There were many duties of ruling that the King-formerly-known-as-Estel found a trifle tedious. The endless snowstorm of official correspondence. Eternal wardrobe fittings for evening dress. Listening to bloviating and self-important councillors.

Two decades of service to great men like Thengel and Echthelion had taught him much. Ruling was a juggler's art. Sometimes judgement and analysis played second fiddle to endurance and sufferance; sometimes monotony rode pillion to responsibility. He had expected it, braced himself, learned to recite herbal compounds when his eyelids threatened to fall down to his cheeks; kept an attentive whip-thin smile for all but the most soporific bores.

But he had not expected the glorious entertainment of receiving lines.

It was the last night of Mettarë celebrations. A dark velvet sky strewn with Varda's sparkling gems hung above a steady parade of resplendent Tower Guards and nobles. Each he welcomed with the traditional salutation 'Light and Life to you,' for though there was a New Reckoning and a new turn of the Year, all hearts needed lifting in the winter's dark. The endless greetings and the literally hundreds of handshakes should have been a chore.

Except for his Undomiel's wit and his Steward's altogether ruthless memory for history.

Aragorn braced himself as Geithir, Lord of Langstrand, bore down. The aged councillor was annoying at the best of times but particularly objectionable when he was in his cups.

"Elessar!" bellowed the man as he pumped steadily on his King's arm. "Amazed at all you've done. Didn't think you had it in you. You or Denethor's young pup. Another year and still there's peace. No crediting it all." Geithir shook his head, rubbing at his bright red fleshy nose. Between this almost fluorescent manifestation of his love of drink and the lace of burst spider veins that decorated his mottled skin he was nigh as bright as the Haradi guards' keffia.

Aragorn's lips twitched waiting for Arwen to wade in. She did not disappoint.

"And we are amazed you are here at all," remarked the Queen with a sweetness that hid a vinegar-sharpness in the undertones. Her reply sailed with ample room to spare over Langstrand's head. He moved on to Gondor's Steward, was shaking Faramir's hand with far more force than necessary.

"Hope you can keep it up," Geithir remarked, meaning, of course, the watchful peace. This was all too much. Aragorn broke down in a coughing fit that was suddenly most contagious affliction in all of Middle Earth. Arwen turned away. Faramir bent nearly double. The Tower guards beside Merethrond's massive mithril banded doors broke stance to bring their gauntlets up. In the intervening moments, Geithir stood stock still in puzzlement.

"Is Lady Langstrand still taking lessons with her 'fencing master'?" asked Faramir perfectly politely when he could speak again. "She must have quite the skill by now. He is said to have quite the parry. And thrust."

Projection as a defense mechanism was something Aragorn was quite familiar with. It seemed a lack of 'sporting exercise' had been an issue for the poor woman for some time. He watched as Geithir turned first white, then puce. Then his flustered mustaches almost bolted of their own accord.

"Blessed Nienna," murmured Faramir just faint enough for Elven ears to hear and Arwen's giggle was immediate.

"Násië."

Aragorn rocked slowly on his aching feet thinking Gondorian rules of precedence were a discipline that rivaled even Elven heraldry. Soldiers first for honour. Courtiers next. Foreign dignitaries and then royalty. Harad before Dale. Dale before Rohan. The Steward and his family before the King. He watched with acute relief as the final few courtiers strode below Merethond's lintel into the blazing space. Not long now. One more ball. One more overladen feast and he could relax, whisk his vanimelda away to the quiet of Lorien and find a peaceful winter's rest.

Oddly, she had been most insistent they not leave at once.

He stole a quick glance to his left. Elrond's daughter, a vision in gauzy burgundy, set hand to heart and executed a perfect Haradi bow before the hennaed, gold-draped Emperor, laughing delightedly at Goran's extravagant compliments. Her grey eyes were bright, her almost-smile more than usually beguiling. She was up to something but he did not know what it was. That morn she had stood before their breakfast table, nose wrinkled adorably, lost in thought, one finger tapping like a woodpecker against her cheek, as she perused the planned table seating drawn up the week before.

He knew that pose. She was maneuvering. Arranging things. Scheming for some outcome and Valar help the poor target of her campaign.

With an effort he tore his attention back to the line. "Light and Life to you," he bid, pleased and surprised to find the still handsome face of Dol Amroth's Prince before him. Imrahil and all his children, Ivriniel and their Aunt Ivrenna had all come.

"And to you my friend." The Prince gestured to the dark cherub at his side. "If you will indulge a grandfather, Elessar. Alphros has an announcement for the King."

"He does?" Aragorn bent down and beckoned to the boy.

"I have a sister," announced four year-old Alphros with solemn pride.

"I see that, young master," Aragorn replied, nodding to a beaming Mareth who held a little one in her arms. "And will you be King tonight Alphros? Be the first to find the silver Tharni?"

The little boy grinned and nodded shyly. Each table had a traditional King's Cake with a small silver coin inside for luck. Whoever found it was crowned ruler for the night. As a child it has been his favourite treat. Not for the moist stickiness of its crumb, but for the delight of finding the surprise.

He straightened up just as his wife leaned in to whisper in Mareth's ear. Dol Amroth's Crown Princess flushed pink as her daughter's pretty cap.

"What did you ask her?" Aragorn asked after they had moved on.

"How often Elphir wears his Hammathen."

He coughed. And blushed himself. Arwen was extremely fond of his.

At last the end of the line had come. The King of Rohan strode proudly, the Lady of Ithilien on his arm. Éowyn was radiant. Her gown was pale as moonstone, her circlet all white gold and the fire of precious diamond*. Faramir stepped out. He offered her his arm, gaze lingering a little too long for propriety upon the graceful trail of little buttons that ran down her lower back.

Thunderclouds were known to look less menacing than a suddenly frowning Éomer. "Do they never stop?" he grumbled as Arwen quickly swept him up.

"You expect them to?" she asked. "They are deliriously in love."

"You and the King are far more circumspect."

Arwen's laugh was bell-like and low. "We have had decades of practice scandalizing Rivendell. It isn't sporting anymore." She tilted her dark head to him. "My friend, why are you so out of sorts? It is not like you. I have not seen your wondrous, hearty smile all day."

From his vantage point behind, Aragorn could almost feel the flush of embarrassment that turned Éomer's blond beard red-gold. The younger man glanced furtively up and right. Dol Amroth's youngest Princess stood elegant and at ease beside a towering pillar, a sober swan of teal next to the riot of her brothers' azure and absolutely stunning with her raven hair piled up and clasped by a sparkling sapphire net.

Éomer's gaze tarried a heartbeat too long before he shook his head. "Honestly my Lady, I do not know."

The King of Gondor had to bite his lip to keep his peace.

If there was one thing Aragorn had learned from his travels amongst Men it was how to tell when they were parsimonious with the truth.

.
~~~000~~~
.

Hours later, after Alphros had somehow miraculously been crowned his table's King, and Aragorn had dutifully circled, twice, amongst the sated throng, he finally sat down again beside his wife.

The detritus of dinner had been cleared away and the Emperor had excused himself to join the Pelargir lords in spirited debate. In his wake, the extended Hurin-Dol Amroth family joined the Steward and the Prince. They all sat at ease, drinking glasses poised within their hands, quietly attentive to the centre of the table.

This was sufficiently alarming to merit comment.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked Aragorn hopefully.

"Not at all." Imrahil motioned for another tall stemmed glass to be topped up. "Faramir was about to propose a toast."

Aragorn turned to the Steward and his lady wife. The pair were gazing at each other as if no other soul breathed in Arda's sphere. Éowyn's eyes shone. Faramir's smile was soft and so very tender. As he raised his goblet up, he reached down to catch the fingers of hers free hand. "To light and life. And new beginnings!"

"To light!"

The traditional Mettarë toast echoed round the table but before glasses landed back again, the import of his other words began to spark. Imrahil half-rose, chair scraping on the stone, eyes wide. He looked from his nephew to his new niece in wonder.

"Does that mean…?"

The Prince halted, as if the words were too precious to speak aloud.

Faramir beamed and raised Éowyn 's hand, gracing it with a kiss. "Yes Uncle. We are going to welcome our first child."

"Oh, lad!"

Imrahil was around the board in a flash. He engulfed both kinsmen in hugs, smiling so wide it could not help but infect them all, shaking his head in amazement as excited exclamations reigned all around.

Of course a further toast was proposed. "To the future Prince or Princess!"

This was drunk rather less solemnly than the first, and then, while Lothíriel and Mareth, Dol Amroth's Princes and Rohan's King, rose in turn to congratulate the delighted couple, Aragorn leaned over and caught Arwen's attention with a hand upon her knee.

She, alone among the table, seemed quite unsurprised.

"Did you know?" he whispered.

"Yes." Her eyes danced merrily. "I was actually the first to guess. Even before Éowyn."

She was?! And hadn't said? He felt put out. He relied upon Arwen to pass on the most important information of each day. "I thought you told me everything?"

His wife made a noise that in a mortal of lesser lineage might have been a snort.

It fell to Mareth, jiggling Mirith in her arms, to ask the question on all their all lips. "When are you due?"

Éowyn dropped a hand to the slight swelling that rounded out her gown. "Lothron."

Soon. By Aragorn's hasty calculation that set her well past the time of common sickness. From the bloom upon her cheeks and empty plate at her place, Éowyn was hale and well; not much troubled by the typical annoyances that plagued every prospective mother. The healer in him was well pleased.

"Faramir arrived in May." Imrahil was now unabashedly wiping happy tears from off his cheeks. "T'will be the most wonderful birthday present a man could receive."

Éowyn flushed at the thought. "It was not exactly planned."

"But could have been predicted," quipped Amrothos. He raised his hands in mock defense from his sister's elbow. "The Erulaitalë always works."

On his offside Erchirion was not to be outdone. "Faramir is the best archer in the Kingdom. His arrows always find their mark."

"Chirion!"

The Dol Amroth contingent groaned in perfect harmony. They were used to his infelicitations but that did not mean the young prince went unpunished. Lothíriel's napkin 'accidently' flew into his face.

"That is absolutely the most wonderful of news," she said, turning to her cousin who looked a little misty eyed himself. "It would be just splendid if it was the fifteenth."

Faramir kissed a still blushing Éowyn on the brow. "Yes. I cannot imagine any more perfect gift."

At the far end of the table the Dowager Duchess of Tolfalas tapped her walking stick on the floor. "I daresay you will be happy with any date young Mir. And pace anxiously with all the rest. Babies arrive when they arrive."

"First babies are often late," added Elphir with some authority.

"Faramir came early."

Ivriniel's addition set the betting off. Prospective dates from Coronation Day to Midsummer's Eve were debated and discussed. While the frothy wine went round again and wagers were laid and paid (he whispered to Arwen to cut him in), Aragorn watched Éomer thoughtfully. Rohan's King was still uncharacteristically quiet; taking a long drink from a generous Kine horn and looking slightly dazed. Perhaps it had not registered that his sister's children would be his heirs? For the interim it would be so, but surely, in due course, there would be children of his own?

Aragorn sat and puzzled at his friend's disquiet until the minstrels started up. The table quickly cleared. Faramir swept Éowyn out onto the floor and Elphir followed with Mareth on his arm once the little ones were given into the Aunts' expert care. Erchirion and Amrothos soon cajoled Lothíriel into 'inspecting' the sweet table, and he was just considering packing his pipe with Goran's gift of Haradi shisha leaf when suddenly his vanimelda bolted up.

Arwen held a pale arm across the table to a startled Éomer. "Mellon nin, would you lead me in?"

Imrahil bore a puzzled line upon his brow. "Doesn't she know Éomer hates to dance? He would rather mud-wrestle with a pig."

So Aragorn understood. A moment of high tension stretched as Éomer hesitated and Arwen asked again. "Éomer?" Her dove grey eyes were steel. Would Rohan really refuse their ally's Queen? Would he gainsay a direct request and if so what excuse would he give?

Aragorn held his breath. Into the quietude there fell a burst of laughter. Over by the long gallery, between the exotic chocolate and the expected little white iced cakes, a marvellously garish Emperor Goran was bowing over Lothíriel's hand. They looked very well together—two dark heads, much of a height- the one lithe and delicate but deceptively strong, the other broad and muscled, a tower of overt strength but deceptively easy in his speech.

Éomer saw it too. A muscle slowly tightened in his jaw. "I would be honoured, Queen Arwen." He rose and offered her his arm, led her out onto the gleaming marble floor. There was a flutter amongst the dancers as they took their place- just far enough from the desserts to not hear the cross-cultural debate, just close enough to give lanky Éomer an unobstructed view.

The dance was a slow longways set. Éomer would be facing the Princess and her suitor the entire time.

The King of Reunited Realms shook his head in silent admiration and bowed his head to answer Imrahil's concerns.

"I do find it best to humour her. In everything."

.
~~~000~~~

.

Two reels, a pavanne and strathspey later Éomer found himself safely in the lee of an enormous potted plant. It was the only suitable cover he could find. The sweet and drink tables were unsurprisingly too thronged with revellers, the minstrel's gallery too far for viewing, and the head table, was of course the head—placed just below the King's marble throne and in full view of all.

Always find good cover for a scouting mission. Théodred had taught him that what felt a lifetime ago, chasing Dunlendings through rough thickets of willow and cat-tail about the Isen's sandy banks. Tilion guide his flight. He missed his cousin—intensely. Théo, blissfully but unofficially attached, would have been merciless in his teasing over Éomer's present predicament.

The Princess of Dol Amroth was still in Goran's arms. It was making his blood near boil.

Tulkas give me strength. For a warrior who did not know any other way but forward this—this sortie was utterly maddening. First, the ridiculously stringent receiving line meant Lothíriel had been whisked into the teeming throng before he'd even set foot in the hall. Then, at dinner there'd been no chance to talk. His place, beyond his sister and brother-in-law, had been a wonderful vantage to hear their news (his Wyn a mother!) but frustratingly as far from the Dol Amroth contingent as could be.

Not so the Emperor. The smug bastard had spent the first three courses regaling Lothíriel with something fascinating—Éomer could not hear the words but sure as the Weaver's threads he'd heard her every laugh.

Now the Haradan had danced with her. Twice.

An odd unsettled flight of butterflies somersaulted in his stomach. Goran, the only scion of the one tribe to deny the Serpent's call, made quite a sight. He was a riot of decoration: gold winking in his braids and sleeves, whorls of a curious brown paint trailing across each inch of skin, silver cuffs breaking like waves across his hands. Even his distinctive, deep rumbling laugh set Éomer's teeth on edge. The man was too cultured to be real. Snippets of poetry and history were thrown about like bunting at a fair. Each dance step was neat and perfect. Goran led Lothíriel through all the movements as if he and not just his every garment were made of silk.

Even his warrior's skills could not be derided. Goran had batted on Nurn's sands at Aragorn's side, knives and wickedly sharp sword curved just slightly tighter than the fierce grin upon his face.

The Emperor was brave, and strong, and undeniably powerful. All the fractious Tribes were now united under his banner. A man to be esteemed indeed, but could Lothíriel really be seriously considering the match? Or others? The unwelcome thought made the butterflies flip again. How had he not considered that the Princess would be thronged by suitors? She was everything a King could want. Beautiful. Caring. Accomplished. With a heart that flowed from her letters as she detailed rebuilding along southern Anduin but also a lively curiosity about the world beyond her home. The passages where she asked about customs of the Riddermark were a delight: witty and warm , and above all relaxed. This was no fussy Gondorian noblewoman with whom he'd have to parse every word.

Lothíriel was more like Éomer's experience of Boromir than his haughty, unlamented father. At first he had assumed that was just the Captain-General; at ease around campfires and drinking halls, happily partaking of any cup to hand, but now he'd come to see it was a feature of the wider Dol Amroth family. Imrahil, his sister, and his eldest son were polished but also practical; charming and straightforward in a way that most southern Lords could not hope to emulate. Faramir's natural reserve was quite a different thing in close company. And his younger cousins-well Erchirion and Amrothos were clearly at ease everywhere.

Even if a man didn't want it.

Éomer shook his head. The dusty, hasty ride from Edoras had done much to clear his head. The little matter of the Bride Price bet must be set aside. His pride had been sorely pricked but Loithiriel's manoeuver had ultimately been to his, and Éowyn's, benefit. And what was more, he had been the one to proposition her. Lothíriel could not have been certain that Faramir would win-just confident. It felt unKingly for him to harbour any lingerly awkward sentiment. Dol Amroth would be a suitable, even natural, alliance. Three Queens of the Mark had hailed from Gondor. His own grandfather Thengel Thrice-Renowned had married Morwen of Lossarnach and found lasting happiness and love, had been so at home in Gondor that when his father Fengel's cursed greedy pride made life unbearable, the young Crown Prince and his family took refuge in its mountain vales. Théodred's famously clean shaven state had been a nod to their illustrious grandsire's influence and of course the ties between Wold and Bay went both ways. Imrahil's grandfather Prince Angelmir had looked to Rohan for a Princess. Fána, renowned for her green and artistic thumb, had been a daughter of Harrowdale.

All of this was to the good. The people of the Riddermark would welcome a Dol Amroth Princess with honour and open arms but, most importantly, he could picture Lothíriel at home in golden Meduseld. Picture them at home. Working to put the kingdom back to rights. Starting a new line for a new Age.

Unfortunately it appeared there was a rather substantial obstacle in the way.

If only he could hear more clearly what the dancers said.

"Is your eavesdropping bearing fruit?"

Éomer whirled about. His Third Marshal stood at his shoulder, a silver tankard in each hand and a grin upon his homey face. He had bravely volunteered to test each ale on offer and it appeared at least one was judged worthy of consumption.

"I wasn't eavesdropping."

"No?" asked Elfhelm, offering across a tankard of something darkly foamy. "You fancied hiding in the foliage? Or are you practising Steelsheen's art."

"Neither." Éomer frowned suspiciously at the contents of the cup. Eademother Morwen loved gardens and had been utterly frustrated with Edoras's bitter frosts; was famous for the pots of green that graced every spare inch of hall. He wondered fleetingly if Lothíriel would also miss Belfalas' lush shores? Perhaps. But better Edoras's golden fields than Sarma's tawny sands. Nothing grew outside the Harad capital's new walls.

He took a quick gulp and turned back to face the hall. "My dance with Arwen has ended," he explained. "It's cooler here. I moved to be nearer to the door."

"Hmmm."

Elfhelm was obviously not convinced. The older man threw back his pint, wiped his mustache thoughtfully and crossed his arms across his massive chest. Out on the floor the Queen and the Steward were gliding through a series of intricate moves, the King and Éowyn were laughing giddily and Goran had his hand on Lothíriel's tiny waist.

Éomer wasn't staring. He was only reconnoitering the terrain. And being completely distracted by a dark cascade of hair that gleamed in the light that spilled from the torches and a corsair's haul of candles.

How could he help it if she looked so very—suitable?

Elfhelm's low chuckle drifted past. 'Sire if I might be so bold. It is always best for the herd when the stallion clearly marks his territory."

"If!" That took some bloody nerve. What would his friend do next? Announce his intentions to the hall? "There is no territory to mark!" insisted Éomer hotly. "She danced with Faramir, too."

"Of course. But you aren't looking daggers at the Stoninglanders' Prince."

"He's her"…. cousin, Éomer began but quickly smothered the reply. Engaging more would only prove Elfhelm's point.

The King schooled his face to polite disinterest; calmed restless fingers tapping on the mug and the leg vibrating like a bow, made himself look everywhere but at the colourful couple on the floor. This was torture. Like the last tense moments before battle was finally joined, Firefoot tossing restlessly and every sinew on alert.

The Marshal took a gulp and tried again. "When are you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"If Lothíriel will marry you! Béma's bollocks she is a catch. Smart and pretty. By all accounts a good horsewoman. Knows nursing from her aunt. Has helped run their household since her mother died. But…" Elfhelm paused for effect. "Most of all she's in yer head."

Éomer jerked so hard he just barely avoided drenching himself in beer. In his head? Was it so? Her letters had only been reread twice. Or thrice. He rode a league or so to meet every messenger but that was for Firefoot's benefit. He knew her favourite flower was the anemone and she liked sunshine after rain.

All perfectly natural when people were just friends.

Or family.

Or….

Béma.

Elfhelm was was smitten. Lost. And seeing her in another man's arms was making a green tinted rage slide down.

"How did you know Hilde was right for you?"

Elfhelm blinked, and grinned at the sudden change of tack. "Lass irritated me. Constantly. Like a burr below a saddle blanket."

Oh.

Éomer felt a little deflated. Lothíriel didn't irritate so much as unsettle him. Made him blurt out things he'd never thought to share. Wish, ridiculously, for a bard's silver tongue. And worry about the dust upon his tunic and the tangles in his hair. Why he'd even been about to ask a servant if they had the drier wine she liked!

He might not by Elfhelm's definition be in love but by Nahar's shining hooves he wanted to put his fist through Goran's tattooed face.

That counted for something, surely?

Behind, his friend clapped a warm hand upon his shoulder. "It is just a dance."

"I know."

"And you've crushed her toes once before."

"I did not! I was perfectly regally smooth."

Éomer gave a quiet snort. "If I kenned you'd be so nervous I'd have brought Hilde so you could practice right before."

"I don't need practice." I need nerves to interrupt.

Across the hall Arwen had thoughtfully thrown open the long doors. A most welcome breeze wafted the night scent of stocks and the dancers' words across.

"It is said on a day when the wind is perfect, a sail must open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day."Goran paused mid-step to give Lothíriel a courtly bow. "In the light of your beauty I see truly how to love."

Gag. Éomer suddenly felt ill. It could be the ale or the rich seafood. Or not. A gold-dipped tongue and gold rings on every finger were quite enough. Could Lothíriel really cleave to such a man? Goran was barely taller than she was! And did the Haradrim not take more than one bride?

Someone had to save her from such a fate.

He reached out and quickly grabbed whatever the popinjay walking past had upon on his tray. It wasn't bad. A hoppy amber a notch above Minas Tirith's barely fermented water.

Éomer snagged a second. Threw it back. Set both empty cups down upon the tray.

"Hold my glass. And keep the pitcher here."

It might be Gondorian swill but he wasn't going to waste a drop..

~~~000~~~

.

"May I cut in?"

To Éomer's eternal (and relieved) surprise Goran did not put up a fight. The Emperor magnanimously bowed without so much as a quirked shoulder blade, murmured 'my thanks Princess' to a startled Lothíriel and left.

She stood, dove grey eyes wide but not unwelcoming, with an adorably puzzled wrinkle to her nose. The moment stretched, thin and taut as taffy, before she graced him with a solemn nod.

Nienna's mercy.

He stepped in, swept her into his strong arms where she felt right. And perfect. And entirely too enticing. Nestled just beneath his chin he could smell jasmine and sun and sea-wind in her hair.

The sense of home and relief were for a moment dizzying.

They each dropped a hand and turned away, began the slow stately promenade of the court dance. Éomer did his best, back straight and eyes scanning other dancers for the pattern, following along despite the odd distracting prickling of his palm where they had touched.

Did Lothíriel feel it too? Was she discomfited to be partnered by him again? They had not spoken face to face since his sister's wedding, but a quick glance askance showed nothing overtly of concern.

Her shoulders were relaxed. The grip of her fine fingers on his larger ones was firm and steady. The faintest quirk to her lips suggested something was diverting.

He hoped it wasn't his dancing steps.

"Princess, what amuses you so?"

Lothíriel turned and glanced up, eyes glinting in the torchlight. "My Lord, we appear to be dancing."

"And that is funny?"

"Indeed. I thought it not your favourite pastime. Your feet seem to be not listening to your head."

"Actually they are."

A black eyebrow jumped in surprise. "How curious. Six months ago that head would have said dancing was purest torture." The quirk spread into a teasing smile. "Is it growing on you? Like Gondor's beer?"

"Not bloody likely!"

She laughed, low and easy. The sound almost made him lose his grip. "Oh thank Nienna. I was worried you were not Éomer Éomundsson after all!"

"Pardon?! You thought me an imposter?"

"Yes! A perfect copy animated by an evil wizard for some gain. One that loves dancing and claret and my father's sweet sack for dessert."

"Never!" he shuddered in mock horror, thoroughly enjoying their repartee. "I am exactly as you see. A man doing his best to not embarrass himself. And you. Besides, this is more of a walk."

It was. Thank Béma and Erce and every Valar in the Undying Lands. The steps were fairly simple. Forward. Back. Turn away. And back together. Rotate a quarter each time until they circled about the hall. If he was going to make a fool of himself before all of Minas Tirith let it be for a set where he could not accidentally fling the lady across the hall.

She was so tiny and light in his arms it felt almost possible.

They fell back and the set began again. Éomer did his best to focus unobtrusively on his feet, was thrilled when Lothíriel followed smoothly, even helped for a heart-stopping instant with a subtle pressure on his wrist.

How much longer before her second hand came back? He risked a glance down at those captivating eyes and realized they had darkened.

She expected him to say more.

"My pardon Princess if I am quiet. I am concentrating. I am a Rider not a courtier."

"Of course," said Lothíriel encouragingly, "but if this is new to you, I cannot tell. You are doing wonderfully well."

What a relief! He'd not expected Lothiriel to value perfect steps and unctuous compliments above sincerity and spirit, but to hear it, straight, warmed him instantly. Perhaps that smarmy bastard hadn't an edge up after all? Was he not brave? And honourable? A justly proud son of Eorl and a handsome one at that—if the serving girls' giggles were anything to go by.

He had as much to offer a prospective Queen as any man in the Reunited Realms.

"My Lord?"

"Éomer."

"Éomer," she repeated slowly, glancing up shyly as she tried the unfamiliar sounds. The accent was right, and the 'mer' at the end. That she cared enough to not mangle his given name set a happy fizzing through his chest.

"We seem to be speaking with each other."

"We do."

"And we have—corresponded."

He nodded distractedly. Her slim fingers had caught up with his again.

"Then am I to assume that I am forgiven?

Had his actions not told her so? "Gea. Yes. Of course." he answered quickly, wondering if women always need things said. He must remember that if he was to live with one. Éowyn had always been entirely direct, but she was a Shieldmaiden and true daughter of the Mark. Lothíriel was something else—a Princess and a Dúnadan. Used to a world bound by polite politicking and official propriety—no matter the sharks swimming just below the surface.

A slight crease he hadn't noticed smoothed on her pale forehead. They turned. And turned again. Moving faster through each set as the tempo noticeably increased. "Does this go on?" he asked a little worriedly, trying to keep his head up and his boots firmly on the floor.

"Yes. For a quarter candlemark." She grinned at the faintly horrified look on his face. "At the end the dancers' garb and the black pillars will be a blur. So long as you can speak you are coping well."

Béma! A dance just like a Gondorian. What appeared at first innocent was not the same thing by the end. "Talk to me," he pleaded.

Lothíriel laughed but immediately acquiesced. "May I offer my congratulations on your forthcoming niece or nephew."

"Thank you," he replied and meant it. "The news is indeed wonderful. A first child so soon is a blessing from Erce."

"But…?" Her dark head tilted.

The lass had read him expertly again. Éomer paused for a beat, debating. Some details that were personal had already been divulged in their many letters. Why not share his heart? The faint frown and bitten lip, and frank honesty of her tone, told him she could be discreet.

He took a deep breath and plunged. "I was shocked that now their babe will be my heir; had not realized until I saw them so blissfully overjoyed how much I wanted one of my own." Éomer flushed and looked away, voice for an instant thick and heavy with more unsaid. "Not an heir for the royal bloodline you understand. A child of mine. I'd never really thought of it before."

Lothíriel did not seem to find this foolish. "It is a very mortal thing to wish a part of ourselves to carry on. A child is a living symbol of hope. And a couple's love."

Éomer stared down in shock. From nigh twenty years before a skein of memory tugged hard. "You are a living symbol of our love." The words were his mother Théodwyn's—said as rivulets of tears tracked down her cheeks. She had hugged the three of them together, giving what little solace she could. And knowing they would never be four again.

He had to cough to shift the lump that rose in his throat. "Aye, Éowyn and Faramir could not love each other more."

"That they do," Lothíriel smiled gently but then her attention diverted briefly. By the sweet table her younger brothers were teasing a victim once again. Faramir was being plied with the Last Night cakes. Their sweet, teeth-stinging, orange-scented marizpan was dressed with little icing stars. He had downed the first on offer but declined the second one.

"Here, have another. It's small. Hardly more than a bite," urged Amrothos loudly as Erchirion waved the second cake beneath the famous Hurin nose. "Not feeling off are you?"

Éomer shook his head. "What is all that fuss about?"

"Family lore," explained Lothíriel, caught by a helpless bout of giggles. "Of all the people to get sympathetic morning sickness it was Denethor."

"Denethor?!"

Gondor's noble Steward afflicted by morning sickness?!The image was entirely too ridiculous. "Poor bugger," he said with some feeling. Having seen Théodred's Godwyn suffer stoically, he'd not wish the constant malaise on anyone. "Is it hereditary?" he asked, thinking Éowyn would have enough to handle for herself.

Lothíriel shrugged. "Oh Fara's fine. He has a stomach of iron. Eats any sort of fodder scavenged out in the wilds and has sailed on Anduin for years. It was Boromir who hated crossing water." Another shy smile appeared. "Your sister is slowly taking to it."

Sailing? A hard sell indeed. It was not a skill a Rohir acquired. The glacier-fed Snowbourn got its name quite honestly: too icy for swimming on all but hottest days and far too shallow and rocky for navigation. The only sailing he had done was thundering across the Eastfold's sea of grass.

"She is doing as any fine warrior would. Adapting to new terrain as circumstances warrant."

Lothíriel laughed delightedly, looking pointedly around at the neat rows of couples. "As does her brother apparently! You are not even dizzy yet!"

Béma be thanked. The viol's notes climbed and dipped and climbed again, and Éomer found himself hand in hand and face to face with his partner. Her breathy giggle made Lothiriel's chest press a little closer, let him feel the warmth from the blue-green taffeta, the fine bones along her ribs.

Gods. For the first time in months the knot of anxiety that had rudely taken up residence below his heart began to ease, melted like a snowflake in strong sun. He forgot himself and just let his feet move where they would; gave in to the music and the sense that in that moment, everything in the world was well.

They were both grinning and quite breathless when the turning finally stopped.
.

~~~000~~~

.

"Father what are we going to do?"

"Do?" answered Imrahil, guessing the direction of his son's thoughts. Erchirion was frowning mightily at the sight of his little sister quite literally swept off her feet. They sat, Imrahil, Ivriniel, Ivrenna and his younger sons, perusing developments with interest. Elphir and Mareth had shepherded the little ones to bed. Faramir and Éowyn were 'taking some air' out on a secluded balcony. Aragorn was talking salt and trade with Goran's aide. Out on the polished marble of the hall Dol Amroth's youngest princess was receiving more than her fair share of shirty looks from heavily coiffed, prow-fronted matrons.

Their precious Miriels were sitting idly pretty and perfumed and mostly ignored by the two most eligible bachelors in the room.

Vultures, he thought privately to himself, relieved that Elphir was happily attached and that Amrothos and Erchirion had followed protocol. Each had danced with a partner only once, showed no outward favouritism. Unlike Thiri. He sighed. He was, it had to be admitted, not sure that he was ready for that development. Arwen's question about tradition had been much on Imrahil's mind of late.

The girl who had run wild since her mother's death might have blossomed into a poised and confident young woman, but her doting father was not entirely happy about this step through the next door of life.

The last chick was ready to fly the nest. Where had the coltish daughter gone who had chased her elder brothers with dark braids flying and half undone?

"We need to be prepared," insisted Erchirion, jerking his head in the direction of the dance of floor. "I'd wager every inch of Westwind that Goran will ask for her hand and my warhorse that Éomer will too."

"I believe that you may be right." Arwen smiled as she gracefully sank into a seat beside Ivrenna. The Duchess was enjoying the spectacle immensely. She had a drink and dessert and an uninterrupted view of more black breeches than she'd seen in months.

"She would be foolish to not consider them both. Both are strong, and honest, and shrewd. And positively edible," declared Ivrenna, as always delightfully indecent at her age. She admired the intricate shoulder knots of Rohan's dress tunic and its hem of Béma's running stags. "I would be quite happy to be given to either one, but a uniform does so make a man. There is something magnetic about the look."

"Provided it isn't held up by months of sweat and dirt."

Did Arwen mean the King? Dol Amroth's Ruling Prince was not certain that he was certain that he'd like to know. It might prove an unfortunate image at the council table.

"Emperor Goran is also a catch," Amrothos added. "And he's clearly keen on an alliance."

"Exactly." Erchiron took a long pull of his dark beer. "If one or both of them asks for her hand, how will we settle the Bride Price and such?"

"How?" Imrahi felt mildly shocked by his son's obtuseness. "By haggling. Masterfully. As we always do. No Dol Amroth Princess ever leaves without a substantial dowry, but the Stewards and Tolfalas," he inclined his head toward his aunt, "gave up much for the honour of their hands."

"Denethor gave Finduilas his family's entire estate in Emyn Arnen. And all the lands about," noted Ivriniel drily. "Imrahil can get the back legs off a stallion if he so chooses."

Arwen raised her cup. "Possibly literally in this case."

The whole table laughed yet Erchirion was clearly much bothered by the lack of a formal rite. "Are you certain there is nothing formal?"

"Absolutely." Ivrenna tapped her stick on the floor. "Dol Amroth Princesses know their own hearts.. And their fathers dote on them."

Imrahil could not help but nod. "'Tis true. I can deny her nothing. But I trust Thiri to know her own mind. Besides, given our history of quite literally stealing brides—the first Prince, Imrazor, is reputed to have locked Mithrellas in a tower—we are hardly in a position to quibble at another's fair offering."

Erchirion flushed. "But we can't hand our sister over to just anyone like a sack of sardines in the market!"

"I don't know, she sort of sort of smells like them after a day in Aunt Rini's wards."

Ivriniel reached across and thumped Amrothos hard.

"Can't we think of something?" he said, rubbing at his arm. "I feel somehow that we would be losing face. That contest was a cracker."

It was a fair point. As one the Dol Amroth crew turned to the Dowager Duchess.

Ivrenna paused to take a sip of quite good brandy. ""We do have a certain reputation for taking what we want. However, the one thing that comes mind is the Water Test."

"The what?!" asked the Dol Amroth Princes in unison.

"The Water test. It is the only vaguely similar tradition that I know of, and an unofficial one at that. The Princesses of late have all tried to drown their suitors."

Arwen almost choked. Imrahil stared in disbelief and his sons looked shocked but interested. Ivrenna, warming to the subject, took a breath and continued on. "It came about as part of an irregular tradition for the princesses of the family to take their suitors out for a sail. It had certain advantages: weeded out the entirely unsuitable; and allowed them to be happily unchaperoned. The first time was quite by accident. Your great great aunt Idril, Angelimir's youngest, took out Lord Pinnath's youngest son and a storm blew up. Poor sod wound up lashed to the mast. Most embarrassing. And obviously an impossible match. Her sister Merelan then quite literally half drowned the attentions of a tiresome ass whose name I can't recall. As for Galathon and myself—" she blushed a most becoming shade of pink," there was nothing either of us needed to learn about sailing. But we did see if we could calm the waves together."

"Calm the waves?" asked Arwen in all innocence.

Imrahil's eyebrows shot into his hairline. It was not a phrase a queen, much less a princess, used in polite company. Ivriniel rolled her eyes and Amrothos and Erchirion suddenly felt a burning need to inspect Merethrond's impressive ceiling.

"What does it mean?"

Ivrenna was only too happy to explain. "Uinen is said to have calmed storms by distracting Ossë with kisses and caresses. Belfalas lads and lasses have been testing the effect for generations."

The queen was most intrigued. "This tradition has continued recently?"

"Oh yes. Finduilas reduced three young lords to quivering wrecks before Denethor came along. And he was far from immune. As a man who disliked being out of control it was a singular experience. I suspect only his stubborn iron will kept him in the boat." Ivrenna chuckled. "The spar nearly come off, his fingers were so tight. Sadly I have no daughters to continue the tradition. Lothíriel will be the last for a long while."

"And a good thing, too," muttered Imrahil, starting to be somewhat aghast at direction the conversation was wandering. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I confess this 'tradition' went unnoticed, at least by me."

"And thankfully our Father," muttered Ivriniel below her breath.

"It is a bit unpropitious given Amroth drowned trying to find his lady love."

Ivrenna frowned. "Quite, dear nephew. But it is all suggestion that I have. If you wish for some formal and historical rite of vetting suitors Lothíriel will need to test their seaworthiness"

Imrahil's brow furrowed deeply as he threw his own brandy back. It sounded like trouble looking for a home. "So you propose she take each man out for a sail upon the bay before their offers can be accepted? "

"Exactly."

The full import began to sink in. A King of the grasslands and an Emperor of the barren sands were going to be put in a boat. Piloted solo by the young Princess.

Her family around the table paled as one.

Lothíriel sailed just the way she rode.

At speed and without care for life and limb.

Erchirion broke into a grin.

"It's perfect!"
.


"Násië." Is Quenya for 'Amen"

A Hammathen is a short white samite kilt worn by the Faithful of Numenor as a secret symbol of their allegiance to the Valar. You can find it's story in The Bride Price 1

Haradan is a term I have made up for a man of Harad.. using the suffix –dan, as it is used in Dunadan etc.

Goran's words to Lothiriel about sails and beauty are a quote from my favourite poet Rumi.

I am trying to make this congruent with the Emyn Arnen Yule series..hence Faramir and Éowyn's happy news. The eagle-eyed among you will recognize Goran as Najir's nephew from Captains and Pawns. He was the only male of the Qahtani Tribe to escape into the desert and avoid bowing to the priests and the Red Serpent. My headcanon is that Elessar trusted him as one of the Faithful, and supported him in uniting Harad under a new rule, once the people were free of Sauron's puppets.

Thank you so very much to Busya, Mishka2, and Nymphae for favouriting and to all who followed and reviewed Chapter 1!

As always Annafan and Wheelrider are my amazing sounding boards and Carawyn and Gwynnyd are wonderful cheerleaders.

If a parody of this appears featuring a Chris Hemsworth-Éomer muttering 'Not Again' as his dancing partner literally flies across the hall, IT IS ALL CARAWYN's FAULT! XD…