Chapter 2

May 3017, Minas Tirith

The light blue gown was not much finer than the rest of her clothes. It was made of velvet and its long, wide sleeves were of thin lace, but otherwise it only hinted the grandeur some Gondorian women were married with. However, Lothíriel herself had demanded that her wedding gown be nothing too extravagant. Like the ceremony itself would be, so would she dress simply.

After all, it was not a king that she was marrying, and she did not think he'd appreciate her parading about like she thought herself something important.

She had yet to meet her future husband, though. As it had been agreed, the wedding would take place in Minas Tirith: that was according to her Father something like a middle ground to signify the symbolic nature of this marriage (it was scary how much he sounded like Lord Denethor when he made that point, and no doubt it was something the Steward himself had said). The celebrations would be small at best and the attendees would consist of her family, her uncle and his sons, and what high nobility happened to be in residence. The Marshal would probably travel with a small retinue, so the Rohirric guests would likely be men who rode with him. Once the deed was done, they'd stay in the White City for few days... and then, the great unknown awaited them.

That was what terrified Lothíriel the most. She had no idea of what to expect, how she would be received, or even what kind of place it was she'd go with her future husband. It was precisely that at the moment which had her constantly hesitating and thinking that she'd say no, she would not become a wife to this man.

As she fingered the sleeve of the gown absently, she wondered for the hundredth time why she had ever agreed to do this. Oh, yes: it was because Aredhel had gotten to her, like the older woman always did. She did not blame her sister-in-law, because she knew the older woman only meant well. Somehow, Aredhel had made it sound like Lothíriel was actually doing something worthwhile, that she was making a difference. But how could that be true? It did not change what was going to happen, after all. For the truth was that she was about to marry a stranger and somehow everyone was convinced that it was a good thing. How was she supposed to improve the relations between Gondor and Rohan when she had no idea of how she'd even receive her husband-to-be? She had not the slightest idea of what kind of man he actually was, not beyond what Master Metodlác had told her father and her cousins upon his visit. A letter had come from Rohan, delivered by one of their riders, announcing that Marshal Éomer had received a word of the agreement made between King Théoden's messenger and Steward Denethor. He had accepted it as well, which had killed Lothíriel's last hope; she had secretly wished maybe he wouldn't be so compliant and would refuse to marry a stranger. She had seen the letter, composed in neat and angular hand that could very well be the man's own, and written in formal and cool words that did nothing to console her.

"Oh, Valar", she moaned to herself and threw herself on her bed in yet another bout of helpless regret. Currently, she was residing in the palace, in the very room where she'd also spend her wedding night (though that was something she tried not to think of). Apparently her uncle thought she should stay here instead of the house that belonged to her father. When they had arrived from Dol Amroth, Uncle Denethor had given her a big speech about how she was now on the threshold of something great, and how she was leaving behind her childhood et cetera, and then he had given her a firm look that suffered no arguments. At that point she had just been subdued and she had not really found it in herself to argue, so she had let the servants take her to the chambers that had been prepared for her and the Marshal.

Marshal Éomer. When she pictured him, all she could see was some yellow-haired brute who was eagerly rubbing his ungentle hands together and waiting for when he got to bed the delicate Gondorian princess. The idea filled her with such revulsion that she wanted to run for the wild, screaming as she went.

Hands squeezing into fists, she rolled to her side and ground her teeth. Father, why do you make me do this? But then, she knew she couldn't blame him. Aredhel had been right to say that he was upset about this as well. When Lothíriel had stopped to actually look, she had seen the expression on her dear father's face, and she finally understood how it hurt him to send her to a foreign land and an unknown fate. In this game her father was just as powerless as she was.

The tears threatened to pour out once again, but luckily there was a knock on the door then, and Aredhel's voice called: "Lothíriel? May I come in?"

"Of course", she answered and sat up, taking deep breaths in an attempt to push the tears away. Her sister-in-law didn't need to think she had yet again almost started to bawl out her eyes, nor did Lothíriel wish for any more pity than they already gave her. Aredhel entered the chamber, wearing that same empathetic smile that was on her face most of the time these days. She was finally starting to get back some colour and Lothíriel noted she looked stronger as well. The birth of little Alphros had not been the easiest, and Elphir had tried to convince his wife to stay in Dol Amroth. But she had insisted on coming along and nothing had managed to change her mind. Luckily the conditions on the ship from Dol Amroth had been most comfortable, so Aredhel had been able to rest and get back her health.

"Hello, sister", Aredhel greeted her and came to sit beside the younger woman. She cast a look at the pale blue gown that was hanging nearby, as if a flag of doom. She looked back to the princess, "How are you feeling?"

Lothíriel shrugged.

"I'm contemplating going into hysterics and throwing myself out of the window", she joked weakly. It did not make Aredhel smile. Instead, the older woman looked at her in concern.

"Lothíriel..." she started gently, but the princess quickly interrupted her; there was no need to have this conversation again.

"It's fine. I'll be all right", she said, though she wasn't so sure it was true – perhaps it would be, if she repeated it enough. Aredhel wrapped her arms about Lothíriel and hugged her tight.

"You're very brave, sister", she said softly.

"I don't think so", said the younger woman listlessly. "I'm scared, Aredhel."

"I know, Lothíriel. But that's just what bravery is – doing something even when it scares you", Aredhel murmured, stroking her hair and holding her in a way one's mother might have.

"It's too late to turn back now, isn't it?" Lothíriel asked quietly. She could not hide the weakness in her voice, and sweet Elbereth, how she wished that her sister-in-law might have told her otherwise! But she saw the look in Aredhel's eyes, and she knew she had to walk this path.

"Yes. I fear it is so", said her brother's wife. She rested a hand on Lothíriel's shoulder, "It'll get easier. Not right away, perhaps, but in time it will. I promise."

Lothíriel sighed and nodded, not sure how much of those words was just comfort and how much was truth. She had no idea of how it could get easier.

"Now, it is late. Try and have some rest", Aredhel said and got up.

"Has there been any sign of them yet?" asked the princess warily.

"Not yet. Perhaps the Marshal will arrive tomorrow", her sister-in-law said. She patted Lothíriel's shoulder, "Go to sleep, dear sister."

"Mm. Yes. Good night", mumbled the younger woman, and Aredhel quietly exited the bedchamber. When she was gone, silence fell in the room again, and Lothíriel wandered over to the window.

The city was quiet and the night was falling. Maybe as soon as tomorrow her husband-to-be would arrive... and the wedding would take place, and her life would be irrevocably tied to that of a strange man from north.

Lothíriel stood by the window for a long time, staring out into the darkening evening. The passage of time also turned her heart heavier and heavier, until it felt like there was a rock in her chest that painfully hammered against her breast. This time it did not induce tears, however, but a grim certainty of what she had to do.

Uncle Denethor may very well conjure his little schemes, but she did not have to play along. No. Perhaps there was a chance for her... perhaps she could seize her own fate, if she so wanted.

She could try at least.

It was some time before midnight when she tiptoed into the stables of the Citadel. It was silent as ever and she had only seen couple of guards on her way; she had hidden behind some pillars and so she had been able to come here unnoticed.

Lothíriel knew it was a dangerous and probably also a foolish thing that she was about to do. Riding out all alone in the middle of night was not something a young, unarmed woman should do... and in all honesty, she had no idea yet of how she'd smart her way through the City gate. However, Lothíriel was reassuring herself that she'd come up with something. She'd think of that once she got so far.

And even if she was caught... well, it might just convince her uncle that she was about the worst choice for a bride. Surely the Marshal wouldn't appreciate it either, would he? He'd demand to have someone else, and she could go home and forget about this all.

Clutching her bundle of clothes and food to her chest, she walked past the stalls: if she hoped she'd even reach the bottom level tonight, she'd have to ride a horse. As she did not have one of her own here in Minas Tirith, she'd have to steal a steed. That was what she disliked about the whole thing the most, but it couldn't be helped. Hopefully she would be able to make up for it later.

She stopped by a large grey stallion and instantly recognised the animal's quality. Strong he looked and graceful, with powerful chest and coat that showed his master cared for him most diligently. He was arguably the most impressive horse she had ever seen, but the look the stallion gave her had the princess immediately moving forwards. A steed with a look so foul would only mean trouble and she wondered who could possibly own such an animal – unless his owner was just as foul.

But then Lothíriel saw the mare, and all thoughts of ill-tempered stallions left her. The animal was beautiful, and her coat was so dark it looked black, with a white sock on each feet. The princess knew right away she was the one and she'd have given anything to have the mare for herself instead of just borrowing her. Pulling an apple from her bundle, she carefully began to approach the animal and spoke in quiet Sindarin to keep her calm. The mare watched her curiously and eagerly accepted her gift; grinning to herself, Lothíriel petted the horse's neck. But Elbereth, this animal was beautiful! She had not known the Steward had such horses in his stables.

The mare gently scrabbled at her hand in the hopes of another treat, but she couldn't really shower the animal with her supplies. Quickly enough, she found a saddle for the horse. She picked it up and made her way back towards the stall when suddenly a hand fell on her shoulder.

Lothíriel acted more out of an instinct than thought. She dropped the saddle and grabbed the dagger hanging on her belt – she had "borrowed" it from the armoury back in Dol Amroth. She leapt around and lifted the weapon to threat whoever it was behind her.

He moved just as fast as she did, jumping back at the sight of her dagger. Actually, it was surprising just how fast he moved, given the sheer size of the man. He must have been well over 6 feet tall and on the top of that, he was wide-shouldered and strongly built. Just looking at him she knew he was a man of war; she had grown up among warriors and knew the bearing of a man trained in the arts of battle. But he had something more, and that something was what she could only call grace. Even in the dim light of the stables, the princess could see he was not a Gondorian man. His fair hair and his clothes marked him as one of the Rohirrim. His eyes were dark and alert and he looked at her as though he still expected she might attack him anyway.

"Before you stick that blade of yours in me, might I at least know why are you stealing a horse?" he asked in fluent Westron; she could not even hear an accent in his speech. Deciding he was no threat she sheathed the dagger again.

"What makes you think I'm stealing it?" she asked quickly, trying to come up with something to distract this man and get rid of him. She really did not have a time for this now, and she did not want him raising an alarm. Her question made him lift his eyebrows.

"Just the fact that I know this horse belongs to the Third Marshal of the Mark, and I am fairly sure he did not intend anyone to take it away in the middle of night", he said, studying her face intently.

Damn. What should she say now? Of course the horse would be one of theirs – she should have known the moment she saw the mare. Gondorians just did not have steeds of that quality. And the Rohirrim valued their horses beyond anything, so it did not seem so likely that the Marshal would receive the news of her attempted theft too kindly.

"Fine. I'll leave his precious horse", Lothíriel said and lifted her chin. Perhaps confidence was the way around this – or rather the way around him.

"But you intend to just move to the next horse as soon as I turn my back, don't you?" asked the insufferable man.

"That is none of your business. Now if you'd excuse me", she said and tried to push past him, but he cut her way by stepping on the front of her.

"I do believe it is, if you are in the mind of stealing horses", he told her.

"Let me pass", Lothíriel demanded and tried to step past him, but again he moved to block her way.

"Not before you tell me who you are and what this is about", said the Rohir patiently, and she could tell he wouldn't let her go before she had given him a satisfactory answer. At least it was starting to look like he wasn't going to call the guards.

"I'm just someone who is trying to choose her own path", she mumbled quietly. He was silent for a while, but all the while he watched her. She noted his eyes were very vivid and intense. When he looked at her like that, she felt trapped somehow... and like he were staring into her soul.

"I do not understand why you'd choose the one that would make a lawbreaker of you", he pointed out.

"I'd make up for it later. I just don't have a choice now – not when they are making me do something I can't", she said. Her voice was sadder than she had intended, which made her feel embarrassed. She had not meant to tell this man any sob stories.

"They? Who is making you do and what?" he asked. Now there was some curiosity to his voice, which rang in deep and rich tones.

"My family, of course. Who else? Everyone says it's for the greater good, but what about my good? I don't want to be anyone's pawn, not in this game", she ranted angrily and grimaced.

"We're all pawns in someone's game", said the tall Rohir and she couldn't really tell what the colour of his voice was. If he empathised with her, she couldn't tell. He frowned, "And not many have the chance of delivering others."

"So you think I'm bad and selfish for not being strong enough to take that road? That I have no right to be scared out of my mind?" Lothíriel asked, her voice rising as her frustration and anger threatened to take over again. But then she realised shouting would only alarm the guards and that was not something she wanted. And anyway, it wasn't like this man was to be blamed for her situation.

He watched her quietly, and suddenly he looked sad and weary. In his eyes there moved a nameless shadow of burdens she couldn't name. However, his voice was not forgiving.

"What makes you think the right choice should ever be easy or light one?" he asked; the look of sadness passed from his face and his features became hard.

"I just..." Lothíriel tried, but found she could not find words. "I'd just like to know why me."

He laughed, but the sound was bitter and sharp.

"Because fates are not kind and I can assure you that they will be even less so if you start stealing things that don't belong to you. Now, I'd suggest you return to your family and fulfil your duty to them, unless you want to pay for your freedom with your life... which is surely what will happen to you if ride you alone into the night. Do not be so naïve as to think yours is the only sad fate in this world", he said and finally, he stepped aside to make her way.

Lothíriel did not know why, but that was what finally broke her spirit. Tears burning her eyes, she grabbed her bundle against her chest and ran out, and she only stopped when she was back in her chamber. There, she fell down on the bed and she cried until there were no more tears to be shed.

Originally, the plan had been to make camp and spend the night by road, but as they had made such fast journey that day and Mundburg was so close, Éomer decided it would have been waste of time to settle down one more time when they could reach the White City this night. That meant more comfortable lodgings and a chance for rest before the introductions of tomorrow, and so they had ridden until nightfall.

He had never seen Mundburg before. True, it was an impressive sight, standing tall and proud and facing the east as if in a challenge. But as his éored rode closer and entered the city, he could not help but notice the silence and the heaviness of the atmosphere. It was a cold city, he thought to himself: foreign and somehow unwelcoming. And then there was the shadow, always looming in the east, even deeper than the twilight of the dying day.

Despite himself, he wondered if the bride he had come for would be like that as well.

Their arrival was evidently expected, as they were allowed to ride through each of the city's many gates. Still, he took note of incredulous faces of those who were still up and about in this hour, and Éomer knew the reason for those looks. These days it was not often that the Rohirrim visited the capital of Gondor, and especially not in such large quantities.

The reception was friendly, though. Lord Denethor himself bid them welcome to the White City, and Éomer was then introduced to the Steward's sons. Boromir and Faramir were tall and their looks had strength, just like their father. He also recognised them for warriors and indeed on their side they both carried swords, though it wasn't likely a battle would commence in the very heart of Mundburg. Boromir's warm greetings might have one believing he was receiving a family member who had been gone for a long time, but Faramir's manners were cooler; Éomer thought he even saw something like spite in his eyes, but he couldn't tell for sure as the Steward's son guarded himself carefully.

Then another man came forward, followed by three younger ones. They were introduced as Prince Imrahil and his sons Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos. Though the Prince had a kindly look about his face, Éomer still felt slightly uncomfortable – especially when he noted the unhappiness in the man's eyes and those of his sons. Well, he had known beforehand the Prince was not the greatest supporter of his daughter's impending marriage, but now the Marshal was starting to feel it would be a very poor idea to get to this man's bad side... and especially the three princes, who all stood tall as trees.

Once the introductions were done, he carefully asked if his wife-to-be was around, but with an apologetic smile, Lord Denethor said she had already retired for bed. So the meeting would have to wait for the next day... and the day after that, the wedding would take place.

Oh, Béma be kind. What trouble was he getting himself into?

His riders were given lodgings in the barracks, and though the Steward tried to offer him chambers in the palace itself, Éomer said he'd be happy to stay with his men. So, after bids of good night the riders had been escorted to barracks. Food was brought and the men had settled down to enjoy some well-deserved rest after their long journey from Aldburg.

As for the Marshal himself, as soon as he had made sure his men were comfortable and he had ridden himself of his heavy armour, he had slipped out to look around for a bit and perhaps pay a visit to his horse Firefoot. Though he knew food might have served him well too, he found he did not really have appetite. Ever since they had arrived to the city, a knot had been forming in his stomach and the very thought of food made him vaguely nauseated.

And the confrontation in the stables did not really make him feel much better. Whoever that girl was, he oddly felt like looking at a younger version of himself. Though he had made it his mission to live and die for the Mark, it would have been a lie to say that Éomer did not have his moments of doubt sometimes... he could understand how tempting the idea of running away was, and how it at times felt like all the world was falling into pieces. And the look on her face, when she heard those last words he had so harsly spoken... it was like her heart was broken right there. He almost ran after her, but something froze him on the spot. Nevertheless, he left the stables with a bitter heart.

Éothain was still up and about when Éomer returned the barracks, and of course he'd notice that something was bothering the younger man. He was of the curious breed that was able to perfectly merge his roles both as a captain and as a friend – in fact, Éomer had not a rider more loyal or a better friend.

"What is it?" Éothain asked in quiet voice, though most of the men were already settling for rest or preoccupied by their suppers and thus weren't likely to listen to them speak.

"Just... everything", sighed the Marshal as he sat down on the bunk he had chosen for himself. Éothain sat opposite him so they could talk in peace.

"Maybe it won't be so bad", said the captain. "Who knows? She could prove to be the sweetest thing to ever walk the plains of the Mark. And you could even end up liking her."

"You really think this could really turn out so good?" Éomer asked doubtfully.

"Give it a chance, old friend. Good things rarely come to those who won't even try", Éothain pointed out.

"Hmm. You're probably right", said the younger man. He looked up at his captain, "What do you think she's like?"

A vaguely dubious expression came to Éothain's face, and like usually when he was deep in thought, he stroke his short reddish beard.

"Well, she's a princess. I've never seen a princess – except your mother, bless her soul. But I have no idea if Gondorian princesses are the same. Probably not, when you think of it, though that doesn't mean she can't be wonderful in her own way", he mused. "If she's even half the woman your lady mother was, then I'd say you're one lucky fellow."

Éomer grunted non-committally and stared down at his hands. Calloused and large they were, and he worriedly thought if they were too coarse for this princess. When he thought of princesses, particularly the Gondorian sort, he saw delicate and fragile shapes that could be broken by a single careless touch.

"She's probably cultured in ways we don't even understand. She'll have lived in a beautiful castle by the sea and Aldburg will most likely seem no better than a barn to her. She'll hate it, and she'll hate the Mark", he said quietly.

"Oh, stop that already. There's no reason this can't be a good thing", Éothain said and patted his Marshal's shoulder. "Now, try and get some rest. And practice your smiles, if you would be so kind. There's no good reason why you should brood and frown when you meet your future wife tomorrow. I'd think she'll appreciate a smiling man more than a sour one."

"Hmph. Perhaps I'll introduce you to her, then", Éomer said and rolled his eyes, but his words only managed to make his captain chuckle. Éothain slapped his arm in a comradely fashion, stood up and sauntered to his own bunk.

Sighing to himself, the Marshal lay down on his bed – which was apparently made for smaller men than him, as his feet dangled over the edge. Well, he'd sleep here only for two nights, and then...

Then he'd be a married man.

Princess Lothíriel. I wonder what you are like, and if you are as scared as I am...

On that morning, Lothíriel had breakfast with Aredhel, Fainien and Faramir. It had been agreed that the formal introductions would take place at midday, so there was still plenty of time left for last minute panic attacks. Because of that, Lothíriel was immensely grateful for the presence of her sisters-in-law and also her cousin. He had always been close to her, though they did not see each other too often these days.

At first, mundane things were discussed over the breakfast, and Lothíriel knew it was the others' attempts to make her feel better and help her keep calm. She appreciated it of course, but at the same time it made her feel sad: too soon she'd have to part with these people and she had no idea of when she'd even see them again.

However, finally she could not keep the question inside her anymore, and the princess asked Faramir: "Were you there last night when the Marshal arrived?"

He nodded solemnly, putting down his spoon.

"Indeed I was. I thought maybe I should have come to wake you, but they seemed tired as well... it's probably for the better if you meet him rested and prepared", Faramir answered.

"So you saw him too?" Lothíriel asked – she couldn't bring herself to say the man's name. Aredhel and Fainien looked at him with similar looks of curiosity.

"Yes, I did", he confirmed quietly.

"Tell me about him. What did you think?" she wanted to know.

"Well, it is hard to evaluate a man after seeing him so briefly", Faramir said carefully and stared down at his plate. After a short silence, he began to speak again, "He's very tall and I see what Master Metodlác meant when he said that this Marshal is considered a great warrior – even as I looked at him, I thought I wouldn't want to meet him in a battle. He has that fair hair of their people and he sports a beard."

"But can't you tell what kind of man he is? Did he look like... like a brute?" Fainien demanded; she cast a look at Lothíriel as if to see if that question had upset her. However, it was something the Princess herself wanted to know too.

"Like I said, it's hard to tell. It's not easy to see if man harbours darkness in himself, for the shadow comes in many forms... I don't know. I suppose he doesn't seem like a bad fellow. Perhaps he was kind of grim. But he had honest eyes, if sharp", Faramir said and shrugged.

"What do you mean by sharp?" Lothíriel asked, a frown forming on her face.

"You'll see for yourself soon enough. I suppose... you could call him intense. Intimidating. Yes, that is what he was", Faramir replied.

The women looked at each other. Now Lothíriel was starting to feel just a bit worried. What kind of a man was she about to marry? The last thing she wanted was to be scared of him, but Faramir's words made her feel this Marshal could be just so terrifying.

Aredhel seemed to know what she was thinking, and the older woman placed her hand on Lothíriel's. She smiled gently, "I'm sure it'll be fine. He knows you're a princess and he'll treat you like one. He's of a royal house himself, after all."

"I hope you're right", Lothíriel said quietly. Her voice came out strained, which of course did nothing to soothe away the troubled look on Faramir's face.

That was likely why he asked her to come out for a walk after they had finished their breakfast. As it was still early in the morning, the Princess decided she could spare some time for her cousin. In fact, she was fairly certain she needed it.

Despite the age gap, Faramir had always been as close to her as one of her brothers. When he had been younger, he had been a regular visitor in Dol Amroth – especially after Aunt Finduilas, Faramir's mother, had died. While Lothíriel's relationship with her siblings had been of playful sort, and sometimes tumultuous, Faramir was like the wise and experienced brother. He had possessed what seemed like limitless patience, as he never wearied of her games, and he'd play the dragon to her princess for endless afternoons. But as the years grew darker, his visits to the city by the sea had become increasingly sparser.

Once outside in the garden, they walked for a while in silence. The royal gardens were beautiful and immaculately looked after; Faramir had once told his young cousin his mother had loved this place, and quietly he had added his father probably kept them in such pristine condition in her memory, as though her phantom still walked this place. It was peaceful there, as if the many concerns of the world did not even exist... but you would remember that immediately, if you gazed at west.

At last, Faramir looked at her: his eyes were gentle and empathetic. Lothíriel almost wanted to ask him not to look at her like that, because it made her want to cry.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I just... I suppose at this point I'm just starting to become numb. And a growing part of me just wants to get it all done already", she said at length. "What's the point in fighting back, anyway?"

"I tried to tell Father it's not a life you'd want, but no matter what I said, he wouldn't listen. I'm sorry that I couldn't help you more than that", Faramir said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She offered him a weak little smile.

"No matter. I'm still grateful that you did try", she said softly, and her face turned into a grimace. "It's more than my father did at least."

"He had as little choice as you do", said her cousin. He stared somewhere off for a moment and fell silent. When he looked at her again, his smile was encouraging. "Not many women would be able to do this, cousin. I'm not sure I could do it, if I was sent to live among strangers in another country. It's a brave thing you're doing, Lothíriel."

"There's nothing else left now, is there?" she said and answered the smile, though she didn't think her expression was too happy. "Truth be told, I did consider running away. I almost did it – last night, I got as far as the stables."

Faramir's expression was not surprised, nor was it judgemental.

"What stopped you?" he asked. The Princess shrugged.

"One of the Marshal's men. Or fate, I don't know. It's starting to look like I can't avert this path", she said, her voice quiet. She looked down and sighed.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" Faramir asked gently.

Lothíriel hesitated at first, but then she began to speak, explaining how she had sneaked into the stables and how the rider from Rohan had caught her in the act of stealing one of the Marshal's horses. When she recited the man's words about one's duty, Faramir squeezed her shoulder again; she could see the sympathy in his eyes and it was somehow almost painful.

"It's all right, cousin. I'll be fine", she said softly, managing to give him a smile.

"I hope you will, Lothíriel", he said and hugged her tight. "And if that Marshal ever does anything to make you unhappy..."

"You'll be the first to hear. I promise", she mumbled into her cousin's shoulder, and for the moment she felt something like calm.

From behind the columns, she saw him.

He stood alone in the Tower Hall – the great chamber where the throne of the king was located. In the middle of all the white and black stone, he looked strangely vibrant with his golden hair and his green clothing. In the broad daylight and in the great hall, he didn't seem as large as he had looked like last night in the dimly lit stables. But that was not to say he was a small man.

What was one of the Marshal's men doing here now? Lothíriel would have thought he'd be with the other riders. But then, she wasn't supposed to be here either – not yet, at least. But as she was already dressed and ready, she had found it impossible to just sit waiting in her chambers. Like she had told her cousin, at this point she just wanted it all to be over already.

After observing the Rohir for a moment, she noticed he wasn't just standing about. He was gesturing with his hands, he swayed on his heels, and then he bowed at the empty air. At first Lothíriel thought he must be touched in the head to behave so, but then she realised this man was not some crazy person. Instead, he looked a lot like her father when the Prince was going through some of his speeches. Oh, Elbereth. Was the Marshal going to make them listen to some rider of his making grand orations? If so, he must be a pompous man. No wonder Lord Denethor was so enthusiastic about this all.

Thinking of that, Lothíriel couldn't hold back a small chuckle. In the large hall, the sound echoed of course and alerted the golden-haired rider. He turned around sharply, and instantly his dark eyes found her between the columns. She thought she saw surprise in his eyes, but then his expression turned solemn once again.

"I did not realise I had an audience", he commented at the sight of her.

"Well, it's not exactly the most private place in Minas Tirith", Lothíriel pointed out and stepped out into the open from where she had stood behind the columns. A weak smile appeared on his face briefly.

"No. I suppose not", he agreed, studying her again with that intense look that seemed to drill through her skull. "I did not think I'd meet you again after last night."

"Why not?" Lothíriel asked, finding it hard to turn her eyes away. Something about the way he watched her was mesmerising and it was certainly something she wasn't used to. Did all the Rohirrim live with such passion that even in stillness their spirits burned like flames? And there was also the fact that in a foreign and bearded way, he wasn't really so bad to look at. In fact, one could have called him comely and one wouldn't have veen lying at all. She hadn't expected to think so about one of these northern men, considering how reluctant she had felt from the moment she had heard of her impending marriage.

"It seemed to me that someone who was ready to sneak away in the dark and even to steal a horse to win her freedom would not stop because of what some stranger said", said the rider, distracting the princess from her thoughts.

"But you were right", said the Princess softly. "Whatever I might wish for myself, I do have duty to my family... and my country."

He frowned at that, which made his face darken; she remembered what Faramir had said of the Marshal and idly she thought to herself if all Rohirric riders were scary people. Not that she was scared of this man per say, but she had a feeling he could be terrifying if he wanted.

"Your country? I beg your pardon, but what duty of yours is so large?" he asked.

She stared at him and said a single word: "Marriage."

The rider's eyes widened, and his face became astonished and even somehow shocked. Suddenly, he looked like he really saw her only now: his eyes moved up and down from her head to her feet and though he was tanned, it looked like he lost a bit of his colour. It was now her turn to frown.

"What is it?" she asked and she could not hold back the demanding tone from her voice.

"My lady", he said at last, and his voice had become reserved. "Forgive me. I did not realise-"

But he did not get to say what he hadn't realised, for Boromir had strode in, filling the space with his curiously loud presence.

"Lothíriel! There you are. Your father was looking for you, and-" he began, until suddenly he noticed the Rohir who now stood frozen, staring at the two of them with something that she could only call suffering. However, Boromir did not seem to take note of it. "My lord Marshal! I did not know you were here too with the Princess. Well, I suppose this makes the introductions unnecessary, then..."

Lothíriel did not hear the rest of his words, for she stood silent, just as frozen as the tall Rohir did.

Lord Éomer. Of course.

Oh, sweet Valar have mercy.

A/N: Who needs sleep when there are stories to be written?! Not I, at least!

So, our reluctant bride and bridegroom have met each other... but under the circumstances neither of them would have expected. I must say, I'm enjoying this story way too much at the moment and really look forward to writing more.

Hope you enjoyed this update, and thanks for the reviews!