30 March 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith

The following morning Éomer was delivered a sealed note in the midst of one of the many meetings overseen by Elessar. He took it from the page, hoping to appear nonchalant as several pairs of eyes followed his movements. It had been a rather tedious council, and the appearance of the page was easily the most exciting thing which had happened since Imrahil upended an ink pot with his elbow. He broke the seal and quickly scanned its contents, holding the letter under the rim of the oaken table.

Éomer,

I would be gratified if you might agree to take supper at my house tonight. If you have scruples regarding proprietary or your other obligations, I can assure you there are no other activities which might demand your presence—many of our shared friends will be in attendance.Send word back when you can—

Lothíriel

His heart was thudding, and Éomer pressed his lips together to keep a silly grin from forming. Lothíriel had invited his company! To her house—regardless that there would be others there, she had thought of him. Evidently he could be charming, when he applied himself. He would be pleased to tell Éowyn.

Immediately he tore of a piece of spare parchment from the notes he ought to have been taking, and scrawled, Yes, thank you, I will see you tonight and folded it tightly. The page had lingered, apparently expecting an answer, and stepped forward with a bow to take it. Éomer tried to suppress the burgeoning excitement in his chest, but to little avail.

Lothíriel wanted to see him again!

There was a definite bound to his step when he exited the council chamber along with the crush some time later; certainly the sun was shining more brightly than normal, and the air was sweet. The usual tinge of hearth fires and general stinkiness of city living was absent; at least to Éomer. He would seek out Éowyn, he decided—surely she would not be closeted in meetings all day as he was. She would be pleased to know how he was progressing with Lothíriel, and offer advice of how he ought to go on.

He turned a corner, straight into a gaggle of Dol Amrothians. Their lively chatter seemed to swarm around him, and Éomer was forced to greet every one of them (and Amrothos twice) before they allowed him to continue onward.

"And if you see Lothíriel, tell her to get a move on! Elessar is expecting us," the prince called back as Éomer made his way to the guesthouses.

He did not even have time to consider this before he caught sight of the lady herself, not fifteen feet away, warmly cloaked and making her way towards the citadel. She was accompanied by another lady whom he did not know, and it was clear from the bemusement on both of their faces that they had heard Amrothos's shouting. Éomer grinned, and bowed low as they approached.

"Your brother is asking for you," he deadpanned to Lothíriel, who laughed.

"Indeed, I heard," she said with a dimpled smile. "Thank you for, er, passing on the message." Her friend tittered beside her, a definite blush in her cheeks. She looked away quickly at Éomer's glance.

"If I had known I would see you this morn, I might not have accepted to your invitation by note," Éomer continued to Lothíriel. "I am afraid I have wasted parchment."

Her brows arched slightly, and her smile did not fade. "Perhaps not, for now I will have the pleasure of your acceptance twice over."

Lothíriel's friend was tugging her forward mercilessly, and Éomer was forced to bow low in farewell. There was only an apologetic look for him in return, and the two ladies were gone.

Well! He would not complain of that meeting, short as it was.

Éomer turned his course for the Sixth Circle, as he wagered his best chance to finding Éowyn would be at the steward's house, now that it was her own. The sun shone brightly above, not quite driving away the chill, though the excitement of his steps made him quite warm by the time he was knocking on the door of Faramir's house.

He was ushered in by a servant and shown to a receiving room. It was unfortunately empty, and Éomer was forced to sit still for several minutes while he waited for his sister.

When Éowyn did arrive, it was in a flurry of green silk, her color high and her smile wide for her brother. "I was just seeing Faramir off," she said breathlessly. "He came home to take luncheon with me between councils…he had to rush to the citadel—Elessar is meeting with lords of the southern lands, I think."

"'Tis true," Éomer said wisely as she sat beside him on the settee. "I saw them arriving just as I left."

"And you came to eat from our table, I suspect," Éowyn laughed. "Or are you not hungry?"

"I cannot eat at present. Éowyn, I have received an invitation from Lothíriel to dine with her tonight!" His earnest words took his sister aback, and she appeared to calm herself, smoothing down her skirt.

"Oh, that is well!" she said. "I am glad. Faramir and I have also been invited."

"I thought you might."

There was a moment of silence, and Éowyn gazed at him, a smile playing at her lips. "Éomer, you are grinning like the veriest lovesick fool."

"Oh—am I?"

"Indeed! Is your wooing proceeding so well, then?"

He clenched his hands together, trying not to appear so excitable. "I do not know, Éowyn," he said in agony. "She shows no reluctance to be in my company—nay, she is positively friendly and teasing—but I cannot know if that is simply because she is always wonderful, or if she likes me. Any more than the next man, I mean to say."

"Why, Éomer," Éowyn said, her eyes dancing. "I am sure that is the longest speech I have ever heard from you." He started to protest, but she shook her head, her voice turning solemn. "Your dealings with Aema have left you bereft of confidence. I am sure Lothíriel does like you—I find you perfectly amiable, after all, and my judgments are always correct."

"You are only being kind."

"Not at all! Lothíriel would not have invited you to to her house if she did not like you, I am sure of it. She is not like most women of Minas Tirith, Éomer—she picks and chooses her company as she wishes."

He considered this for a moment. Éowyn was speaking perfect sense, and he could not disagree with her assessment of Lothíriel. Still he rebelled to believe that he was making an impression on the lady. It was beyond his hope.

"You know that I am right," Éowyn laughed, interrupting his thoughts. "I can see it in your eyes. You have never been able to hide your feelings, brother of mine!"

"Ha," he said irritably. "I wonder, on occasion, why I bother confiding in you."

"Because anyone else would have lost patience with your ill-founded cynicism years ago," was her immediate answer. "Are you wanting luncheon yet? Or are you going to starve yourself before supper?"

"No, I will eat." Best not to appear at Lothíriel's house with a grumbling gut, Éomer decided.

Éowyn was more than generous with her stores, and when he at last left an hour later he wondered if he would even need supper. At least he was no longer nervous—the light-hearted company of his sister was as placating as it had always been.

When the sun was long gone and the moon had risen, Éomer, dressed in his finest, forest-green tunic and even having attempted a nice-looking plait in his hair, left the guesthouse at the citadel and made for the lower circles.

He truly tried not to worry so much—the evening would go well, or it would not. He would charm Lothíriel as best he could, and if she did not respond, he would be gracious all the same. Oh, Béma! What did a Gondorian supper party even entail? The lady's house, a proud building not far from Imrahil's own dwelling, was twinkling with lights as he approached, and there was the sound of laughter.

As soon as Éomer arrived, he had no more opportunity to fret. He was greeted in the entrance hall by Lothíriel herself, customary smile in place and wearing a fine dark frock. Éomer bent low over her hand.

"Welcome," she said cheerily. "I am glad you could come."

"I am grateful that you thought of me." Éomer managed to return her smile, and she laughed.

"It was remiss of me to invite your sister without extending the invitation to you." Lothíriel's eyes were sparkling in the candlelight. "She has already arrived—she is in the front parlor."

"Thank you." Disappointed as the feeling of having been dismissed, Éomer trudged away to where she pointed him. She was now greeting her brother's family who had arrived behind him—he could not blame her. If he had thought more cunningly, he might have been the last guest to arrive…

The parlor was filled with lively spirits—Eowyn laughing with Erchirion, Imrahil and Faramir in deep discussion by a window, and Amrothos sitting beside Queen Arwen and seemingly trying his very hardest to make her laugh. Her gracious smile was enough to convince Éomer that the prince was fighting a losing battle.

He himself could not help but feel the peace and happiness of Lothíriel's house: she was a gracious hostess, and the company so willing to be pleasant and charming. Éomer was sure had had never enjoyed a supper more. The teasing between the lady and Amrothos, the dry humor of Imrahil and even Aragorn's intermittent quips kept things lively. The meal itself, an exemplar of Gondorian cuisine, was delicious; baked fish with lemon, warm flatbreads, fluffy cooked grains with herbs and a wine crisp and deceptively strong. Éomer did not need the wine, however, as he drunk in the sight of his Lothíriel at the head of the table, smiling and laughing and looking beautiful as ever, but all the more wonderful for the adept manner in which she was managing the supper, and her clear enjoyment of it.

Éomer must have been staring, for Éowyn kicked him from her place next to him. Startled, he glanced at his sister to hear her hiss,

"Give your attentions to others; you look like a dolt!"

He flushed red, and immediately engaged in conversation Elphir's wife beside him.

After the meal was finished, with the finale of a spectacular towering white cake filled with cream and fresh fruits, and with many groans, they retired to the front parlor once more. Éomer tried to snatch a place next to Lothíriel where she sat on a settee, but Erchirion was there first. The prince offered Éomer a raised brow as if to say, Why, were you wishing to speak to my sister? Better luck next time!

His annoyance was soon lost; it was impossible to be unhappy in a chamber so full of light and life. Amrothos unearthed a lyre from a trunk, and quickly a few more instruments were given to others to play. The music and singing seemed to reach every corner of shadow and drive it away. Lothíriel, bearing her own harp, commanded with a laugh that no sorrowful ballad be played, and no one gainsayed her. Having little skill with any sort of instrument, Éomer was left listening appreciatively, trying not to let his eyes linger on the lady too long. She had a clear voice which melded well with her brothers'. The additions of Aragorn and Arwen, both highly skilled themselves, and Faramir, who possessed a surprisingly deep tone, made for real artistry. Éomer thought he had never heard better music anywhere—he glanced at Éowyn, who was determinedly not singing though she laughed along merrily, and held back a smile.

Imrahil, who sat beside him, was humming along but no more. His eyes shone with pride when he turned to Éomer to murmur quietly, "Perhaps you and Éowyn might favor us with a song of Rohan."

"I would not wish to disappoint!," Éomer said with a chuckle, "Éowyn detests singing, and she has every reason to! You may think I am uncharitable, but really, I would not wish all the tomcats in the city to be scratching at the door."

"Then you might sing for us. I have heard you have a fine voice."

"Fine enough for battle, perhaps," he said. "But not for a gathering such as this. I am content to listen, unless my hostess wishes otherwise." It was true that the cheery chamber needed no darkening by way of a song of bloodshed, and furthermore Lothíriel had not wished it. And he knew few other lays.

Imrahil's response was not immediate, and Éomer wondered if he had made a blunder. But the prince's keen gaze showed no offense, and he said, "Perhaps another time." Éomer inclined his head.

Elphir and his wife were the first to depart, and Aragorn and Arwen soon after. The music continued, nonetheless, though it had lost some quality. This did not stop Amrothos, however, from reciting a poem of a bullfrog with hiccups, his own voice croaky from overuse, and bringing the chamber to tears from laughter. Amrothos clearly enjoyed amusing others, for he was grinning broadly.

Éowyn's eyes were bright, and she turned to her brother. "Oh, Éomer, do you remember the song Mama used to sing to us? When Father was away—and—"

"Yes, I do," he said, only a little reluctantly. Would she be the next to suggest he sing?

"We ought to sing it! I am tiring of these Sindarin words."

Oh, Béma. Éomer felt his ears turn red as everyone gazed at him expectantly. He could not help looking at Lothíriel, who was smiling gently.

"I should like to hear a Rohirric song. If you do not mind, Éomer." The way her voice said his name made Éomer want to agree to anything, and attempting to hide this, he nodded curtly.

"I will play for you!" Éowyn had picked up a lyre, strumming the strings in experimentation. Feeling as though he was trodding through mud, Éomer stood and took a place next to where his sister sat. He cleared his throat awkwardly. Béma, it was too unfair of Lothíriel to have asked him—he could not resist her at all! Recalling his mother's face and voice to mind wrenched his heart. He had not sung this particular song since his youth, when his uncle had been alive and merry and Aema had smiled for him…

Dún be þæt éa,

Hwær ic gebidden

Neoðan þæm séolfren móna

Þær þú findest méc

Mín héorte wracnaþm,

Mín ferhþ þeow

O mín éagan nmagau seon þæm dægrædléoma

Swá lif losaþ butan lufu,

Ndoð þú ácordest?

Ic áwilne þú æfterfolgest

Méc to mín séftnesse

Álæne méc þin hand,

Ic wille hafene þú fram þin cnéo

Mín lufu fæstgangol,

Þin lufu soþ

Ond ic cunnan þæm séolfren móna wille áblác for þú

O ic cunnan þæm séolfren móna wille áblác for þú

Éowyn played a few more notes when he was finished. The chamber had lapsed into silence as he sang, the liveliness all but gone, and Éomer regretted it. Had their performance been so poor?

Lothíriel spoke first, breaking the silence with her beautiful smile, "I need to refresh my Rohirric. That was lovely, Éowyn, Éomer. Thank you." Her eyes shone with pleasure, and for that alone, Éomer's discomfort vanished.

The party was clearly ending; Imrahil stood with a yawn and declared the need to seek his bed. Amrothos and Erchirion dutifully left with their father after farewells all around. Faramir remained only to assist Lothíriel in carefully packing away the instruments in thick cloths. Éomer sat on the now-empty settee, wondering how long he could stay without being rude. The moon, visible through the opened windows was shining brightly, and he estimated that it was nearing midnight.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Éowyn was saying, and she kissed Lothíriel's cheek. The lady was flushed, but there was a definite frown pulling at her lips.

"Do not feel the need to rush away!" she said, with an almost pleading tone in her voice.

"We would be happy to, but I am reviewing the lists with Elessar in the morning," Faramir said with a laugh, kissing his cousin. "I would avoid a scolding, where I can!"

"Elessar would hardly scold you!" Éowyn protested, looping her arm through her husband's.

"I cannot risk it!" he declared, and with laughter they departed the room.

Lothíriel's frown deepened, and there was a crease in her brow as she watched them leave. Éomer did not like to see this at all.

"You mustn't blame my sister for hastening away," he said lazily. She glanced towards him, the hint of a smile returning to her lips.

"Oh?"

"Éowyn is a bear when she does not sleep. It is in Faramir's best interest to see that she gets her rest."

Lothíriel laughed, and Éomer could have sighed in relief to see a measure of her spirits restored. She sunk onto the settee next to him, wringing her skirt in her hands. There was silence for a moment before she spoke again, her eyes averted. "I daresay you think me quite foolish to want to keep my guests late."

"It depends on the reason."

"It—I—well…" Lothíriel's eyes flitted upwards to him. Then she sighed. "The company of my friends and family help me to—to forget that I am grieving. But when they leave, I am lonely all over again."

Éomer's heart wrenched to see, for the first time since he had known her, a shadow of grief and unhappiness in her eyes. However well she hid it, he knew she mourned for Lord Brenion. But instead of envy for the man's place in her thoughts, Éomer only felt weary. He picked up one of her hands.

"I do not think you foolish," he said softly.

"But I am," Lothíriel smiled wryly. "And terribly selfish as well."

"For wishing your burden to be eased? I think not. 'Tis a purely human reaction, if I am any judge."

Her chin lifted as she gazed at him, and the sadness in her eyes was carefully shut away. Instead, a curiosity burned, as if she were trying to understand him. "And what burdens do you bear, Éomer of Rohan, that you speak with such wisdom?" she asked after a moment.

"None that I would trouble you with," Éomer said. Without realizing it, his thumb had begun to stroke her knuckles, though she appeared not to notice it either.

"Oh, trouble me all you wish!" Lothíriel said, and then she laughed. "Remind me that there are other troubles in the world than mine, that I might be drawn from my own misery!"

"There is enough trouble in the world. Why must we speak of it at all?" Despite his words, however, Éomer's mind had fastened upon Aema—the song he had sung caused him to think of her. He had forgotten her, in the last months, and of the heartache she had caused. Stunned at this realization, Éomer's hand went limp.

"What is it?" she said, the shadow of dimples in her cheeks. "You are thinking of something. I am doubly curious now!"

Éomer had not expected to ever forget Aema…yet as he saw Lothíriel smiling up at him, he could not recall Aema's features at all. "I—" he began hoarsely, and then cleared his throat. "I was only remembering—I had forgotten. My own troubles…I did not expect—"

Her brows raised at this stuttering speech.

"I am making very little sense," he said. "I apologize. If you are truly wishing to know…"

"Certainly! I am adept at listening."

"I loved a woman once, many years ago," Éomer said, and as soon as he said it, he knew he loved Aema no longer. His heart suddenly felt light, deprived of his selfish burden as he continued, "We were to wed, but Aema did not wish to marry a soldier. She did not want to be widowed, she told me."

Lothíriel's expression arrested upon her face, her smile stilted.

"I cannot fault her reasoning, necessarily," he said fairly. "Though I was bitter for a long time. I blamed her for my unhappiness. And she wed a coppersmith not a year later!" The lady was blinking in astonishment, and he hastened to add, "Do not think ill of her! I do not; not anymore." Éomer was smiling at Lothíriel, whose cheeks flushed with emotion.

"Wedding a soldier is not every cause of widowhood," she said, and her voice was strong. "Even when there is no war…death is hardly predictable."

Oh, Béma! He could have kicked himself. How could he have spoken to Lothíriel of this? He had said that Aema did not wish to be widowed, and here was a widow in front of him! There was no comparison, really. Lothíriel's grey eyes blazed with emotion.

"Well!" she said. "I can only hope that Aema is content, and that you are as well."

"I am quite well, I assure you," Éomer said. "I will not let the memory of her spoil my chance for happiness in the future." Could there be happiness again? Could he love another? The answer was like a shaft of light to his mind—of course! Even in his infatuation with Lothíriel there had been a dark shadow of Aema's memory, but now it faded until he was left with nothing but shining hope. After so many years of despair!

But his lady still frowned. "You are right—I cannot fault her. Farewelling one's husband without knowing that one will ever see him again…it is no mere sadness. It is devastation."

Éomer clasped her hand in both of his, bring it to his lips. "I did not speak of this to grieve you," he said softly. "Lothíriel…"

She started, and met his gaze as if she had forgotten he was there. Her lips parted, and after a heart-shattering moment a wonderful smile grew on her face. "I am sorry!" Lothíriel said. "I did not intend to selfishly compare your troubles to mine. What a hostess I am!" she added, as if to chide herself. "I hardly speak to you all night, and then I complain of my own loneliness and think ill of your former lover!"

Éomer chuckled. "You are a wonderful hostess, Lothíriel. I am sure I have never had a better evening."

"You are too kind."

"Nay, I am honest."

"Not honest enough to remind a woman when she is being too familiar," Lothiriel laughed. "Next time, you must see that I cease speaking!"

"I will not! It makes me happy to hear you speak."

Her cheeks flushed pink, and Éomer smiled to see her eyes full of warmth as they danced. "If anyone had heard our conversation, would they believe us to be fully-grown?" she asked. "Speaking mournfully of our past loves as any sighing pair of youths! I am diminished, to be sure."

"My situation is lamentable, to be sure," Éomer chortled. "But you have real cause to mourn."

"And more cause to be grateful! Still the sun shines, and still I love. I must not forget how fortunate I am."

There was a scratching the door, and startled, Éomer turned to see a servant bearing a tray of tea. It was set upon the table in front of them. Lothiriel had hastily withdrawn her hand from his when the servant entered, and immediately busied herself pouring tea. He regretted the interruption; they had been speaking so playfully and even perhaps a little intimately…

But that spell between them was broken. They drank their tea while speaking only of general topics, and once they were finished Éomer was disappointed to see the shadows underneath Lothíriel's eyes, despite her unfading smile.

"I will go," he said. "In the hope that I have eased your loneliness, this night at least."

Her voice was soft, and her dimples so gloriously beautiful as she spoke. "You certainly have, Éomer."

He was whistling as he walked home that night.