3019 TA

The great hall of Merethrond could not have been any more different than what he remembered. Banners hung from marble pillars, and flowers in vases adorned every empty surface. Many extra tables, laden with food and drink, had been set up along the perimeter. Instead of cold emptiness, the hall bloomed with color and life as hundreds of people crowded around each other, dancing and talking and laughing—all in celebration.

Truthfully, Éomer had never felt less like celebrating. A deep, aching wound of grief and pain was festering somewhere in his chest, and the sight of happy, carefree guests only made it sharpen. Perhaps in time he might remember this particular spring as one of victory and renewal, but not tonight.

But he played his part, at least as best he could. He was sought for by nearly everyone: men to speak of politics or the war, women, their hair shorn short in remembrance of their fallen brothers and fathers, for a coveted smile, and the few children around simply to stare at him in awe. None of which, Éomer was sure, that he deserved.

The night wore on sluggishly. No one seemed eager to break the spell of excitement, and the tables of food were removed so that there might be more room for dancing. He was not keen on participating, but the idea of appearing as aloof as he remembered Denethor did not seem quite the thing. So Éomer plastered on a smile, greeted the ladies and attempted to divide his attention fairly.

Sometime around midnight he began to lose his focus. His mind wandered, looking about the hall, unseeing, above his dancing partner's head. The steps were automatic. The grief was a dull burn. He missed his cousin, he missed his uncle, he missed his sister...he would visit her at the Healing Houses tomorrow. That, at least, could be remedied.

Near the back of the hall, where candelabras lit both the dimmest corners and the pathways to the gardens, something caught his eye. Éomer twirled his partner around a bit too violently as he looked again. His brows furrowed, blinking at the faraway darkness. He thought he recognized the figure he saw, and a strange feeling burst in his chest.

Of course Lothíriel would be here. She was Gondorian nobility, after all, and Éomer had conversed with her father and her brothers during the evening. In fact, it had been her advice that had led him to trust Imrahil so quickly during the war, and he had rather sought out any information of this princess and of her well-being that he could, during recent weeks. But he had not seen her until that moment.

That particular song seemed to last a life age.

Once his partner was properly disposed of, Éomer strode towards the back of the hall with purpose. He was fortunate; Lothíriel had not moved. In fact, as he approached, her dark eyes met his; surely he could not imagine the air growing thicker the closer they were . . .

He stood in front of her, unable to speak. The girl he had met was a girl no longer; vitality and the blossom of womanhood suited her. Though she remained pale, color flooded her cheeks and the swells of her breasts at his scrutiny. Her pale-blue silk dress was perhaps the reason he had not recognized her earlier, it was a far cry from her previous mournful attire. His breath caught as he noticed her hair—a mass waterfall of curls no longer, it was cut short and brushed against her bare shoulders, glinting red in the candlelight.

Impulsively, Éomer reached out to touch the ends of her hair, the silky strands falling from his touch as if nothing at all. He swallowed and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Surely not your uncle," he said, his voice hoarse.

"My cousin."

Her expression remained as hard and unhappy as he remembered. A sinking feeling in his stomach gave him pause, and he blurted, "Will you walk with me, Lady?"

Her eyes were cautious. "Walk, my lord?"

"I am tired of dancing."

Lothíriel paused, blinking slowly, and then nodded. Éomer took her hand—there was an odd spread of goose pimples across his neck when he did this—and together, they made for the doorway toward the gardens. The light of the stars was bright, and the full moon shone down on the pathways and made them easily to navigate. The heady scent of new blooms was in the air, and Éomer began to feel lightheaded.

He did not know what to say. There seems to be words and words which needed to be spoken between them, but none sprang forward. That he was sorry for her cousin's death. That she had been right; there were many friends of Rohan in Gondor. That her father was as loyal as he had hoped. That he had worried for her. That he had thought of her, nearly every day after their meeting, and when darkness had crowded around him, it was only the thought of her face and her voice that had sustained him . . .

"Éowyn told me that you were well." Lothíriel's voice was small, hesitant. She glanced up at him, her skin illuminated by the moonlight. Éomer was forced to look forward before he could form a sentence.

"I did not know that you had met," he said.

"Yes, I met her in the Healing Houses when I was visiting my cousin." A pause. "They . . . are very well-suited for each other, I think."

Éomer thought so too, but could barely fathom what it meant. All he knew was that Faramir's company had driven the shadows from Éowyn, and for that, he was forever in the steward's debt.

He wondered why the same pall had not left Lothíriel.

"I was sorry to hear of your uncle," she continued. "And—and your cousin. I cannot imagine the pain you. . ."

His grip on her hand tightened. "Do not," he said roughly. "Do not imagine."

She said nothing to this, only nodded.

"I searched for you," Lothíriel said, so quietly that the dim breeze through the hedges nearly carried her voice away. "After the battle on the Pelennor. I—well—I . . . I only wanted to . . ."

Éomer stopped their course, turning to face her. He lifted her chin, and fearlessly she met his stare, the dark depths of her expression unreadable. Then, strangely, as if through their touch he understood her surging unhappiness, her longing and desperation . . . She had yearned for him, too. And though the gloom had been swept from the land, it remained in her soul.

Perhaps he only understood her because she was reflecting his own feelings.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

At once, like a sudden rush of spring breezes and warmth, the lingering darkness was swept away. Her skin flushed with heat underneath his fingers, and as she leaned into the kiss he wrapped his arms around her. Her lips were soft, her breath was warm, and a sigh vibrated in her throat. The intensifying sensations Éomer was experiencing were completely new, almost alien . . . how long had it been since he kissed a woman? And when had he ever felt so much attached to a simple kiss?

She broke the kiss at last, her breathing ragged, and they remained tightly entwined. Though it was midnight, it seemed to Éomer to be as bright as the noon day, and he could not help grinning broadly at the flushed woman whose face was so close to his own. Her eyes were no longer dimmed with misery, but sparkled with the reflection of the stars above. Lothíriel was smiling, too.

"I never thought . . ." She trailed off, and then closed her mouth.

"Nor did I," Éomer said, and set her down gently on the pathway; somehow he had lifted her into the air during their kissing. She rested her head against his chest with a sigh, and he held her, running his fingers through her beautiful shorn hair.

The pain and grief of losing his uncle and cousin were growing distant. Not completely healed—that would require more time—but in this moment, a hope for the future, previously unseen, was taking root.

"Well," Lothíriel murmured after a few moments. "I do believe that now I understand exactly what Éowyn spoke of."

Éomer did, too.

Fin! As always I appreciate the feedback from every one of you, even if I'm too scatterbrained to sit down and reply to all of them (I'm sorry!). Love ya'll ;)