Another chapter for you all to make up for the long silence, and to celebrate the official start of my maternity leave today! Thanks again for the wonderful beta, Carawyn.

On the Subject of Marriage

The council chamber of the King of Gondor was part of the royal apartments on the second floor of the House of the King. It was sparsely and rather erratically furnished: a large wooden table covered with maps and small pieces of silver to symbolise the Gondorian armies, some assorted benches and chairs, a rug so faded with age that the patterns it once held were now impossible to discern. Its high ceilings and white walls made it feel less confined than it should, but still it was a room more suited to intimate consultations than extensive gatherings. Today, however, it was made to host rather more men than usual and the smell of wine and perfume seemed particularly pervasive. There was one large window, offering a view over the Pelennor, with a bench hidden in its recess, but that coveted seat had been taken by Lord Torthon, forcing Éomer to make do with the plainly carved armchair that was usually occupied by the Steward, at the right hand side of King Elessar of Gondor.

Among the other men present was Erchirion of Dol Amroth, the most openhearted of Imrahil's children, who like his cousin Faramir was calm and ponderous but lacked the latter's flair for leadership. Aside from a brother in arms, Erchirion was one of Éomer's soon to be brothers-in-law, and Éomer liked him well, even if he was a bit grave sometimes. To Erchirion's left sat Húrin of the Keys, old, careful, with bristling eyebrows and a white moustache that curled proudly up. Across, leaning against the southern wall, was Mablung, a captain of Faramir's rangers, tall and dark and seething with barely suppressed fury. And in the corner, resting back into an armchair with one leg crossed over the other, sat Selas, advisor to Lord Dume of the Blue Tower of Harad. He was handsome, almost pretty in the way southern men could be, clean-shaven with high cheekbones and eyes the shape and colour of almonds. As always, he was speaking with great passion, drawing out his vowels as if he so loved the sound of his own voice that he needed to make the most of every syllable.

"Pah. Pah, I say. What does it matter?" Selas tapped his foot to punctuate his disinterest. "In all likelihood they were some heedless youngsters who buy into the old belief that an arrow through a Gondorian heart will see a man a king in the afterlife. The lure of a blissful death after all that we have suffered is strong for some, especially the young."

"My heart just bleeds," said Lord Torthon sardonically.

"It is not easy to find oneself on the cusp of manhood and conquered."

"Conquered? Your people invaded us. Those conquered lands belong to Gondor. Ithilien belongs to Gondor," said Mablung with some vehemence.

"Ah, my friend. Who can own the land, truly? What is land even but a collection of dirt and rock and trees? And if we move these parts, is it their old location or their new location you would lay claim to? It is a philosophical question; we could expostulate at length some time. Either way, we were here long before you landed on our shores."

"I have no interest in your philosophy. And that is a misrepresentation of the facts."

"First come, first claim. You may hold the lands by rights of conquest; and this is a right we respect, but do call it by its proper name."

"Our ancestors…," began Lord Glavrion.

"Friends," interrupted Aragorn. He looked weary, and Éomer noted he was on his third glass of wine. "We will never resolve this dispute by trying to untangle the strands of history. We all expressed a wish to move forward last year, or have you forgotten?"

"How are we supposed to move forward if they cannot stop attacking Ithilien?" asked Mablung.

Selas made a flippant wave with his fingers. "As I said, a small group of fanatics. Undoubtedly they will die out naturally. Or not quite naturally, if the strawheads continue to cut them down without asking questions." This directed with a side-eye at Éomer.

"Those bastards fell upon us!" Mablung slammed his fist against the wall before Éomer could even rise to respond.

"Did they? Well, either way, it is in the past, and the past is a kettle best left unstirred," said Selas with a shrug, having apparently retreated again into his philosophical mood. "Eight moons ago they fell upon you. Thrice eight moons ago you fell upon us. Is one event more relevant than the other here and now?"

Mablung murmured something incomprehensible.

"Let us leave the what and the why for the moment," said Húrin. "What I would like to know is how they moved so far into Gondorian territory without being discovered."

Selas spoke somewhat ponderously. "I am sure I do not know. Perhaps they got lost and lucky."

No one dignified that with a response.

"To me this is also the most salient question," said Erchirion. "Two things seem evident: someone familiar with Emyn Arnen and its patrols showed them the way, and the intent was to sow discord rather than death."

"One of Faramir's rangers left suddenly just a couple of days before the attack," said Lord Torthon. "Could he be our man?"

"I think not," said Húrin. "Everything about the attack seems foolish. Their information, if any, must have been limited. I am still not sure whether it was planned at all. It was very unlikely we would miss the trick with the sigils. It was very unlikely they would be able to do much damage, attacking in broad daylight. If they knew the way to Emyn Arnen, then why not try to sneak up to the house at night? Set it afire, hit at the very heart of the place? The steward's infant son was there, for goodness sake."

"We almost did miss the trick with the sigils," pointed out Erchirion.

"It was still absolute folly, and a waste of life."

Aragorn spoke again. "Quite right. Unfortunately even if confusion was not their goal, they seem to have done a very effective job nonetheless. Selas tells me our friend Lord Dume was upset to have his intent questioned."

"Meaning he was probably involved," said Mablung. "Can we not just overrun him as well?"

Selas's eyes flashed. "That sounds like a declaration of war, friend."

"Peace, gentlemen. Dume denies any involvement, most vehemently. We are relying on him to guide the troops across the desert as he has chosen to rely on us to restore the peace in the south, at great risk to himself. It can only be done in good faith."

Éomer moved a white pawn next to the black tower, and then moved it back again. For the past ten minutes he had been playing with Aragorn's chess set, not in any meaningful way, as he never had learned how the game was played, but he liked the feel of the intricately carved pieces, the tiny silver sails of the ships. The conversation was pointless: Aragorn and he had gone over all this at length already. Next spring there would be a campaign into southern Gondor to reclaim those contested lands south of Ithilien and settle the matter, and Éomer would fulfill the oath of Eorl once more. He was ready to ride to war, and come what may in those lands below the river. They would be wary of betrayal, but whenever the King of Gondor and the King of the Mark had ridden into battle together, unfavourable odds seemed a minor inconvenience. Besides, Aragorn had traveled extensively in the south, and knew much more about the lay of the land than their Haradrim allies suspected he did. And yet the Lords of Gondor found it somehow necessary to have the exact same conversation fifty times.

"I still think we might opt for a diplomatic solution with the other tribes," muttered Húrin.

"Diplomacy? Ha! The Haradrim are not men of their words. Vows and honour mean nothing to them. I say we burn them all out. Those lands belong to Gondor, rightfully and historically," said Lord Glavrion.

Selas spoke with emphasis. "These threats are unacceptable."

"They are," Aragorn rose to his feet. "Lord Glavrion, our aim is not to overrun Harad, nor to exact vengeance for your personal losses. It was a grievous tragedy, but suffering is not alleviated by more pain. If you cannot accept this, I would ask you to leave these chambers now and return to Garth Vaegorod indefinitely."

Chastened, Lord Glavrion flexed his fingers and sat back down in his seat.

"My King, I wholeheartedly agree with your intent. But we cannot trust them. Pardon me," added Húrin to Selas.

"If you were held accountable for all the crimes of your kinsman…"

At this familiar turn in the conversation, Éomer rolled his eyes. Within five minutes, Lord Glavrion would begin another tirade against the southerners and their inevitable corruption, Selas would once again turn to philosophy, and Lord Torthon would finally lose his patience with the lot of them.

"My lord Húrin is right. We risk too much. Lord Dume crawled to Gondor for aid, and now he cannot give us proper assurances."

"His Radiance is risking his very life to help his new friends from Gondor. But guests to the desert who view their guide with suspicion often find themselves forever lost in its shifting sands."

"Is that a threat?" flared up Mablung.

"An observation. Strangers in strange lands would do well to acknowledge their ignorance."

"Your lands were nothing before us. You did not even know how to work or farm them," cut in Lord Glavrion.

"And I suppose you know how to farm in the bleeding desert?" said Lord Torthon having apparently lost his patience somewhat ahead of schedule.

A tiresome lot. It would have been hard to remember he was not in Gondor on business of war, except that his true purpose was all he could think about during these meetings. He had come to take a wife. And not just any wife, but Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, a highborn determined little flirt who had a penchant for making all the wrong decisions for all the wrong reasons. The woman he had fallen in love with.

(Or, love… He still wondered if she would have the same hold on him if he had just lain with a wench or two, or taken up a lover instead of forcing himself to endure the humdrum of celibacy after he was named king of the Eorlingas. Anyway, it was too late for that now. He should have thought of it before he went to Emyn Arnen to be surrounded by the alluring court flowers of Gondor.)

As ever, thoughts of Lothíriel drove him to a distraction filled with both sentimental pleasure and doubt. Because he missed her, had painfully missed her: her cheerful presence, those bursts of consideration and tenderness, that sensational body. For many weeks - and still, in unguarded moments - his mind had recalled her lips on his, her hands running down his back, her tongue exploring, curious and eager… On the other hand, there was a creeping dread that he had made a grave mistake.

"You may tell your master our plans are unchanged." Aragorn's calm voice cut through his reverie. "Any information he has on the attacks in the inlands of Belfalas of course we would be glad to hear."

"Pah. Corsairs. What would we know of their movements? They are not our kinsmen."

"You are cut from the same cloth," grumbled Lord Glavrion.

"Pardon me, friend, pardon me." For the first time it seemed as if Selas's indignation was unfeigned. "The people of the Blue Tower are of the blood of the Ancient Ones, direct descendants of Yoru-Ala of the seven thousands times seven miracles. These bastard pirates are not our cloth."

Lord Glavrion remained mercifully silent, and Éomer pushed the black knight a few squares to the right.

"When may His Radiance expect you?" asked Selas, having recovered himself.

"Early spring. Before the equinox."

Eight months. One more winter of peace, and then war, a war further from home than any man of the Mark had ever been, and therefore already worthy of song. Was it unkingly to be eager? Some of his councillors – slow and careful men – seemed to think so. It would sit much easier with them if Lothíriel would be with child before then, although Éomer planned to lead his éoreds into battle regardless. Still, if they could conceive an heir before it would certainly prevent some fussing. Indeed, both the Mark and Gondor agreed to rush the engagement for that very reason. Seven months was considered a reasonable timespan for conception, with there being no cause to doubt her fertility. She had three brothers, three nephews, and she might be small, but she was strong and hale. And winters at Meduseld were long and cold and quiet, so there would be plenty of opportunity. With a babe with his blood in the world, he would no longer be so imprisoned in his own home. He retraced his line of thought with an uncomfortable twitch of his shoulder. It seemed cold, calculating. He would leave Lothíriel to face the birthing bed alone, and if he should fall… Anyway. A child would silence the nay-sayers, too. And there were plenty of those.

He did not know who had first spread the story of that night near Pelargir, and did not ask because he did not know quite what he would have done with the knowledge. Too many men had known, too many men had witnessed it for it to be reasonably kept a secret. And of course people would speculate about his bride, the new queen of Rohan; he could not prevent this anymore than the passing of the seasons. But in some hands, especially the hands of those who were not too happy with getting a Gondorian for a queen, the story became almost sinister: a story of trickery and wilful disobedience, of negligence that had led to a horse's death - an ill omen, they called it, a sign of faithlessness and perversity.

Of course, there were happier stories as well: stories of Lothíriel's beauty, her tumbling skills, and her merry nature. The extent of her dowry - another secret that the whole of Edoras had known about within a day or two - swayed some of the more pragmatic of his people (whatever their new queen might turn out to be, at least there would be ample recompense). And Éothain, ever one of her steadfast champions, was convinced the people just wanted to see him happy, and would easily dismiss last year's tragedy as a misunderstanding or youthful indiscretion if it turned out Lothíriel made him so. Still, it would be a rough start for his Lothi. She would have a lot to prove, and a lot of hearts to win over. And Éomer was not sure how Lothíriel - so young, so beloved by her father and brothers, such an easy favourite of the King and Queen of Gondor - would cope when she was made to feel less than welcome.

Meanwhile, the talk in the room had moved to the finer points of strategy, which seemed at least a little more constructive, so Éomer tried to focus. Húrin was glancing in his direction rather nervously; perhaps because Éomer's silence unnerved him, perhaps because his youngest and exquisitely beautiful daughter Raissel was having at this very moment an assignation with Éothain, the captain of Éomer's guard. They had fallen in love last year, and this was their first meeting as a betrothed couple, all correctly supervised by the girl's mother of course. He could not help but grin again at the thought, because they were so well suited, and yet entirely not: it was hard to believe that his friend, a humble farm boy from the Mark with not a pony to his name for most of his life, could have made a bid for the hand of arguably the most beautiful girl in Gondor and won it. Yes, the father had been hard to convince, but timid Raissel had turned out to be remarkably determined, and Éothain predictably shameless and persistent. He himself had intervened on their behalf, granting Éothain the lands he so deserved, and giving him a title to appease the Stonelanders, even though it would be meaningless in the Mark. Here at the courts of Minas Tirith Éothain was now known as Lord Éothain of Béamsceadu, and that was that.

"There is a natural harbour here, and here, and the cavalry can advance along the coast…"

"Ho! What happened to the fleet?" said Lord Torthon.

Erchirion looked all around and then his eyes settled on Éomer. "It seems the King of Rohan found a different use of them. Those ships do not belong on the chessboard, brother. You are playing with our navy."

"What?" said Éomer, sounding like a fool even to his own ears. "Hum… excuse me."

"It is all a mess," complained Lord Glavrion. "Where is the Prince's flagship?"

"At E4. Checking the white king, I believe," came Erchirion's amused voice.

"No matter," said Argorn, rising from his seat. "It is late. We may resume our conversation the day after tomorrow. My lords, you are dismissed."

Éomer made to get up but Aragorn motioned for him to stay. Erchirion gave him a sympathetic smile as he closed the door behind him, as if he was being held back to be scolded.

"You seem distracted, my friend," observed the King of Gondor once they were alone.

"You know I am not one for these endless talks. Just tell me where to charge and when, and I will be there."

"I don't doubt it."

"It is as you say. Do I like this Lord Dume? No. Do his ideas align with mine? No. But I am beginning to believe we may work together even with those who will never be friends."

"Such as Dunland?"

"They're rats. Every other word they say is a falsehood. This is actually so. I have a new advisor with Dunlending blood, and he claims it is an expected part of the negotiations; that his people find joy in concocting the most outrageous tales of drama and hardship, and creativity and feigned emotion is rewarded in the shape of a better deal, even if both parties are perfectly aware the lie is a lie, and the story is a story. It is a twisted system, of course, for those who suffer the most hardships often lack the skill to express it in flowery terms. But it is their way, and we try to wade through the mire for the sake of peace. Besides, it is not as if all elements of Gondorian culture are entirely unobjectionable."

"Such as what?"

Éomer sniffed. "Lord Glavrion's perfume."

"Ah. So that is why you cast such longing glances towards the window all the time."

"It's pungent. What is it meant to be – roses dappled with orc sweat?"

"I believe it is meant to be pine forest and dried apple."

"Send three men drenched in the stuff into the desert and we will need no further army."

"That is a solid plan. I will tell my lords immediately."

"You are welcome. Of course I am still happy to help you clean up any southerner who has the wit to plug their nostrils."

"And are you similarly ready for your nuptials?"

That," said Éomer with a sigh, "is a whole different battlefield."

"Not a very encouraging analogy."

"I suppose it is not."

"You are nervous."

Éomer did not like the word nervous, especially applied to himself. Even though he was undeniably that. Nervous. "Aye. I do not know how we will work. Sometimes I feel I barely know her at all."

"And yet you have spent quite a lot of time in each other's company, living under the same roof, sharing every meal; first a month in Edoras, and then two months in Ithilien. You have travelled together, and feasted together. Granted, it is not an acquaintance of sixty years, but it is far more than most couples before they pledge their troth. You know her moods, her preferences, her habits," said Aragorn with a grin. "I hope you like chatter."

Éomer grimaced. When Lothíriel was cheerful, she was quite capable of keeping up an endless stream of conversation on almost any topic, including the weather. She did not require much of a response either. Most of it was insipid, pointless and hardly worthy of a response anyway. And that was also why he loved it, really. It reminded him that there was time and space for insipid conversation and pointless argument.

But then there were those spells of abstractions when she did not even seem to hear what was going on around her. And her tendency to conveniently forget important tasks she considered mundane. "I know her, and yet not. She has queer moods sometimes."

"Ah. Well, she is a woman."

"Thank you, but you may keep your platitudes to yourself. They are decidedly unhelpful."

It came out sharper than he would have liked, and Aragorn regarded him with shrewd eyes. "Hm. I wonder if your choice met with much opposition?"

Éomer stood up, the desire to feel the steadiness of earth underneath his feet suddenly overwhelming. He paced up and down the chamber. "Some. Relations between our countries have improved, but there are still some who fear that Gondor's influence may become too great, the blood of Eorl too diluted or some such nonsense. And then of course there are those who remember my grandmother."

"But Lothíriel was at Edoras before. Surely they know her not to be another Morven Steelsheen."

"That is true, and she is remembered kindly. She was undemanding, especially compared to some of the elves and lordlings you brought, enthusiastic about everything and even befriended my cook. She left a favourable impression. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"It is common knowledge I banned her from entering the stables for the duration of her stay." And unfortunately there were some men who had remembered their king's furious order that the 'pesky hoyden of Dol Amroth' was not to go near the horses again. Had he known he would end up bringing Lothíriel home as his bride, he would never have phrased his command like that. Hopefully Lothíriel would never find out.

"You banned her from the stables?"

"I am surprised you do not know." In curt words, Éomer told Aragorn of their quarrel on the road to Edoras, when Lothíriel had stood on the back of Aldor's horse, a charger who had served as one of his remounts at the Pelennor, and refused to step down. It seemed so long ago now. "I expected her to apologise, or at least confront me. Instead, she spent the entire duration of her stay plotting her way into the stables without my permission. She succeeded, of course. Fooled my squire into believing she knew elven magic or some other nonsense."

Aragorn laughed. "I had not heard that story. But this sounds like Lothíriel."

"And then I could not contain all the stories and rumours."

"Rumours?"

"Of events that transpired here last year."

"I see."

Éomer cleared his throat but Aragorn interrupted him. "Don't trouble yourself. I know the whole story."

"Then you may understand why there are questions."

"I do understand. And yet you chose her. And in the end very decisively, if I may say so."

"I knew what I wanted. My people are not in love with her."

"So you expect Lothíriel will meet with some hostility? Did you discuss this with her?"

Éomer made a vague gesture. He did not want to go into that. To Aragorn he would surely sound like an adolescent boy.

"Well," began Aragorn slowly. "Politically Lothíriel is a sound choice, even with the opposition. The recent wars have proven how much the Mark and Gondor need one another. Faramir married the highest lady in your land, and you will marry the highest lady in ours, excepting of course my daughter, but I do not think your advisors will be ready to wait thirty or forty years."

"Forty, eh?"

"Perhaps fifty," said Aragorn blankly. "Besides, Imrahil's cavalry is second only to yours, and close ties with Dol Amroth can only serve you well. Lothíriel's dowry is extensive and, from what I hear, sorely needed."

"Most do see it that way. Although some managed to even grumble at that. Lothíriel's dowry is so lavish, especially compared to our customs, that some think it a way for Gondor to buy the Riddermark."

"Buy the Riddermark!" said Aragorn, annoyed. "Whatever do your people imagine we would do with all that empty grass? Farm it?"

"They fear their independence. Many of my people are optimistic and open to change, but there is a vocal section clinging to tradition and what is known after years of upheaval."

"And then a Gondorian Princess who takes a tumble off her horse while fleeing through the woods in the dead of night seems just another outrageous import."

"She disobeyed her father and disdained me, and her horse died for it. Did Imrahil tell you what happened?" Éomer asked abruptly.

"No. I had it from Lothíriel herself."

He was surprised. "She confided in you?"

"I am afraid I questioned her a little before I gave my blessing. Forgive me, my friend. I wanted to make sure Imrahil had not forced her into accepting your suit."

"You think he would do such a thing?"

"Not consciously, no. But I know this match was a cherished wish of his. He reads minds as intuitively as you read hearts. If we know what to say to achieve the result we want, it becomes very difficult not to say it."

"I do not think he reads Lothíriel all that well," mumbled Éomer mostly to himself.

"Well, Lothíriel has a mercurial mind. I am sure your marriage won't be dull. Indeed, I think it may be very good."

"So you think well of her?"

"Why not? She has been very loyal and sweet to Arwen. She is not prone to those particular evils ladies of the court sometimes are: she is not jealous, or mean, or overly affected. She is a little vain perhaps, but so are many women upon first discovering they are beautiful. She is young, although not wholly without wisdom. And she has courage, the most important virtue of any king or queen I would say, for without it, all other virtues can be overthrown just when they are sorely needed."

"She is daring, certainly." Reckless. Could anyone be truly brave if they were reckless?

"You know, I met Imrahil a few times when he was a young man. He was impulsive, rash, a true pirate prince of Dol Amroth, and all charms and graces to every woman who crossed his path. There is no doubt Lothíriel is her father's daughter."

"It is hard to imagine."

"Life made him wiser, and more cautious."

A thought tugged at the back of his mind. "Did you ever meet his wife?"

"Mírdis? Aye, once. She was a rare beauty; the Jewel of the South, they called her. Imrahil had to have her from the moment he laid eyes on her. I am hardly in a position to fault him for such a thing."

As if on cue, a knock came at the door, and a moment later Arwen Undómiel stepped into the room. Still the fairest woman he had ever seen, and ever would see, Éomer found himself momentarily at a loss for air and words.

"Forgive me my intrusion," she said in her melodic voice. "How went the council?"

"Well enough. Indeed, I thought you might have joined us. You would have been welcome."

"Thank you, but no. I did not feel I would miss much. How many more ways could there be for our dear Selas to needle Lord Glavrion, and for Lord Glavrion to respond by thumbing his history books?"

Éomer felt a rush of sympathy for the Queen of Gondor.

"You are not wrong. Well, the die is cast, and the alliance stands," said Aragorn. "There are yet some decisions to be made tomorrow, but mostly of a logistical nature."

"You may inform me after, so I can begin planning the organisation of the supplies. I cannot join you, I'm afraid, with Raissel away and Feiril as yet untrained."

"Nor will I join you," said Éomer, coming to a decision. "I will leave on the morrow."

"I see," said Arwen with a smile. "Then perhaps I should leave you now to finish your strategies talk and have your dinners brought here?"

"No, I think we are done here," said Aragorn. "We had long moved on to weightier topics. We were talking of marriage."

Arwen smiled and sat down on the bench that Erchirion had vacated not long before. "I see. We will be so sorry to miss yours, Éomer, but two months is long to be away, and long to be on the road for Edlenneth."

"I understand. I feel I can barely afford to travel to Dol Amroth myself, even though the wedding is my own. Besides, I am greatly honoured you will come to Edoras for the coronation, although I am sure you will be missed, especially by Lothíriel."

"Oh, not all that much," said Arwen, her eyes sparkling. "She wrote me that it was very generous of me to at least give her a chance to be the most beautiful woman at her wedding."

"She wrote you this?" said Éomer, half outrage and half laughter.

"And very prettily, too. But the message was clear."

Aragorn grinned as he polished his pipe. "Indeed, brother, I am sure Lothíriel would have been fairest to you in any case?

"Oh no," said Éomer. "There is no right answer to that. I am done comparing beauties. I have learned my lesson."

oOo

When Éomer returned to the apartments that were his to use whenever he stayed in the white city, he found Éothain leaning against the wall outside, and beside him in the doorway a maiden of almost unearthly beauty with thick, inky black hair that fell down to her waist and curled at the end. This was Raissel Húrinsdaughter. Éomer had gotten to know her as kind-hearted, naïve and unschooled, but in possession of unexpected reserves of courage and strength. She had worked in the Houses of Healing during the siege, and had not hesitated to give her heart to Éothain, despite the difference in rank and the fact that the marriage would take her to a new land that she had never even had a chance to visit.

She was also one of Lothíriel's dearest friends.

"Lady Raissel," Éomer bowed. "It is good to see you."

"My lord," she beamed as she performed a curtsy. "May I present my mother, Lady Rones?"

Indeed, Éomer had met Húrin's wife before, and the obligatory courtesies were smoothly exchanged.

"I owe you my deepest thanks for the honours you have bestowed upon Éothain, my lord," said Raissel now. "And for supporting our betrothal. I've been so very happy." She did seem for a fact very happy, and more confident than he had ever known her. Otherwise she was much as he remembered: huge grey eyes in a perfectly formed face, flawless fawn skin and a smile that was both shy and dazzling. It would take her but one of those to charm Éothain's whole village, he was sure of it.

"Yes well. That title is conditional. If it goes to his head, I expect you to put him in his place."

Raissel giggled. "I will do my best, my lord. You must look forward to seeing Lothíriel! I'm sure she has missed you terribly."

"Raissel told me she will be in Dol Amroth for the wedding," said Éothain. "Travelling with another acquaintance, in fact: the Lady of Waterrush, formerly known as Hethlil of the Hills."

"I shall be pleased to see you both, as I am sure will Lothíriel."

"We are leaving by ship from Minas Tirith tomorrow, and then riding up from Linhir," said Raissel excitedly. "I've never ridden for more than a day, so I suppose it will be good practice!"

"Have you ever visited Dol Amroth?"

"Never. But I am eager to see it. I hear it is Gondor's most beautiful city, and it will be my first time at the sea. They say the waves have the power to change all hearts."

Éothain grinned at her. "Sounds like a dangerous place. Perhaps we shouldn't go, if it may put the state of our hearts at risk. I rather like things the way they are."

"So do I. But I will chance it if you will," said Raissel with a blush.

"Pray excuse us, my lords," interrupted Lady Rones. "Raissel, if King Éomer has returned from the council, your father will soon be home as well. It is time for supper, and to finish your packing."

They exchanged farewells - Éothain kissing his betrothed's hand in the Gondorian manner with great aplomb – and then watched mother and daughter glide away down the hall.

Éomer turned to Éothain. "So I take it you had a pleasant afternoon? How do you find Gondorian courtship?"

"Somewhat less inexplicable than I thought it to be this morning. It was, in fact, one of our main topics of conversation."

Gondorian courtship for a fact was insane, in Éomer's opinion. As he had experienced it, for the most part young men and women mingled quite easily in most straits of Gondorian society; dancing together, feasting together, spending long lazy summer afternoons by the riverside in mixed company while employing all the regular tactics of flirtation. Of course, meeting a woman alone was frowned upon, but private moments in the garden were easily stolen. But as soon as a couple got engaged – the moment in the Mark when everyone tended to ease up and allow the lovebirds more leeway than before – courtship and interaction became highly ritualised and, more importantly, strictly supervised.

"This is what I found out," said Éothain as they sat down to a simple supper. "In Gondor expressing an intent to wed and then having relations constitutes a binding legal contract in and of itself, without a need for witnesses. This was the practice for many generations. Over time the period between the betrothal and the marriage became the time to negotiate all necessary terms between the families, but some young couples had trouble waiting and would hurry matters along, causing all negotiations between the respective families to be rendered void. This was, of course, considered inconvenient; hence why the couple is now watched closely until the conclusion of negotiations and the signing of the contracts in the presence of witnesses – the marriage ceremony so to say - to prevent them from taking matters into their own hands.

"I see. So I suppose you and Raissel were made to sit nine feet apart, and talk about the weather, all carefully scrutinised by her mother?"

"Ah. Fortunately, Lady Rones is an easygoing and very amenable woman. We talked pleasantly for some time, and then she sat in the antechamber with her needlework while Raissel and I were in the solar. The door had to be open, but we still had a decent bit of privacy."

"I wonder how it will be with Lothíriel."

Éothain's grin was rather smug. "Nothing so simple, I'm afraid. No matter the high regard I hold the Amrothians in, I would describe none of her relatives as easygoing and amenable. Especially not the Princess Ivriniel, whom I suspect you will be dealing with."

Éomer imagined sitting across from Lothíriel and her aunt, sipping tea, and talking about what? Lothíriel and he had never been very good at talking when there was no kissing or undressing involved.

"Of course, Lothíriel is a natural rule breaker," continued Éothain, guessing at the train of his thoughts. "You may find yourself married sooner than expected."

oOo

It was after supper, but the light still seemed as bright as it had at midday. Éothain had gone to check if all was ready for their departure on the morrow when Éomer was startled out of his reverie (still Lothíriel, now lingering on the pleasant) by a knock on the door.

"The Princess is here to see you, my lord," announced the attendant Aragorn had forced upon him.

"What?" said Éomer with some alarm. "How?"

Yet the man had already turned away, by now used to being immediately dismissed.

A moment later a woman with long golden hair swept into the room: "Éowyn!"

His face must have given him away because his sister made a short harrumphing noise before she sat herself down on his desk. "What - not pleased to see me?"

"The fool announced the Princess and I thought…"

"I see. Already my cousin has replaced me in your affections."

He grimaced. "I am always pleased to see you, but you need not have made the journey. We were about to see each other in Dol Amroth."

"Yes, I was told you could not be bothered to stop in Ithilien, so then I thought I had better come to you."

"I already trespassed on your hospitality too long last year," he said diplomatically. "Where is my nephew?"

"At home, with Faramir. Don't worry, you'll see him soon."

He felt a surge of joy and affection at the thought of his sister-son, although that was quite inexplicable, because last year in Ithilien the boy had been little more than a weeping bundle of smells.

"I wanted to see you once more before you were swept up in wedding preparations. I have heard it will be quite the affair. Every lord or lady who can attend will attend, if they were lucky enough to receive an invitation."

"Excellent," said Éomer, who had begun dreading the drawn out formal pageantry ever since his first exchange of letters with Imrahil.

"Ah! But at the end you will be wed, and may whisk Lothíriel off to the Riddermark without any further obstacle."

"No obstacle indeed."

"Oh, who cares what some staid old misers have to say about it?"

Unlike Éomer, Éowyn had little patience or sympathy for the people of the Mark who would prefer to turn back time and pretend the strange alliances and friendships of the Ring War had been nothing more than a temporary intrusion.

"You are not confronted with these misers on a daily basis. And besides, you have always wanted this match," he said accusingly.

"Not always. But then I grew to like her, and the thought of our families being so connected. Besides, I wanted you to wed for love, as I did."

"And you thought if I wed Lothíriel it must be for love, because what other motivation could I have to make that troublemaker my wife."

"And was I wrong?"

"I suppose I made no secret of my attraction in the end."

"Indeed. Although I already suspected it two years ago at Edoras."

What? How?" He had certainly not suspected anything.

"You always seemed to be watching her. Your eyes were following her whenever she left the room, and assessing her whenever she entered. I reckoned you either felt an attraction to her or feared she would light Meduseld on fire if left unattended, and that seemed a little overly suspicious, even for you."

"Hmpf," said Éomer. There was no overly suspicious where Lothíriel was concerned, in his experience. That was another point. He had hoped to bring home a woman his people might accept as regent whenever he rode to war (although Éowyn had not exactly left a very convincing legacy there); or at least someone who could represent him in his absence. But with Lothíriel he felt he must seriously consider appointing a nurse, or just lock her in the dungeons whenever he had to go away. Yes, that would be wisdom.

"Brother." Éowyn studied him carefully. "I hope you will be kind to her."

"What do you mean?" he said, a little guilty. "How can you think I would not be?"

"I was just thinking… Life can be restrictive for women in the Mark. Or it has been so, more than before. Over the years we have celebrated more and more the deeds of war and glory, and yet banned women from them, despite our traditions."

There was a truth to her words, no matter how much he wanted to counter that she was being unjust. "We had to, Éowyn. The line of Eorl seemed to be declining, there was so much loss…"

"So was there in Gondor."

"And in Gondor also, women do not become soldiers. Lothíriel was raised in a gilded cage, more so than you."

"Lothíriel is an exception."

"You were the only woman on the Pelennor that day."

"See, that is exactly your problem. You think I mean freedom in the way of access to swords and shields. No, women do not fight in Gondor, but I have met diplomats, teachers, even blacksmiths, and they are neither sheltered nor taken for granted. One of the healers, Ioreth, was honoured and raised to an order of chivalry by King Elessar himself for her deeds during the siege, and her knowledge of ancient lore. Gondor knows a war is won through more than deeds of arms."

"Éowyn," said Éomer patiently. "Éowyn, I know very well the Riddermark would have fallen without you - and not through the strength of your arms, which I'm afraid to say you entirely overestimate…"

She hit him in the shoulder. It hurt.

"But through the strength of your heart - and the very fact that you are a woman. Trust me when I say I - and the Riddermark - will not make the same mistakes again."

"Women are more than bedmates and breeders."

"I know this," he said, irritated now. "I do not understand why you are suddenly so angry with me."

"I am not angry. I am just… Sometimes I feel so frustrated about all the unhappiness and insecurity I felt, and did not need to feel."

"So are you blaming me now?"

"No! And yes. I know it isn't fair. You are my brother, and I love you. I suppose I just expect so much from you."

Her and the Riddermark and all its people. As if he did not have enough work on his shoulder without becoming some sort of champion for women. And he did care, of course he cared. Anyway, Lothíriel was Lothíriel, not just a woman who needed a free pass on account of her sex.

"I feel valued here for everything I am," continued Éowyn. "That is freedom."

"If you'd been in the room just now, you'd know Gondor is a mess of windbags and yapping buffoons as much as any place in the world. I am glad you found a home here, but you are still a Shieldmaiden of the Mark, and that is something to be proud of."

"I am."

"The strength of the Eorlingas lies in our traditions, our way of life. It just saddens me that you do not seem to see this anymore." Like she had outgrown the Mark. Outgrown him.

"That is not my intention. And you are changing things."

"Because I believe in the hearts of our people. Because I believe we can weather the storm of the new world, and still be the Eorlingas. Don't you?"

"Of course. We want the same thing. Come and tell me everything that happened. I did not come here for an argument. Oh, and Éomer," she leaned back, studying him again with narrowed eyes. "You ought to get a trim while you're here. There is a very good barber on the fifth. Your beard looks like a thicket of barberry bushes."

"Just because you like hairless southern boys does not mean Lothíriel does."

"Whatever you like. Just some free advice."

"I appreciate that it is free, but I think I've had enough of it."

They spoke of nothing for a while, and at last said their farewells in tolerably good spirits. The next morning Éomer found the barber on the fifth level and had the most expensive trim of his life.