and to her disgruntlement, a hard note had entered her voice—it was too near such a sore subject. Her smile had faded, which Éomer noticed.

"'Tis not true," he said after a moment.

Lothíriel blinked in astonishment, and accused, "You are teasing!"

Éomer's eyes warmed as they met hers. "Not a whit. I am sure I know at least a half-dozen men in my own company who have admired you from afar, but not dared to speak. Perhaps I should count myself one of them; for I did not ask you to dance last night until you approached me."

She did not know what to say—she could no longer discern between his teasing and any degree of seriousness. So she tilted her chin upwards and declared, "Why, I do not think I have heard a single truth since we left the stables! My lord, you are incorrigible!"

A smile formed on Éomer's face, which seemed to hold a secret. "I have never lied in my life," he vowed solemnly. Lothíriel scoffed inwardly at this, but he continued, "And more than that, I have the skill to recognize the lies of others."

A sudden tremor of self-consciousness gave her pause. She was unsure of what to believe—he could not know her dishonorable intentions! But looking at him now, there was no deceit in his features. Éomer was honest; perhaps too honest. She shivered to think of what that meant for her, and adjusted herself awkwardly in the uncomfortable saddle.

"Come now," he chided. "Let us leave behind these serious matters. We shall endeavor to only speak to truth to each other from now on, and only of superficial matters. What say you?"

"Yes," Lothíriel agreed quickly. "Perhaps you can tell me your impression of Minas Tirith thus far." This topic she knew enough about to hold her own, and she smiled with a surge of confidence.

"It is pretty enough," Éomer said, but his tone was indifferent. "Nothing quite compares to one's homeland, and so I admit bias. I am sure I would feel trapped, should I live amongst such stone for the remainder of my days." Lothíriel, gazing closely at him, saw a wistful look in his eyes as they travelled under a white stone walkway above them. He cast her a look, turning teasing again. "I daresay I sound rather ridiculous," he said.

"Not at all! I understand your sentiments well—perhaps too well." She bit her lip, unsure of how much to reveal of herself. Éomer had been frank with her, and she decided she must be the same. "I much prefer the sea," Lothíriel sighed. "When I look at it, or when I am sailing—I feel as if the world is limitless, and so am I. There is no better sense of freedom anywhere."

"I am sure Rohan could be a worthy competitor," Éomer smiled at her. "Though ours is more a sea of grass."

"Oh! My nose itches just to consider it."

Lothíriel's quip, intended to prevent the conversation from turning too honest, did its work—the king let out a bellow of laughter. "Then we are each where we belong—for I feel ill simply thinking of the sea! We sailed from Cair Andros to Osgiliath, and it was a rather unpleasant experience."

"Ah," she said, nodding sagely. "That does not bode well for you. For the river Anduin is far gentler than the Bay of Belfalas."

Éomer visibly cringed. "Then I am afraid I shall avoid Dol Amroth by any means!"

"That is not reason enough! We have become experts in treating seasickness. I wonder that my brothers, whom I know were in your same company on the Anduin, did not suggest any remedies!"

"Then now I have two complaints for your brothers!" Éomer declared. "That they allowed me to suffer illness as they watched laughing, and that they did not introduce me to their beautiful sister sooner!"

This caused Lothíriel to flush pink entirely against her will. She wondered if she had met Éomer before her decision what she would have thought of him. Probably very little at all—she had always preferred the dark-haired men of her own nation. Even now she only thought of him because he was king. Was it not so? She cast him a surreptitious glance; he was gazing overhead as they passed beneath the broken gate to the city. Lothíriel was not attracted to fair-haired and bearded men. Éomer must have sensed her scrutiny, for he grinned at her, and again she felt that strange heat. At least, she had not thought she was attracted to fair-haired, bearded men.

"I am beginning to think you are a truly irrepressible flirt," she said stoutly, and he laughed. It was fortunate that his attention was diverted, for her eyes began to water. Though most of the vegetation beyond the city had been trampled and burned, there remained just enough in the air to bother her, and she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief while Éomer was looking away. Lothíriel was ready with a smile when he turned back to her with a glint in his eyes, picking up on her earlier comment.

"Is it so obvious?"

Lothíriel giggled. "Do you doubt your methods?"

"Ha! Only with the women of Minas Tirith."

"They do not appreciate teasing such as yours, I expect."

Éomer gave her a sidelong glance. "You know them well."

"I am one of them," she reminded him. "I can only retain my wits around your ridiculous manners because I have three elder brothers who have accustomed me to teasing."

"And that is another reason that I admire you."

Lothíriel gloated inwardly—already Éomer was differentiating between her and other women. It gave her enormous hope; perhaps the ride would be worth it. Though she was by no means confident enough to say her hold on him was enough to keep his attention. But it was coming together nicely. Then the stray grass in the air got the better of her, and she sneezed.

"Perhaps we ought to turn back," Éomer said, his eyes filling with concern.

"Ah—alright." Her legs had numbed some time ago, but as they turned their horses and he could not see her face, Lothíriel winced at the pain that was sure to plague her for the next days. Queen, queen, queen… she reminded herself. They passed Éomer's men, who now looked at her with more interest than earlier. She lifted her chin, gazing around as regally as she could with snot beginning to drip from her nose.

One of the men addressed Éomer in their tongue, and he responded in kind. Lothíriel flushed pink, she knew enough Rohirric to know that the man had mentioned the lady. She did not understand what Éomer said in return.

The men were nearer now, and as if some tension had broken they began to joke and talk amongst themselves. It was no longer an option to hold a private conversation with Éomer, but Lothíriel had no qualms. She was not sure how much longer she might have spoken to him without losing her wits completely. He did seem to have that effect…

But the remainder of the ride back to the stables was a bit colorless, all in all.

To answer Guest's question: Yes, Lothiriel is intelligent. The problem is that she is using her wits for the wrong things at the moment. She has spend considerable time in a not-very-good environment, you see. That will become clearer as the story progresses. So, spoiler alert: she changes.