21st July, 3019 TA
It was from glorious dreams that Éomer had to force himself to wake the following morning. But while his sleeping dreams of the princess were pleasant, knowing that he would likely see her in reality during the day was even sweeter.
But that would have to be delayed until the afternoon at the earliest, for Éomer had a difficult task for the morning.
Many of his countrymen, following the terrible battles a few months earlier, had been too wounded or ill to return to Rohan with the main force. Aragorn had been generous in allowing them to stay and providing for their upkeep. Éomer was somewhat eager to meet some old friends, but dreading the sight of those who had sacrificed limbs or looks to defeat the evil from the East. He had been lucky, with only a few scrapes and bruises to show for his involvement.
Éothain was looking grim as he arrived at Éomer's chamber, and they spoke little as they broke fast together in a breakfast room nearby. A grey, drizzly sort of sky was visible through the open windows, but it was still warm air that Éomer felt past his skin as they walked to the Healing Houses.
To his surprise, the two dozen or so Rohirrim that had been quartered there were all massively cheerful, very pleased to be visited by their king and showing no lingering signs of discontent of their lot. He was hailed by a barrage of half-empty mugs as he and Éothain stepped into the marble chamber, and his mouth fell open.
"Good morning, sire!" A young man, whose empty, right sleeve was pinned up. "We have been tasting the mead to ensure it is in good order for your drinking."
Éomer nearly laughed. "How thoughtful," he deadpanned. "And from whose cellars did you pilfer it from?"
"No pilfering," an older man growled. "The Gondorian king gave it to us. He's not a bad sort, for a southerner."
"I see you have been making the most of your time here," Éomer said. "If this is how you are treated in Gondor, I suspect many of you will not wish to return!"
"Only Aldred wants to stay," the old man said, pointing towards the young man, who flushed red. "But that has little to do with mead and everything to do with a woman."
"Gondorian women are enchanting, are they not?" Éomer said, half-teasing Aldred but feeling the truth of it in his being. "Tell me of your fortunate miss."
There was no shortage of mead, and even Éothain lightened with the effect of old friends and easy conversation. Éomer was relieved to see his countrymen in such good spirits, but he rather suspected that it was hard-won happiness. How many months had these men suffered in illness and pain before they reached this point? Nor were they all well; for the old man, who everyone called Fæder, winced every time he shifted on the edge of his cot, rubbing the stub of his knee with alarming frequency. Éomer wondered if Fæder was well enough for the journey, but knew the old man would refuse to stay. It was hardly any of Éomer's business, anyway—and Fæder asked several times of his family, who lived in Edoras, clearly impatient to reunite with them.
The morning passed quickly. Éomer did not want to leave the light-hearted conversation, but had several meetings that afternoon which he could not miss. And so, after much coaxing from his friends to stay (Éothain would not be budged from the company or from his drink), Éomer stood, promising to visit again the next day. Luncheon was sounding very nice to him just then, and he turned to leave.
In the doorway, staring most oddly at him, was the princess. Éomer stiffened slightly—how long had she been there?—but then gave her a fond smile and approached her, bowing. "Good day, Lothíriel," he said.
"Good afternoon, sire," she said, a bright smile overtaking her discontented expression. "I am beginning to notice that we find each other accidently rather a lot."
Éomer did not want to discuss that particular point further, and so asked, "What brings you here?"
"I was reading to a friend." Lothíriel lifted a thin volume which was tucked under her arm. "My father's old training master has been here since the battle at the Black Gate. He—he lost both of his legs, and he has taken it rather hard."
"It is kind of you to look after him so," Éomer said.
"As I said, he is a friend. When I was young, he was generous enough to volunteer to teach me to use a bow," Her smile grew rueful then. "I was abominable! But he kept working with me for months. Even now I cannot shoot straight."
"He sounds a most patient man!"
"He was," Lothíriel said. "And I hope he will be again. Elessar told me that he has never known a more cantankerous patient in all his years."
Perhaps it was her words, or the sounds of his maimed men still laughing behind him, but Éomer felt a tug of sadness in his heart, and he picked up the princess's chilled hand. Why, she was looking not at all her usual self. Her gaze dropped, and he held her hand like a vice, willing it to warm.
"I had a lovely time with you last night," Éomer said, trying for a lighter topic. "I do not recall telling you so, and I apologize—I am sure I have never enjoyed myself more." This was true, and if anything, he was holding himself back from explaining just how exuberant Lothíriel made him feel. After supper they had stayed in the hall, talking of anything and everything for hours; they had been left alone in the hall long after the last guests had left and servants had cleared away most of the meal. Éomer had not noticed that they were alone, so lost was he in her, and had been after midnight that she had yawned and called a respite. He could have gone on forever. "Are you well?" he asked gently, noticing a blush on her cheeks that was not fading.
"Yes, thank you!" Lothíriel lifted her chin, forcing a smile and worrying Éomer greatly. "I—I have only been burdened by more serious matters of late than I am accustomed to. I apologize if I seem out-of-sorts."
"Serious matters?" he asked. "No wonder you are down! Let us put those away for now—may I take you to luncheon? We can promise to only speak of the trivial."
"That sounds a lovely antidote," the princess said. "But—I...I am not sure—" She trailed off, looking desperately up at Éomer, who frowned. Had he imagined that she was beginning to feel affection for him? Was this her refusing his companionship because she did not desire it? Even the thought of it was making him feel ill. "I promised Lord Silius I would take luncheon with him," Lothíriel said, her words rushed. "I am sorry, sire; had I known—"
"It is no matter," Éomer said. "You are obliged to your betrothed more than you are to me—unfortunately." He gave her a wry smile. "I shall preserve my pride by convincing myself that you would prefer myself as your worthy companion, whether it be true or not."
"Oh! It is true," Lothíriel was smiling again, genuinely, and the sight of it nearly stopped his heart. "Si and I have talked about everything under the sun—we know each other better than we know ourselves, sometimes. With you, everything is different."
Different. If that was all Éomer would get, he would take it. "Dare I hope to see you later in the day?" he asked, and lifted her hand to his lips. He realized it was trembling, and pressed a kiss onto her knuckles before covering her hand with his other. There was a peculiar sort of expression in her eyes, and he did not understand it. How he wished he did!
"Hope is fleeting," Lothíriel said softly. "I—I am not sure if I dare encourage it in myself." It was such a strange statement that Éomer was not sure if she had even answered his query, or if she had been speaking her own thoughts. His concern deepened.
"Lothíriel—" Éomer began, but she dipped into a curtsy, and hurrying through a "Farewell!", she turned and rushed away, and he was left staring at the trail of her wine-red gown, wishing that he had known what to say.
Under normal circumstances, Éomer would have taken his supper alone in his rooms that night. He was exhausted from the hours of meetings and feeling unsettled and a little mopey from his encounter with Lothíriel. But he dressed in fine clothing, tried to cheer himself and entered the hall late. Aragorn was already there, and he was sitting at a high table with his wife on his right and to Éomer's astonishment—Lothíriel on his left. She was looking wan to his eyes, though her lips were lifted in a smile. Lord Silius sat on her other side, looking pristine but bored. Éomer walked as though in a trance to a table where Éothain was waiting.
"Warn't supposed to be this fancy," his friend growled. "I din realize 'til I got here it was bloody formal!"
"Why is it formal?" Éomer asked, taking a seat and dreading the answer. Why would Lothíriel be sat by the king?
"'Official betrothal feast'," Éothain said, and then winced as he touched his head. "And too much mead for me this morn! I think I'll be taking my leave within the hour." But Éomer was not listening; he was staring at the princess, far away though she was. Surely he was not imagining that she was so unhappy? How could that be? She had shown no reluctance to marry her lord on the first night Éomer had arrived; why was she glum now? It made Éomer's head and heart both ache. If she was determined to marry Lord Silius, Éomer did wish her to be happy as fully as possible. Was it his own fault to be causing this discontent in Lothíriel? Perhaps...perhaps it was time for him to retreat. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, which was not allayed by Aragorn's congratulatory speech.
It was, all in all, a most miserable meal.
Éomer might have ducked out early with Éothain, but he noticed that musicians were lining up as the tables were cleared. So there would be dancing. Though he should not, he could not help desiring a dance with the princess; if he was to give up the chase, he wanted at least to part on good terms.
He was more fortunate than he expected; the fourth dance of the evening he was able to partner with Lothíriel. She had already danced with her betrothed, her king, and her father, and Éomer noticed that an odd sort of glaze was clouding her eyes. The music was just beginning, and he pulled her by the waist until their torsos were very nearly touching.
"I thought you would have been happier," Éomer said, his voice gentle as he tried to gauge her reaction. A brittle smile tugged at her lips, and her fearless gaze rose to meet his.
"I am well enough," Lothíriel said. "I have always known this would one day happen."
He could not bring himself to make further conversation. Though it had always been easy between them, the rigidity of Éomer's hidden feelings, and Lothíriel's strange and withholding mood made for a tension between them. She lapsed into silence as well, frowning in a most uncharacteristic way. A sudden, simmering resentment overtook Éomer, for Lord Silius and the adverse way which he affected his betrothed. Any relationship where one party was so unhappy… Éomer could not believe she was as nonchalant about the circumstances as she tried to convince him.
The song was drawing to a close, and Éomer's chest constricted with anguish. How could he willingly never speak to the woman he loved again? Resentment was heightening to fury, and he squeezed her hands tightly as they slowed to a stop. Then he noticed—silver tears were glittering on Lothíriel's downturned lashes. Astounded, Éomer stared as she looked up at him, her dark eyes speaking volumes.
"I am sorry," she said. "My behavior has not been the thing at all. I am...feeling as though I might be well restored by fresh air. Would you escort me to the gardens for a turn?"
"As long as I am in no danger of reprimand from your betrothed," Éomer said.
"He likely has already left."
"Then—it would be my pleasure." He wound her trembling hand through his arm, placing his own over it to stop her shaking. As the next song was beginning, Éomer felt confident that they had escaped relatively unnoticed.
The sky twinkled with thousands of white stars, and the air was fresh and cool. The sounds of laughter and dancing soon fled into the night, and the sound of their footsteps on the stone path was magnified. There was little light in the garden; a few tall torches had been set up, but otherwise all was still and dim.
"I must apologize again." The quiet was broken with another sigh from the princess. "I have used you most despicably—I was desperate for solitude to gather my thoughts."
"Your sense of what might be considered despicable is somewhat warped, I think," Éomer said. "I do not feel used nor offended; in fact, I feel that you consider me trustworthy enough for such a task, and I am flattered!"
A short laugh from Lothíriel—the first he had witnessed for some time. "You, my lord, are utterly sensible. I do appreciate that in a companion!"
"Since you value it so highly, I worry to think of how you consider the practicality of your erstwhile companions!"
"That should be no secret," Lothíriel said, and Éomer noticed the worry lines fading from her face even in the faint light. "I have been around the ridiculous nearly all my life. That is why I must find such amusement from it!"
"I can understand how being related to Amrothos has encouraged that in you."
He was rewarded with another tinkling laugh, and Lothíriel laid her opposite hand on his arm as well. "Oh, Éomer!" she said. "You are the first person who dares to encourage my banter. How I treasure your friendship!"
His heart thudded at the sound of his name from her lips; what a sublime sound it was! He did not comment upon it, instead saying, "I treasure yours as well; possibly more than you can know. But I worry for the sorrow in your face!"
They paused by the fountain by which they had passed on that second day, and Lothíriel sunk onto the stone rim. Her layers of silk skirts rustled as she folded her hands, and Éomer sat close to her.
"I know it is not my place," he continued in a low voice. "And I know you and your lord so little compared to others. But my sister tells me that I have keen sight, and I...I do not believe that you will find happiness with Silius."
"Sight indeed," Lothíriel said with a lengthy sigh. "Certainly better than mine! I have thoroughly convinced myself otherwise, but you are correct. Now that I am feeling the consequences of my pride, I am quite diminished."
Éomer's arm snaked around her shoulders, and he stroked her arm as she shivered. Feeling bold with the brightening of hope, he lifted her chin, and seeing no wariness in her gaze, at last claimed her mouth with his own.
The effect that this had on Lothíriel was immediate—he could feel her slender body begin to tremble, and a whimper made her throat vibrate. But she did not pull away; in fact, if Éomer was not mistaken, her hands gripped his arms tightly as he pulled her even closer. He could feel the rise and fall of her bosom as her breath heightened. Éomer began to feel dizzy as she responded with fervor, and instead of a whimper, this time she moaned against his mouth. Any reason he could have claimed up to that point was now fading, and he felt the warmth of her skin underneath his fingertips, even through the silken folds of her frock. He could taste her sweet breath on his tongue, and against his better judgment his hand rose, searching, and he found a pin in her hair. He tugged on it, a mass of soft curls falling down her back and fluttering across her face, tickling his own.
Lothíriel broke away with a breathless giggle, and Éomer opened his eyes, his heart fluttering at the sight of her disarray. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her eyes were dark, sensuous pools, even though they were crinkled at the corners with her smile.
"Lothíriel…" Éomer said, his voice hoarse. He could not help winding his hands behind her neck and through her hair, letting out a tormented breath at the sensation.
"No!" she said, her eyes fluttering half-shut. "Say nothing. Please."
"But—"
"Ah!" Lothíriel placed a long finger over his lips. "Nothing."
Éomer did wish he could express what and how much he was feeling, but perhaps Lothíriel's refusal to allow him was best. He did not have the words that could convey it to any accuracy. How could he feel so lost and yet so at home in the same moment? Kissing the woman he loved was a much more titillating and heartening feeling that he could have expected.
"Éomer," Lothíriel said, and she straightened. Éomer's arms felt cold and empty without her. "You have decided me." She swept to her feet, and before he could sort out his thoughts into words to say anything, she had disappeared behind a massive rose bush, walking back towards the hall of light and laughter.
Whew, that happened fast! I originally wrote this story to be only five chapters, and so the quickness made sense, even if it's a bit disappointing for the reader (and the author re-reading :P). But just so's you know, this story expanded to TWELVE chapters, and continues past the original ending. Just because you're in love doesn't mean your story is over...