A/N: If this concept seems familiar, it's because credit is due to Lady Bluejay. This story was inspired by a description of her fic Dreams Come True.

Also, my hard drive failed this afternoon, so updates will be irregular until further notice.

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Éomer couldn't sleep, or rather, found insomnia a preferable alternative. Whenever he closed his eyes, he heard in his dreams the cries of his people as he led them to death on the Pelennor Field, to be trampled by mumakil or cut down by--

He frowned, and reached for his sword belt, belatedly realizing he had not dreamt these cries. They seemed to be those of men startled rather than upset. Perhaps it was only those still under the care of the Healers, calling out in their dreams, but a walk would clear his mind, anyway.

The noise seemed to be coming from the nearby riverbank; as he got closer he recognized the voice of his captain, Éothain. Éomer frowned again: was his guard playing a late game of halatafl? If so, he would have to have a word them; it was not like them to be so loud as to wake others. Perhaps they were drunk.

He rounded the last tent between himself and the slow-moving Anduin, and his eyes widened in horrified shock. It was indeed the members of his guard who had been making the noise, but they were not playing a board game. They were in a half-circle by the bank; in their midst, with her back to the water, he could see a beautiful young woman clumsily waving a sword to keep them at a distance.

"ÉOTHAIN!" he roared. "What are you doing!" He crossed the distance in three strides as his captain, who had taken a step forward towards the woman, his hands spread placatingly, jerked around, his eyes widening.

"My lord! We--" Éomer ignored the rest of what he had to say, brushing past him. He had seen the woman's wrist wobbling, and knew she was about to drop the sword. He grabbed for it before she could hurt herself or anyone else-- she swung it wildly, not towards him, but the weight dragged the point towards his arm-- seeing their monarch threatened, his men drew their swords and closed the circle-- she whirled, her eyes wide with panic, raising the sword to defend herself--

"Stop!" he bellowed, and everyone froze. Moving slowly, he took the woman's arm, guiding it back down to her side to let the point of the sword rest in the dirt. His men backed up and sheathed their weapons, still eyeing the woman in front of him warily. "Just stay calm," he murmured to her. "Do not make any sudden movements or they will think you are attacking me." She nodded, and he could see her pulse beating frantically in her throat. "Don't worry. I won't let them hurt you." He turned towards his captain. "Éothain," he said, and knew that his voice was cold and deadly as steel. "Kindly explain why you and your men were threatening this woman." For his captain's long, faithful service, he owed him a chance to explain-- but only one.

"We were not threatening her, Éomer King," Éothain protested in Rohirric. "Not until she drew on you." At the look on his king's face, he hurried on. "We saw her walking by the river, and we thought her… eh… company might cheer you up. So we asked her if she would come with us to the king, and she said she would be happy to. But I did not know how clean she was, so I thought we had better bring her here."

Éomer had listened to all this with a growing sense of horror, and now he interrupted. "Éothain--" He shook his head. "Never mind." He had a feeling it was only going to get worse, and if he said something now, he might shortly regret not using stronger words.

"She seemed a little confused, but certainly willing to come with us," Éothain continued, "until we told her she could leave her dress on that rock to wash." He pointed to the rock. "Then Byrhta offered to help her--"

Éomer turned to glare at Byrhta. He had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, my lord," he said. "But look at her, can you blame me?"

Éomer looked at the woman in front of him, very thankful they were having this conversation in Rohirric. From the quality of her clothing she was obviously not a camp follower, and the stamp of her features showed her to be Gondorian. And there was something familiar about her-- Oh, no... "Yes," he growled. "I can."

Éothain hurriedly continued. "-- Then she grabbed his sword and yelled for help. I was trying to convince her to put the sword down when you appeared. My lord, I swear, we meant her no harm. I don't know why she panicked. She said she'd come willingly, and none of us would have laid a hand on her." He looked at Éomer pleadingly. "My lord, you know none of us would even think of taking a woman against her will."

Éomer sighed softly. "Éothain, much as I appreciate your concern, I do not need you soliciting whores on my behalf. If I wanted one, I would find one."

"We were just trying to help," his captain insisted stubbornly. "She's very beautiful, my lord, we thought she could make you forget your cares for a while."

Éomer rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Éothain," he said quietly. "You have no idea who this is, do you?"

His Captain shook his head. "No, m'lord. I thought she was a harlot."

Éomer closed his eyes briefly. "Decidedly not," he said. "This is Lothíriel. Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

Had the situation not been so serious, he would have been interested in how the color literally drained out of his captain's face, leaving it a sickly shade of grey. "The Prince's daughter?" Éomer nodded.

Éothain began to swear fluently, and Éomer was impressed by the depth and creativity of his knowledge, even after years as a Marshal. The Captain went for almost thirty seconds without repeating himself, and then he turned towards the woman. But Éomer stopped him. "Never mind," he said. "Go find Prince Amrothos."

Éothain's eyes widened, and he swallowed. Getting to the prince's tent would require passing unseen through the Gondorian camp, but Éothain knew better to ask Éomer for mercy. He turned and vanished into the night. The rest of his men shifted on their feet, and Éomer looked at them tiredly.

"The rest of you-- go," he said. "Just go." They looked at each other shamefacedly, and then faded into the darkness.

Éomer was left with the Princess of Dol Amroth. Her eyes were wide, and her wrist was trembling from the exertion required to hold the sword, for the point had crept up during the conversation; her weight was on the balls of her feet, and she gave the general impression of a startled predator, ready to either run away or gut you. "Well, my lady?" he said gently, shifting into Westron.

She stared at him silently. He nodded to the sword. "Will you put that down?"

"Will I be safe?" she countered, and her voice was defiant and trembling.

"You have my word."

"As king?"

"As Éomer of Rohan," he said. "But you may have my word as king, if you like."

Slowly, she nodded, and put the sword down. "What-- what happened?"

He did not want to insult her in the telling, but the Rohirrim spoke no lies. "They mistook you for a camp follower, and they were asking you to come to me," he said bluntly. "But they wanted you to clean up first."

Her eyes widened. "They thought I was a-- a whore?"

"I'm sorry," he told her, though since he had not been involved, his apology would not mean much. "It was probably because you were not far from where the camp followers have their tents." Her eyes widened, and she looked across the river. "It's an unavoidable part of an army," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I knew they were here. I just didn't know they were so close."

"I'm sorry for the behavior of my guard," he said. "I will--" Well, he'd have to do something about them. "But, lady, know that you were in no danger until the end. They would not have touched you."

After a moment, she nodded again. "The Rohirrim have honor."

If a rather skewed sense of morality, he thought wryly. "Would you like to go back to my tent to wait for your brother?" he asked, aware of the awkward irony of what he was asking. "People will talk if they see us here, in the middle of the night."

"Will they not also talk if they see us going there?"

He shook his head. "The tents block our walkways from sight. There will be nothing to say I did not escort you back to the Dol Amroth contingent. And you will be there in a few minutes, anyway." She looked down at the sword in her hand. "How did you get that away from him?"

"I-- I just grabbed the handle and pulled, like I've done with my brothers' swords," she said. "The man was-- distracted." Her cheeks darkened in the moonlight. "And I don't think he knew quite what to do." Éomer thought she was probably right; even his guard, handpicked from his Riders, would have no idea how to handle an erstwhile woman combatant. The surprise alone had probably allowed her to grab the sword unhindered. "What-- do I do with it now?"

"What would you like to do with it?"

She shook her head. "It is not mine. I have no use for it."

Éomer considered. "You would not be outside your rights to ransom it," he said, but she was already shaking her head.

"I could not do that. It belongs to your guard."

"Then if you wish, I will return it to him." After a moment, she nodded, and carefully extended it to him, the blade turned away from both of them. He took it. "Along with a very, very stern lecture," he added. The lecture would not begin to touch the consequences for his guard, but he wanted to make sure they realized the seriousness of what they had done. "They are supposed to be a band of warriors, not unruly children needing punishment," he muttered.

"They seem very... loyal," Lothíriel offered.

Éomer snorted. "Yes, they are loyal." He noticed a group of women gathering across the river, giving them curious looks, and he offered his arm. "Shall we go, my lady?" She looked uncomfortable, and muttered something about not wanting to interrupt. He blinked, confused, and then clarity dawned. "My lady," he said dryly, "despite the actions of my guard, I am actually not in the habit of soliciting whores for company. I promise you my tent is unoccupied."

She blushed even more deeply. "I beg your pardon," she said.

Éomer relented; she had been through enough already, and anyway her assumption was, unfortunately, justified, given what had just happened. "I took no offense," he assured her. She inclined her head, and gave him her arm; without further ado they turned away from the river in the direction of his tent.

He let her go first into the tent and tied the flap back so it would stay open, trying to reduce the necessary awkwardness of the situation. There weren't many places for her to sit, only a few rough cushions scattered about; in the back half of the tent was his cot, but he wasn't about to suggest that seat to her. But she knelt gracefully, and he sat down cross-legged across from her. "Would you like some wine?" he asked. If her nerves were still shaken, a little wine would help settle them. She accepted, and he poured the golden liquid into a pair of rough earthenware mugs.

"Why did you give me your word as Éomer of Rohan rather than as king?" she

asked between slow sips.

He thought for a moment, trying to put his ideas into coherent words. "I am... newly come to the throne." He looked away for a moment. Would that you were here with me, Uncle. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the present: "I do not know what may happen; I may lose the kingship as suddenly as I came to it. But whatever comes to pass, I will always be Éomer of Rohan."

She nodded. "That is... a faithful point of view." He must have looked puzzled, for she explained. "Faithful to your land.

He shrugged. "It is not a question of loyalty. Rohan is a part of me."

There was a short silence as she looked around the tent. Then she said, "You know the fox game?"

He followed her gaze to the game board set out of the way by the wall of the tent. "Yes. Théodred--" he swallowed "-- Théodred learned it in Gondor, and taught Éowyn and I. Do you play?" She nodded. "Would you like a game?"

So they played halatafl, or the fox game as the Gondorians called it, on the crude wooden board with unpainted stones as pieces. He was glad to see that all lingering effects of the earlier encounter seemed to have left Lothíriel as she concentrated on the game, biting her lower lip in a way that was rather endearing. He couldn't help smiling at the unusual situation: he would not have thought he'd find himself playing a board game with the lady of Dol Amroth in the middle of the night. But, to tell the truth, he was enjoying himself; she was a very good player.

Looking down at the board, he blinked; apparently she was a better player than him. While he'd been distracted, his pieces had been surrounded. "Your game, my lady," he said, still surprised. "You play very well."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"Did your brothers teach you?"

"No." The smile slid off her face. "My cousin did. Boromir."

"It seems we both learned from cousins who are now gone," he murmured. "I knew him, though not well. He was a good man."

She nodded. "I know." She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, looking young and vulnerable in her sadness. He wished he could say something to make her smile again. "I miss him."

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

With an effort she recollected herself a moment later. "Is your sister coming to join you?"

"I don't know," Éomer admitted. "I have written and asked her to, but... she sends no response." He hesitated. "I'm afraid she may be still too badly hurt," he admitted.

"My cousin-- my other cousin, Faramir-- writes about her," Lothíriel said.

"Oh?"

"Not much, just that he has made her acquaintance. But from his messages it does not sound as if she is still suffering much from her injuries."

Éomer was puzzled. If Éowyn was fit to travel, then what was keeping her away? A nagging suspicion grew in his mind and he looked away so Lothíriel could not guess his thoughts. Instead he said, "Would you like more wine?"

She shook her head.

"Another victory, then?"

She smiled at him again. "Will you make me work harder for this one?"

They were only a moment into their second game when Amrothos appeared beyond the open tent flap. "Lothíriel!" he said, looking startled. "What are you doing here?" Lothíriel looked at Éomer, her eyes widening a little.

"She went for a walk and my guard mistook her for a camp follower," he said bluntly. "There was a misunderstanding, so I sent Éothain for you and brought her back here to wait."

Amrothos's eyes had narrowed. "Define... 'misunderstanding'," he said softly. So Éomer sketched out for him, in a few sentences, what had happened. He was careful to omit Byrhta's name, though not his actions. When he finished, the Prince had gone very still. He looked at his sister. "Lothíriel, are you all right?" It was not a tone that brooked demurral.

"I am fine," she said, looking up and meeting his eyes with open honesty. "I took no hurt." Amrothos lost a little of his sudden resemblance to a vengeful statue, and Éomer thought it was time to speak up again.

"Allow me to point out," he said, "that I told Éothain to fetch you, in particular, because I thought you were the least likely to gut me at this point."

It worked; Amrothos's face and posture relaxed "I don't think any of us would have gutted you, Éomer," he said. "Lothíriel would have had to carry the poor unfortunate's head back to our father." He turned serious again. "What are you going to do with your guard?"

"Require them to beg Lothíriel's pardon, for one thing," Éomer said. "And prohibit them from any liberty until she grants it." Amrothos nodded. "And I believe," he added, "that I will make them swear an oath not to solicit any paid company for a period of... oh, some weeks."

The youngest lord of Dol Amroth smiled dryly. "Your men will call you cruel."

Lothíriel looked from one of them to the other. "Is that a harsh punishment?"

The two men locked gazes. I'm not explaining that, Amrothos seemed to be saying, so Éomer did. "For some of them, it certainly will be." It was a strict restriction; but he knew they would keep to it, out of loyalty to him and their own honor. "But a fair one all the same."

Amrothos touched his sister's shoulder. "We should get back before we are missed. Unless," he added, "you feel like explaining all this to our father." Her eyes widened, and her gaze darted to Éomer. "Don't worry," Amrothos said to both of them. "He won't hear of it from me."

Éomer followed them to the tent flap. "Thank you," he said seriously to Imrahil's son. "For taking this like the misunderstanding it was, and not..."

"A diplomatic incident?" Amrothos finished. Éomer nodded. "I have no desire to expose my sister to embarrassment, or to destroy good men over a mistake. But... I am not the one you should thank for reacting reasonably."

"I know," Éomer returned. He turned to Lothíriel, and took her hand. "I am sorry," he said quietly.

She looked up at him. "You have nothing to apologize for, my lord. You rescued me."

"I am sorry it happened at all. And I thank you for staying calm."

"It was the most reasonable course of action," she said.

Éomer smiled at her gallantry. "My lady, you are true-hearted," he said, and couldn't resist raising her hand to his lips. She blushed; Amrothos raised his eyebrow, and Éomer raised his right back.

He let go of her hand. "Good night Amrothos, Lothíriel." Amrothos nodded in return, but Lothíriel swept a curtsy, smiling up at him through her eyelashes.

When they had gone he let down the tent flap and put away the wine skin, draining the liquid remaining in both mugs. He started to clear off the halatafl board, but hesitated, and then let it be. Maybe he could persuade her to come back and finish the game.

Finally he made it back to his cot and lay down with a weary groan. Maybe now he'd be able to sleep. But sleep still would not come. Instead of gruesome images, though, he kept seeing the lady of Dol Amroth: her defiant bravery as she held the sword by the riverbank, her readiness to forgive him, the way she'd looked as she sat across from him playing halatafl as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the way she blushed... the way she'd smiled...

Maybe a walk would clear his mind.