A/N: Hello hello! Chiming in to say hi~

This story was inspired by two works by hannah_jpg: Crawling Towards the Sun and Tell Me How (ch3/4 of Drabbles). I really like reactionary writing—it's a fascinating study in terms, but in this case all the terms are fun É/L stories :3

I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

T.A. 3019
May 1

A Northman was pacing in the throne room.

Lothíriel had paused from her trip down the long staircase of the Tower of Ecthelion when she heard her new king's voice through the door to the gallery. She had been going through her uncle's study at the tower's summit now that her father had taken away all of the important documents. No one seemed to mind if she read through Denethor's more trivial correspondence. Denethor's private life interested no one, not now that a new king had come among them.

Two new kings, really, if you counted the king of Rohan.

She had pushed open the door just enough to see down into the throne room, and after a moment realized that it was the king of Rohan who was pacing in the hall. Lothíriel's heart thumped in her chest; King Elessar was speaking to his counterpart, but she couldn't make out any of his words.

After a minute, the Northman stopped pacing. He turned on his heels to speak and Lothíriel saw his face clearly for the first time.

Éomer was just as she remembered. As before, he was proud and tall and gloriously handsome. She caught her breath and stared at him with wide eyes, mindless of her surroundings. His beard was shorter now, and his face was more careworn, but for all that his eyes still glinted with keen intelligence. How she could have missed his good looks when she first saw him here? She couldn't imagine. Perhaps her nerves had gotten the better of her. From the fluttering in her stomach, she wondered if that was the case now, too.

The sound of footsteps behind her, much more audible than the voices in the hall, made her jump back from the door. She whirled around and found herself face to face with her brother Amrothos, who smirked.

"Spying again?" he said. "I thought you swore off of that old habit."

Old habit? There was nothing so casual about her last two years in Minas Tirith, keeping her nose to the ground and her eyes on her increasingly troubled uncle. Amrothos spoke as though she had enjoyed misleading Denethor and his councilors with her feigned innocence at the deteriorating state of affairs in Gondor. But as helpful as she knew she had been in keeping her father fully apprised of the situation, her work on Imrahil's behalf had brought her nothing but doubt and grief. How could she shrug off lying to her own kin?

Face flushed, Lothíriel flounced past her brother and headed down the steps. "I wasn't spying, I was just curious. No one was supposed to be in there, so when I heard voices I went and looked! There's no harm in it."

Amrothos soon caught up to her with his longer legs. "I could have told you. It's just Éomer."

"Well, you weren't there, were you?"

He shrugged.

"Anyway, I saw him for myself," Lothíriel said. They left the Tower through a side door, and Amrothos tucked her arm through his.

"That's right, I forgot. You've seen him before."

Lothíriel nodded but said nothing. She had not told even her father the details of her encounter with Éomer, nor even that she'd met him in person at all. For all her family knew, she had spied on his meeting with her uncle. All she had relayed was the message Éomer had given her. She could still remember his words: There are those in Rohan who will not forsake the oaths of our fathers.

And just a month and a half ago, all Gondor had learned the truth of Éomer's words when his people had ridden from their homeland to break the siege of Minas Tirith. Lothíriel had been gone from Minas Tirith even before Mithrandir arrived; her uncle had sent her away to Lossarnach with the rest of the women and children and elderly. She hadn't gotten back to the city until a few days ago, when she accompanied the last group of returning refugees. Minas Tirith without Denethor was a more daunting prospect than she could bear, not to mention the idea of a new king from the north usurping her cousin's place as Gondor's leader.

But Lothíriel had gleaned from her family's letters that they all thought Elessar, as he was called now, was worthy of the throne. He had saved Faramir, fought with Boromir, freed Pelargir from the Corsairs, and led the armies of Gondor and Rohan to the Black Gate. If her father approved, her cousin approved, and the people approved, there was nothing to do but accept it. Or try to, at least.

Amrothos, meanwhile, was already onto a new topic. "Are you looking forward to the feast tonight?"

"The feast? I suppose. I don't like crowds. And they don't use enough spices in Minas Tirith."

"Aie, isn't that the truth! I visited Faramir in the Houses of Healing a few weeks ago and the stew was blander than stillwater! And you should have seen our mother struggle to smile through dinner with Lord Húrin the night before you arrived. His veal tasted like chicken!"

Lothíriel joined her brother in roundly insulting the cuisine of Minas Tirith. If nothing else, she thought, at least this would make her smile.

. .

. .

Before she'd been at the feast for twenty minutes, Lothíriel was regretting ever leaving Lossarnach. Her head was pounding. Merethrond, the great feasting hall, had never been so full. Soldiers, lords, and ladies were packed tightly; lively troubadours were playing into the gallery above. No one was bothering to keep their voices down.

As soon as she was free from the obligatory greeting of her cousin Faramir and the new king, Lothíriel slipped away from her family and secluded herself behind one of the columns along the edge of the room. It was still noisy, but she was at least spared the overwhelming sight of hundreds of people. Great gatherings at the palace in Dol Amroth had been difficult for her, but at least then she'd had some companions. Some of them had come with their families to Minas Tirith to celebrate the new king, but there was little for Lothíriel to say to them. What could they possible talk of? They had no notion of how her life had been over the last two years. She felt as removed from her former friends as if she were still hundreds of miles away. They seemed more interested in everyone else, and Lothíriel could hardly blame them. Joyous as the celebration was, she was still sullen. Her uncle had been her closest companion, and now he was gone. No one else seemed to feel it as she did, not even Faramir. His newfound lady had cured him of his woe, but Lothíriel had no such luck. Denethor's death hung almost as heavily upon her now as it did when she'd first heard of it.

Time passed, and the crowd swelled with greater numbers. Lothíriel stayed put. However bland the food might be, the smells of the buffet at the far end of the hall wafted seductively. But there was no way she was going to elbow her way through the crowd on her own. Her mother was busy helping play hostess, and her father was busy politicking. If Amrothos ever found her, she'd ask for his assistance. But Lothíriel couldn't spot him. After a few minutes, she abandoned the search for her brother and turned her eyes to the door.

Every so often, a couple would slip into her hiding spot holding hands or with their arms around each other. She didn't mean to frighten anyone away, but they always stopped short at the sight of her and quickly left her alone. After the third such instance, Lothíriel reached up to touch her face. Was there something stuck to her? No, nothing. Maybe her gloom was more obvious than she thought.

Lothíriel kept an eye on the entrance, but she didn't spot the one face she most hoped to see. She worried the inside of her lip, frowning.

Where was Éomer? He hadn't been with King Elessar, nor with Faramir. And even though Lothíriel was hardly tall enough to see most people's faces, she should have been been able to see Éomer. He was as tall as Elessar, and she could pick her king out of the crowd at once. She stood on tiptoes and peered around one last time.

No luck.

She thumped back against the column and squeezed her eyes shut with disappointment. Even if Éomer did show up, he probably wouldn't care whether he saw her or not. From all she'd heard, he'd had a busy two years fighting orcs and wild men. All she'd done was stay holed up in Minas Tirith. She couldn't imagine that their encounter was as compelling for him as it had been for her. How often had she run through their discussion? How often had she thought of him? No doubt far more often than he had ever thought of her.

"There you are! I wondered where you'd snuck off to."

Amrothos's cheery voice made Lothíriel jump. She spun to face him. Finally! He could take her to the buffet.

"I…"

Her voice caught in her throat. Just behind Amrothos stood Éomer, looking at her intently. She stared up at him. Éomer was as handsome up close as she remembered, his blue eyes just as keen. He held a pewter goblet full of rich Amrothian wine, and he wore a golden circlet across his forehead. His long golden hair was half tied up, but much of it flowed freely over his broad shoulders. Lothíriel swallowed.

Amrothos was amused at her silence. "You always have been tongue-tied with strangers." He pulled Éomer forward and presented him to Lothíriel with a bow. Louder, he said, "Sister, here is Éomer, King of Rohan. Éomer, here is my sister, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

"We've met," Éomer said. His voice was light despite the intensity of his gaze.

"Really?" Amrothos glanced between them. "I didn't realize."

Éomer turned to Amrothos and put a large hand on his shoulder blade. "Perhaps you will get your sister a drink." He walked forward, pushing Amrothos away as he did.

"Well, I suppose…"

Amrothos meandered off, glancing back at them with eyebrows raised.

Lothíriel watched her brother go. Once he was swallowed by the crowd, she turned slowly back to Éomer. He was close to her now, only a couple feet away. The noise of the crowd seemed to quiet against the pounding of her heart in her ears. With effort, she drew her gaze up to his face. He wasn't smiling.

"Hello again," he said. His voice was low, but she could hear him perfectly. He stared at her.

"Hello," she said. She knit her fingers together, shy under his scrutiny. The last time she had seen him, she had worn a youth's high collar on her dress and her hair in a net. Now she was grown, and although her body had hardly changed since their last encounter, she knew she must look different. A fitted bodice, a low neckline, her hair flowing loose down her back… Éomer had called her a foolish girl, but there was no mistaking her for a girl now.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, and then they both spoke at once.

"I looked for y—" he began.

"I didn't think—"

They stopped as one, and Lothíriel bit her lip. She gestured for Éomer to continue.

"You never told your family how we met," he said.

Lothíriel shook her head. Was he disappointed? She couldn't tell. Yet he must not have mentioned it either. She wondered at it—he had grown quite close with her father and brothers over the last month and a half, after all. She wondered too what he had originally been going to say, but she didn't have the nerve to ask.

Éomer waited for her to respond, but she kept quiet. He glanced past her at the crowd. "You do not mingle?"

"No." She shuddered at the thought. "There are too many. And I don't know what to say to them." Under her breath, she added, "They're all so happy."

He stepped beside her to look across the room, and after watching him for a moment, she did the same. Not far away, a gaggle of soldiers were cheerfully wooing a clump of young women; Lothíriel spotted some of her former companions among them. Elsewhere, her eldest brother was in talk with Faramir. No one looked anywhere near as gloomy as she'd been all evening. She sighed.

Éomer put a hand lightly on her arm, and she turned back to him. He was still turned toward the crowd, frowning a little at some people nearby who were watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

"You are right, there are too many. Will you walk with me?"

Lothíriel hesitated. Amrothos would miss them, and the people watching them would talk. But the prospect of fresh air and open space was too tempting to turn down. "If you will lead the way out," she said.

"Of course." Éomer pulled her arm through his and led her through the crowd. Somehow, a path appeared before them as they headed to toward the doors. Éomer deftly set his goblet on a servant's tray. Lothíriel clung to Éomer's broad arm—even with her hand just in the crook of his elbow, she could feel how strong he was—and glanced at his face. No wonder the crowd parted before them; Éomer's expression brokered no argument. His eyebrows were drawn low, and his face was severe even when he nodded to his own men. Lothíriel gaped up at him. He did look down at her once before they made it to the door, and he shot her a shadow of a smile that made her blush and look away.

By the time they made it outside and past the clump of people near the doors, Lothíriel was overheated and short of breath. Even with a relatively clear path, the room was too warm, and Éomer was so tall that she had to skip to keep up. Fortunately, he slowed to a more reasonable pace now that they were outside. He led her quite a distance from Merethrond before he stopped.

They were alone in the shadow of the Tower of Ecthelion. The sun had set, though it was still fairly light out. Lothíriel hesitated; she did not want to let him go. She felt as though he was the only person in Minas Tirith who might understand how she was feeling, and if she let him go, the connection she felt would break.

How silly of her to think so! Éomer was almost a stranger. He wasn't the embodiment of her hopes and dreams. Lothíriel shook her head sharply and pulled her arm back. She walked to the tower and pressed her hand to the marble, staring unhappily at the white stone.

Éomer came and leaned against the tower to watch her. "You are still troubled," he said, scratching his beard. "Why? We are free from the crowd."

"It's not…" She squeezed her eyes shut. What could she say? She was too shy to talk about how she felt about him. She cast about for something, anything to answer with. "It's so strange. So much has changed so quickly, and no one seems to be thinking of the old days but me."

He whistled low. "That is not true."

Lothíriel flushed. "Well, no one I know."

Éomer said nothing. He looked back to Merethrond, face drawn inward. Lothíriel kicked herself and turned away. Stupid! Éomer was clearly as plagued as she was, but she couldn't find the words to express sympathy. It was as though she'd forgotten how to speak what she felt. She'd spent so long acting as her uncle wished: dutiful, obedient, unassuming… Expressing whatever her uncle wished her to, lest he regard her with the same displeasure he usually reserved for fools and Faramir. After two years of forging her own feelings, Lothíriel felt like the girl who had met Éomer in a dark room and boldly declared her purpose was beyond her reach. It was one thing to go back to the old ways with Amrothos—teasing and sarcasm and defensive retorts were all well and good. She'd lived eighteen years with her brother. But with Éomer, she had nothing to fall back on. The only thing she had with him was one brief memory.

The silence stretched on and on. Her stomach twisted into knots and she dug her balled-up hands into her ribs. Why on earth had she come out here with him?

Why couldn't she think of a single thing to say?

She turned her head just enough to look over her shoulder. Éomer was even more grim than he had been when forging through the crowd, and a cloud of grief hung heavily over his face as surely as it did over hers. So why was he blessed with courage and skill, and she was cursed to be a frightened fool?

"You know," Éomer said suddenly, and Lothíriel jumped, "you were less fearful before."

"What!" She turned to face him, incredulous. "You held a knife to my throat, and you say I am more afraid now than I was then?"

He waved this away. "You were only afraid as long as the knife was out. But now…" He stepped closer, and she struggled to remain calm at his closeness. If she reached out, she could touch him. "You are practically shaking."

"I am not afraid," she said stubbornly. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin to look him in the eye. His eyes, so downcast before, glinted with amusement, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Well, if I am, it's only because I don't know what to say."

"No?"

Lothíriel shrugged, arms still crossed. Éomer leaned back against the Tower of Ecthelion again and crossed his hands behind his back. Cautiously, Lothíriel did the same about a foot away.

"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" he said. He sounded resigned.

"It never felt so long ago as it feels right now," she said. She stared at her feet. The gulf between them that she had feared was looming ahead, racing towards her like a wall of darkness.

"Well, it has been longer now than ever before," he pointed out.

A smile flitted across her face. "True. But…" She looked at him again. He was right there, handsome and solid and real, and Lothíriel was rendered speechless once more. She stared up into his bright blue eyes. It was as though she was falling into them.

"What is it?" he asked.

She swallowed and lost her courage. "A lot has happened," she said lamely. Her gaze slid away from him. "After we met, things only got worse. And I couldn't do anything about it. All I could do was wait and see, and obey my uncle, and—"

"Your uncle?!" Éomer recoiled. "You stayed with him?"

"Yes?"

Éomer looked disgusted. He kept his distance.

Lothíriel sighed. "He was unkind to you, and mistrustful, and I am sorry he was. You did not deserve it. But he was still my uncle. I loved him. And he was glad to have me near him."

"So you became his lackey?"

"What? No!" Lothíriel said. "I was useful to—"

"There you are!"

Lothíriel sprang away from the tower at the sound of Amrothos's voice ringing across the courtyard. He strode towards them holding a goblet, which he held out to Lothíriel as soon as he was close enough. She took the drink reluctantly. She was too confused to give her brother the glare he deserved. Why did he have to come just when she was trying to explain herself?

Lothíriel glanced up at Éomer; his face was unreadable, and he was beyond arm's reach now. Her stomach sank. There was so much she had wanted to say, but her feelings were at more of a distance now than Éomer himself.

"I know it was crowded, but you might have warned me you were leaving," Amrothos said. He led them back towards the hall, chattering about everyone he'd seen in his search for them. Even as they stepped into the light spilling from Merethrond, Lothíriel could read nothing in Éomer's face. He was only listening politely to her brother, barely sparing a glance for her even when she willed him to look at her.

"Excuse me," she managed, and fled.

She didn't have the heart to turn to see if he was watching her go.