A/N: This chapter was a fun one. I feel like Éomer is still a very confused guy, and this just makes it worse for him.
Annafan: I am also glad that Éomer isn't all 'ooh a pretty lady let's go fall in love right away.' But I find a lot of that for this version of him is that he is still very much confused about Lothíriel. He's becoming aware of the importance of getting married and knows that Lothíriel is eligible, but he's not rushing things.
Borys68: You may wish to revise that assumption, as it will be challenged. Please note that, as evidenced in the maps, the road to Edoras is close to the mountains. The major suspension of disbelief required here is that the Rohírric scouts don't notice the Dunlending party, which I find not implausible if the Dunlendings are being careful to stay hidden, as the Rohírric party is more interested in minding its own business than anything else.
Éomer had woken well before dawn with a heavy heart. With only two days of fairly easy riding to Edoras, his uncle's funeral was hanging ever closer over his head. He had slept poorly the night before, and upon waking (he thought it might be the fifth hour after midnight), despairing of getting back to sleep, had dressed and decided to check his armor. His sudden rise to kingship had given him fewer chances to tend his own gear, a state of affairs he knew would only worsen, and he found the opportunity to do so now soothing. It brought him some peace of mind, as well as bringing back positive memories of his lost kin.
It had been Théodred who had taught him to clean chain mail, getting Éomer to help him tend his gear after returning to Edoras after a skirmish. He had been much younger then, just having been brought to Edoras after his parents' death. He had been tall for his age even then, but at that point had not yet begun to fill out and put on the muscle that was a large part of his present bulk. He had had trouble managing the heavy mail, but Théodred hadn't laughed at him, but instead helped him with the pieces too large for him to handle. Éomer gave a sad smile, deciding to visit Théodred's mound after his uncle's funeral. He could tell him all that he had seen since going to Mundburg. It might not help, but it could give him some peace of mind.
He continued to work as he heard the noise level outside his tent grow, assuming it to be the normal sound of the camp slowly waking up – the cooks starting the fires, stable boys checking on the herds, and the like. He was checking the leather underlay of his armor for unusual wear when he heard a noise directly outside the tent. Thinking it was his cousin and guard captain, he called out softly. "Is that you, Éothain?" He didn't think that it was time for breakfas –
Someone swathed in a dark cloak, with a naked sword in its hand entered his tent. The intruder sprung towards him, aiming for a fatal thrust. Éomer grabbed his sword from the pile of gear beside him, barely managing to get it up in time to counter the blow. A short period of struggle followed, until Éomer dispatched his foe with a neat thrust to the throat. Breathing deeply, Éomer shrugged on his leathers – if there were any more assailants, there was likely no time to arm properly – and stepped out into mayhem.
Most of the guards he could see were dead or dying, laid low by arrows or blows to the head. There were several fights between soldiers of Gondor and Rohan and assailants like he had faced, all of whom were doing their best to be silent. It would seem that in their surprise, none of his or Aragorn's people had had a chance to raise the alarm. He opened his mouth to yell, and was abruptly faced by another opponent, and then another and another. It would seem that these foes – Dunlendings by their looks – had caught the funeral procession when they were at a disadvantage, and were doing everything in their power to maintain it. Gradually, more of the funeral party awakened, and those who could fight did so. There seemed to be quite a few of the Dunlendings, but they were outnumbered and the tide of battle quickly began to turn.
Éomer saw many of his friends and companions as the fight continued. Imrahil, his sons and his nephew had surrounded a group of the ladies on the trip and were protecting them on foot. He nodded to them, and continued on, looking for his people. He eventually found Éothain near the horse lines, where he had managed to capture one of the attacking party. The Dunlending was cursing his cousin and friend roundly in his native tongue, but Éothain appeared unperturbed as he bound the man's hands with his own belt. It was obvious that Éothain, like Éomer, had been awake before the attack started, as he was fully dressed and wore his mail shirt. They were both better armored than most of the defenders, who had only had time to take up arms to defend themselves and not armor.
"You captured one, Éothain?"
"Indeed I did, Éomer. He was heading towards the horse lines – I'm assuming that he wanted to steal some. Caught up with him before he got there, though."
"Good idea to come here, though." He surprised himself with his nonchalant tone. "Has he said anything useful yet?"
"No, but I just got a hold of him. Hopefully he will have answers before too long."
"Alright then. Follow me; I don't think this fight is over yet, and other people will likely need our assistance."
The two Rohírs wound their way through the camp, dragging their prisoner with them. It appeared that the worst of the fight was over, with only a few scattered groups of Dunlendings left alive. The surviving defenders made short work of those that were left, and began tending their wounded and grouping together the few prisoners. Éothain went over to the growing string of prisoners to append his captured man to the line. Seeing his sister standing outside her tent with a bloodied blade but no apparent wounds, Éomer went over to her.
"You are all right, Éowyn?"
"Quite all right. And you?"
"A few scratches, but no major harm. I had a Dunlending try to kill me in my tent, but I made short work of him."
"Lothíriel and I experienced something similar." He nodded, remembering that the two had decided to share a tent in order to save space and trouble on the trip back to Rohan.
"Is she still within?" Éowyn nodded. "Did your attacker manage to wake you up? I know how heavy a sleeper you are, sister, and my attacker was very quiet."
"Actually, he woke Lothíriel up; she sleeps much lighter than I."
"Ah, so she woke you up to deal with the attacker, then."
"No, actually. She woke me up after."
He did not like the sound of this – he didn't want to have to explain to Imrahil that his daughter had been raped by a Dunlending only two days out from Edoras. "After what, Éowyn?"
Seeing his expression, Éowyn huffed with annoyance. "After she'd killed him, of course."
He gaped. "She killed a Dunlending? How? I know that she can use a bow to good effect, but there would not have been time for her to reach her bow, let alone the space for her to draw it."
Éowyn shook her head. "Not her bow, brother. She used …" Éowyn's eyes widened at something behind him and her sword began to go up. Recognizing a defensive stance in the making, Éomer turned as well, seeing a lone Dunlending racing towards him with a raised sword. Raising his own blade, he attempted to parry, but was too slow. He saw a killing blow heading for his neck, and Éowyn attempting but failing to divert it. Knowing his death was coming, he accepted the inevitable …
And saw a long jeweled hairpin fly through the air to land neatly through the Dunlending's eye. The man fell to the ground, dead. Éomer gaped, unable to reconcile the dead man and his own living state to his previous assumptions.
"Béma's balls! What just happened?"
Éowyn swallowed, clearly almost as unnerved as he. "As I was saying, brother, Lothíriel did kill our first assailant. With a hairpin very similar to this one." Turning to the tent opening, where the lady in question stood, she thanked her.
Éomer hurried to do the same, unashamedly gawking a little. Will this woman never stop incommoding me with her new abilities? "Where did you learn to do that, my lady?" he asked.
Lothíriel was exceedingly calm for a woman who had just killed a man in cold blood. She went over to the dead man, and placing a foot on his neck, drew the pin from his eye, which came out with a sucking noise. Apparently unmoved, she began to clean the pin on her nightgown, which showed patches of similar gore, showing that she had managed to take out several of the Dunlendings. Having cleaned her weapon, she turned to Éomer.
"I learned it from my aunt, my lord. It is a skill that all the women of Dol Amroth are expected to learn. The possibility of attackers from unexpected quarters is always present for royals. It is not always possible for a lady to bear more traditional arms, especially in formal situations. Therefore a lady must be prepared. A sharpened hairpin can kill if used correctly, and the elaborate hairstyles of Gondor allow for many of them to be used. It is fortunate that I left my pins beside my bed, in case of just such an emergency."
"I am very grateful for that, my lady. Both my sister and myself owe you our lives."
"It was nothing, my lord." Lothíriel lowered her head demurely. "Now, I should find my father and brothers. If you will excuse me, my lord king, my lady?" Not waiting for their acknowledgement, she went off. Éomer saw that she kept one of her pins discretely cocked to throw in her hand.
"You are marrying into a very strange family, little sister."
"You're just figuring this out now?"
With five in the party dead and several others wounded, the funeral party took several hours to organize itself again. After a quick burial for the dead, and the rearrangement of the wains to hold the more severely wounded, the party began to reorganize itself for travel. Éomer chafed at the wait, even though he knew it was necessary. He wanted to be home again. He would feel better when the party was farther away from the site of the attack as well.
He breathed easier once the party was back on the road. Soon after their departure, however, Éothain rode up to him. The man wore a heavy scowl. Éomer knew that something big was up – his guard captain was usually very easygoing, and for him to be so upset was an event in itself.
Once Éothain had reached him, Éomer turned to his friend. "Yes?"
"You almost died this morning!" Éothain was nearing incoherence in his upset state.
"Twice, in fact. One Dunlending almost caught me unawares in my tent, and the princess was kind enough to dispose of another one for me."
"And you still want to argue about the number and placement of the guards watching your back?" This had been a regular argument between the two. As Eomer's guard captain, Éothain was responsible for Eomer's safety. Éomer was often … less concerned, typically not seeing the need for men dogging his steps to watch him. But these attacks were worrying. Éomer sighed.
"If I let you detail a few men to tail me will you let the matter lie?"
Éothain sagged with relief. He had clearly been anticipating a long argument in order to get Éomer to accept more guards around his person. "What's changed your mind, cousin?" he asked interestedly. "You've never been so interested in your own safety before."
"A woman with a hairpin – a foreign princess with a set of pretty razor-edged hairpins! – saved my life today, Éothain. It shouldn't have to come to that – if I am unable to watch my own back, my own people should be able to do so."
Éothain sniggered. He could always see the humor in a given situation. "It must be galling to have had your royal ass saved by a delicate Gondorian hot-house flower, Sire." Éomer sighed. He had grown up with Éothain, and they were unusually close even for cousins. His respect for his sovereign was tempered by many embarrassing shared memories. That was not to say that Éothain's position as the captain of his guard was unwarranted; the man was dedicated to his safety and was an excellent fighter. Éomer decided to get some of his own back – he had a decent store of embarrassing stories of his own to tell.
"That's a bit rich coming from a man with a deadly fear of spiders, cousin, to the point that your lady wife has to rescue you from them whenever they appear.. And be warned, the Lady Lothíriel is many things, Éothain, but she is not delicate. You should be careful not to snub her – I, at least, have seen how effective she is with projectiles. Her aim is as good as Bedric's." Bedric was a man of their first éored, famous for his knife-throwing.
Eothain's eyes widened. "I'll keep than in mind. Is her temper as volatile as your sister's?"
"Not that I have seen. Why?"
"Well, if it was I would step carefully indeed. At least with Éowyn you could tell when she was armed by checking for a sword. Who knows how many hairpins the lady princess keeps on her person?"
Éomer snorted. "We'd better stay on her good side, then." He ignored the part of his mind that agreed very strongly indeed with Éothain. Éowyn's temper was infamous, but you could see it coming. Who could tell when the always-composed Princess of Dol Amroth might decide to plant a hairpin in one's eye?
"Have you thought was you're going to give her for a wergild?"
Éomer paled. "I hadn't thought about it. But you're right, she saved my life. It'll have to be impressive, since it was the king's life she saved." Turning pensive, he mused, "But what is an appropriate gift for a foreign princess for saving the king's life?"
"Talk to Gléowine. He should be able to give you some advice."
Éomer looked thoughtful. "Hopefully he will."
Three days later – the slower pace required by the wounded had caused a delay of a day – the party arrived in Edoras, fifteen days after leaving Minas Tirith. Éomer heaved a sigh of relief. It was good to be home.
He could see the welcoming party on the steps of Meduseld. The women of the household had brought out the traditional welcoming cups of mead. Éothain, who was riding beside him, was craning his head for a look of his wife Brytwyn. Éomer saw her standing near the aged head housekeeper, Mindred, and pointed her out to Éothain, whose relieved look was immediately evident. As the funeral party wound their way towards the Golden Hall, Éomer felt his mixed feelings towards the whole things well up in him – pride in his homeland, despair at the death of his uncle and cousin, and simple happiness at returning to his place.
As was her duty when no royal lady was in residence. Mindred led the ceremony welcoming the party to the Golden Hall. She headed first to Éomer, handing the cup to him after he had dismounted and approached her, speaking the words of welcome in a clear voice in both Westron and Rohírric. After he had drunk and thanked her, the women of the household spread out to do the same for all the party. Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw Brytwyn approach Éothain with a cup; he drank, then, shoving the cup onto the tray of a maid, swept up his wife and kissed her thoroughly, swinging her around. Her protests – strident at first – slowly diminished as she began to return the kiss. A scattering of clapping and wolf-whistles greeted the event, and Éomer shared a conspiratorial grin with Aragorn, who had craned his head to see what the fuss was about. Éomer smiled – perhaps he was not the only one glad to be home after all.