Author's Note: y'all, thanks again for the awesomely kind reviews! It makes updating an absolute joy (and I have to remind myself to pace the updates, so I don't just throw it all up here at once!) I have to especially thank Avonmora, whose super sweet review made me tear up a bit; no one's ever paid me such a big compliment on my writing before, and it means the world!
Anyways, onward to the story! Here be dancing, cultural snafus, and banter :)
CHAPTER FOUR
The weeks passed quickly, and before too long, it had been two months since Sauron's fall.
Two months, and still not all of his men have been able to return home.
Eomer knows, logically, why they cannot; too many of them are still recovering from their wounds. While he has been able to return home once or twice, the rides are arduous and tedious. Theoden King's council has been managing Edoras, and Gamling-who he trusts above all others-has been sending reports as quickly as they can arrive. Not to mention that missing Aragorn's coronation would be a slap in the face of the so-recently established good will between their countries.
But he had meant what he had said-or rather, what he hadn't said-at that very first dinner: Minas Tirith was beautiful, yes, but a remote sort of beauty. Cold. Unreachable.
If only its ladies were the same.
With every wave of returning nobles, there were at least a dozen daughters, nieces, and wards being paraded in front of him and Aragorn at every turn. Aragorn, the bastard, at least had the knowledge that his Elf-lady was waiting for him to be crowned king, but there was no such relief for Eomer. Many of his men were enamoured of the women of Gondor's darker looks, as any hair color darker than auburn was a rarity in the Mark. And there have been pretty women presented to him, despite their unfamiliar garb and rouged cheeks. But it is the noblewomen's artifice that Eomer cannot stand. Give him a bold lass, honest and true, her hair flowing around her shoulders as Bema preferred. These painted ladies had nothing on the women of Rohan, at least in his mind. They simpered and laughed and touched his arm far too much, heedless of the fact that he was in mourning.
Worse still, was Eowyn's budding romance with the Steward.
Oh, he liked Faramir-as well as one can like a man with obvious intentions towards one's sister-but he likes much less the strict rules of courting imposed in Minas Tirith. In Rohan, courting was simple. If a man takes an interest in a woman, he presents her with gifts, and if she reciprocates his feelings, they are troughed. Occasionally, the family gets involved, with the more gently-born women or a particularly...adventurous man. But nothing like here. Here, with their courtly masks and whispered words behind delicate fans. Here, where it is considered "indecorous" to allow two grown people, full of affection for each other, to touch hands without a chaperone.
Utter horseshit.
"It's not so bad as all that," Eowyn had murmured the other day, during their mid-morning meal. "Not all Gondorians are so stuffy. What of our friends from Dol Amroth?"
Eomer can concede that the royals of Dol Amroth were a breath of fresh air amongst the painted and gilded nobles of Minas Tirith. Imrahil and Dejah were wise and just, Erchirion was an excellent rider and had the miraculous good sense to know when to leave some silences as they were, Amrothos-when not irritating past the point of reason-was always good for a laugh and a goblet of Gondorian wine. Even the þyrnihtu cwén was preferable to her fairer, flirtatious countrywoman.
"Preferable," Aragorn had snorted when he'd said as such, amused at something that Eomer didn't quite understand. "As you say, brother."
Eothain had shared a similar sentiment. His captain was one of his oldest friends, one of the few men he could expect to tell the truth after his move from marshal to king, and yet…
"You cannot be serious," Eomer groans.
Eothain gives him a pointed look. "You invited Eowyn for a ride and she invited her Steward. Said Steward had already invited his lovely cousin. It was hardly my place to uninvite her."
As it was, three riders were currently making their way across the open fields towards them. Eowyn was on her borrowed chestnut palfrey, Faramir on a mighty black destrier, and Lothiriel, on one of the fairest horses he's ever seen. A beautiful snowy white gelding, with brown eyes to match her mistress's.
She has a good seat, for a Gondorian princess, he thinks.
"Good morning, brother!" Eowyn calls, sounding far too cheery. "A good day for a ride, is it not?"
"You seem cheerful," is his response, "I must ask that you desist."
Faramir snorts a laugh and the princess badly disguises hers with a cough.
"Charming, Eomer," says his sister, "and the councillors wonder how it is that you are not yet wed."
"Eowyn-" Eomer growls; he'd rather not have that discussion in front of her suitor and certainly not in front of his precocious cousin.
"I suffer from a similar affliction," said cousin adds, interrupting him before he can work himself into a black fury, "though I doubt Eomer King lacks for possible brides for the same reasons as I lack possible grooms."
"Yes, it would be odd if the king of Rohan went around dumping water on people or slipping starfish into people's beds," Faramir says dryly.
"It was one time, and Deogar deserved it," the princess says firmly. "I regret nothing."
"You never do," Faramir chuckles, clearly fond.
Bema above, Eomer thinks, she's another Eowyn.
But Eowyn would not have picked up on the subtle way that Faramir nudges his horse to be a few paces ahead of Eomer's; the princess does, dropping back from her cousin's side to allow Eowyn to take her place.
Eothain rides behind them, with the rest of his guards. A marshal would have required no such protection on a simple pleasure ride, but a king cannot be so unattended. It is an unwelcome reminder of how much his status has changed in so short a time. He and the princess ride in silence for a span of moments, both trying not to listen in to the lovers' conversation occurring in front of them. Eowyn laughs at something Faramir has said, and his deeper voice joins in.
"It is wonderful that they should find such happiness," the princess says suddenly. "I can think of no other two people who deserve it more."
Much as he wants to, he can hardly disagree with her. Eowyn has suffered enough. And from what the princess's brothers have told him of Lord Denethor, Faramir's life has been no easy thing either. Both of them deserve their joy in each other, even if it may mean losing his sister to Gondor.
"It is the early days yet, my lady," he says instead, seemingly unable to keep from needling her.
He sees her mouth fall open and has to repress a grin at her disgruntled expression. "The early days?" She repeats, incredulous. "What do you mean, my lord?"
"They have just begun courting, if you can call it that," Eomer spits, finally finding someone to vent his anger at Gondor's strange courting habits to. "What kind of people insist on all of this pomp and circumstance between a couple? A marriage is between two people, not a city."
"But Faramir is the Steward, and Eowyn the equivalent of a princess," Lothiriel answers. "They are more than a mere serving girl or a groom. People will want to know that they are courting, and courting properly." At this, her nose wrinkles. "I cannot say I support the customs. They are stifling, my lord, and antiquated, but they are tradition. And Gondor loves nothing so well as tradition."
Now it is his turn to gape. She notes his look with a smile.
"I am not of Minas Tirith, my lord. Dol Amroth's traditions are more similar to Rohan's, if what Eowyn has told me is to be believed."
"I doubt that very much," he grumbles, wondering what his sister could have told her. Imrahil and his family are different from the other nobles, this much is true, but he cannot imagine the prince condoning his daughter kissing a man before being troughed to him, the way so many Rohirric maids do.
Lothiriel frowns at him, all earlier hint of mirth gone. "My lord, has anyone ever told you that you make even the most pleasant of topics less so?"
"I could level the same compliment at you, my lady," Eomer retorts, glaring.
Many a man has withered under his rather infamous glare, but this tiny princess stands firm, meeting it with one of her own. "Then I will avail you of my presence, Eomer King. I have no desire to remain where I am not wanted."
She spurs her horse into a canter, passing a bewildered looking Faramir and an exasperated Eowyn. Eomer merely frowns at his sister's unhappy look.
"That makes the fifth suitably noble-and attractive, I might add-lady that you have managed to scare off in as many days," Eothain's voice comes from over his shoulder, sounding irritatedly amused. "Whatever did you say to her?"
"Nothing that wasn't true," Eomer barks. "And stop laughing, you are supposed to be a dignified captain of the Mark."
"And you are supposed to be its magnificent king," Eothain retorts. "And yet what sort of king sends friendly, pretty maidens scurrying away as if they are Orcs?"
Eomer grits his teeth, ignoring his friend. Pretty as the princess may be, friendly she is not.
"Insufferable man!" Lothiriel cries, flinging her riding cloak into the nearest chair.
"What has Amrothos done now?" Comes Erchirion's uninterested voice.
"I resent that, brother!" Amrothos yells back. "And I have done nothing, at least yet."
"Amrothos is free of blame, this time," Lothiriel agrees, settling herself on the bench beside her middle brother. "How you two and Ada can have such a high opinion of that dreadful man never fails to baffle me."
"Ah," Amrothos says, "Eomer again."
"Yes, Eomer again," Lothiriel spits, crossing her arms. "Were he not Eowyn's brother, I would have boxed his ears for being so rude and childish."
"Let it not be forgotten that he is also royalty," says Naneth, sensible as always. "And boxing the king of Rohan's ears may result in another war."
"Who is boxing Eomer's ears?" Asks Ada, coming in from the solar.
"Lothiriel," his sons answer in unison, much to Lothiriel's horror.
"I have done no such thing!" She promises. Frowning, she nestles down into her seat. "Though I would heartily like to do so."
"Do try not to ruin Gondor's diplomatic relationship with Rohan, little flower," Ada chides gently, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Eomer is not a bad man, Lothiriel, only one who feels unready for the level of power he now holds."
"That does not excuse his rudeness," she grumbles.
"No, but it should make you more understanding of it," Ada says. "And has Lady Eowyn not asked you to try and be cordial to him?"
Oh, it was not fair of him to bring up her promise to Eowyn!
"Yes, Ada," Lothiriel mumbles.
"That settles it then. There shall be no boxing of Eomer King's ears. Now," at this, Ada claps his hands, "let us go over our positions during King Elessar's coronation."
Erchirion throws an arm around her shoulders; her brother knows better than most how hard she's been trying to see the man that they know in the king, the brother that Eowyn loves so much and the leader that his men respect. If only he would not make it so difficult!
But with her favorite brother beside her and her father's well-loved voice in her ears, it's easy to forget her earlier irritation and simply enjoy being with her family, after so long apart.
The coronation happens on a beautifully sunny day. Minas Tirith comes out in full force, along with all of the delegations from the other provinces and countries.
Her entire family is in the blue and silver of their city, swans on her father and brothers' chests and Naneth's hair held back by a net of pearls. Lothiriel's own dress is the navy blue she prefers most, cut in a more adult style than any formal dress she's ever worn in Dol Amroth, but still, she feels much more ugly duckling than swan amongst the finery. The ladies of the city are as pale as Minas Tirith's walls, and the deep blue of her dress does nothing to demphasize the golden brown of her skin or the dark brown waves of her hair.
"You look beautiful," Erchirion murmurs, giving her hand a squeeze.
She and her middle brother resemble their mother most, in both complexion and bone structure. Amrothos has her hair, Elphir, her cheekbones; all things that they are proud of, but the court of Minas Tirith mistrusts in them. She wishes, suddenly, for Elphir's presence. Her dutiful, serious brother, so long holding Dol Amroth. He was the best liked of all of them in Minas Tirith. The most Minas Tirithin in manner, with the greatest likeness to Prince Imrahil; he could have married any daugher of the White City. Instead, he fell in love with Alycia. Sweet, kind, beautiful Alycia, of Umbar. Many in Minas Tirith regarded it as a political match, surely made for gain and gain alone, but that is not the Dol Amroth way.
No, Lothiriel thinks, when we marry, we marry for love.
And speaking of love...Lothiriel offers Eowyn a small smile from where they stand across the aisle from each other; she is beside Faramir, a position that speaks volumes about their intentions towards one another.
And then-
Aragorn's Elf-lady has arrived, and she is more beautiful than anyone could have imagined. Fair skin with an ethereal glow, blue eyes that seem to sparkle with an inner light, and a radiant smile, even when the King surprises everyone by drawing her into a passionate kiss.
"And before the whole city, too!" Amrothos murmurs. "I thought Elves were supposed to be dignified."
"If I remember correctly, you have also been caught kissing in places you shouldn't have, little brother," Erchirion whispers back, causing Lothiriel to giggle.
The excitement of the day makes it pass faster, and all too soon they are at the grandest of all of the celebrations, at the High King's table.
Aragorn has never looked happier, nor more at peace, and despite having known him for so short a time, Lothiriel can wish her king nothing but joy. The dinner has finished and the dancing begins. Unsurprisingly, the King and his Lady lead the couples, looking so radiantly happy that everyone else seems dimmed in comparison.
Amrothos has already found himself a partner-Lady Serawn, a family friend-and Erchirion-never one for dancing-is engrossed in conversation with Mithrandir, Ada, and Naneth. Lothiriel suddenly wishes for Alycia; her sister-in-law is one of the only women who understand how out of place she feels at these types of balls.
It is not that she is not one for dancing: on the contrary, she adores dancing, just as she enjoys anything that lets her be active for more than a few fleeting moments. In Dol Amroth, she would not lack for possible partners, as her brothers' friends have always enjoyed dancing with her. But here, in Minas Tirith, she is too...southron. Too dark, too vocal, too much. No matter for all her rank as the highest born Gondorian noblewoman, few men of Minas Tirith would risk association with her for fear of losing their chances with the fairer, more acceptable ladies of the city.
Faramir spins by with a beaming Eowyn. Another dance partner lost to her, though she cannot fault them for their happiness.
"Why do you not dance, my lady?" Pippin's voice startles her out of her gloomy thoughts.
"I am afraid I find myself lacking a suitable partner, Pippin," she answers, smiling down at him.
He frowns. "How could the most beautiful lady in the hall lack for partners?"
"Ah," Lothiriel says, "but she does not."
Pippin gives her a confused look until she nods in Arwen's direction. The hobbit smiles, expression fond.
"Lady Arwen is truly fair, my lady, but I was referring to you," at this, his eyes narrow, "you don't think your brothers warned all the lads off you, do you?"
Lothiriel laughs at that; hobbits truly are remarkable creatures.
"No, my dear friend, they have not," comes another familiar voice-Prince Legolas. "For I intend to ask the lady for the next dance."
Lothiriel blinks, surprised. "And you may have it, my lord."
It seems Legolas's invitation had been the magic touch; after her dance with him, she is spun into Amrothos's waiting arms, then Faramir's, then even Aragorn himself, who laughs himself nearly sick when she frets about upsetting his Lady.
"Arwen is not like the ladies of Minas Tirith, Lothiriel," he assures her. "I think you and she will get along very well."
Personally, Lothiriel did not think that an Elf-maid of unsurpassed beauty and kindness would have much in common with her, a short-tempered and short-lived princess of Men, but she supposes she will have to trust Aragorn's judgment on this.
Her king excuses himself shortly after, leaving a new partner in his place. Or rather, a pair of partners.
"Pippin, Merry," she sighs, but not without fondness, "I may be considerably smaller than my brothers, but I do not see how the two of you expect us to be able to dance with our differences in height."
Grinning, they both take one of her hands and lead her into a wild whirl. She knows it is improper, she knows that it is only damning her even more in the eyes of the court, but she is happy, she is with her friends, and she cannot bring herself to care.
"So many fair ladies in attendance tonight, but all the best are claimed," an unfamiliar voice grumbles.
Eothain raises an eyebrow at this, locking eyes with his King. The voice had come from a pair of unfamiliar Gondorian nobles, likely of Minas Tirith judging by their accents and clothes.
"The future queen is a true beauty, truly of the Valar," another one adds.
"And Faramir's White Lady; if all women look like that in Rohan, we should consider a move."
Eomer grits his teeth at that; Eowyn is beautiful, of course, but to hear men speaking of her as if she was nothing more than her beauty sets him on edge.
"Lady Serawn is lovely, even if she is dancing with the southron brat."
"Bah, Amrothos is not so bad. He's nearly as fair as I am in the summer."
"That sister of his, though…"
"So dark! It's as if Imrahil does not care that his wife is rumored to be Harradrim, much less his daughter."
"It's not only her coloring, Endehil, but her. I know they do things differently at the court of Dol Amroth, but look! Behaving like a common strumpet, letting those little half-men turn her about."
"Bastards," Eothain hisses, "they have no room to talk about the princess as if they know her."
Eomer, for once, shares his friend's outrage. Much as the princess annoys him, she does not deserve such harsh judgment for things she cannot change about herself-namely her coloring, which Eowyn had tried to explain the prejudice behind some days before.
And she looks so happy, dancing between Merry and Pippin, perhaps the happiest he has ever seen her.
Happiness suits her much more than anger, a little voice in his head whispers.
Ignoring that, Eomer passes his goblet off to Eothain before making his way towards the laughing princess and her hobbit escorts.
"Merry, Pippin, is it not time for another mug of ale?" He asks by way of greeting.
They eye him for a moment, exchange a look, and then nod. "I was just thinking I was a bit parched," Merry says.
"And my stomach is close to wasting away," Pippin says. "Thank you for the dance, my lady."
"Anytime, Pippin," she says, sincerity in every syllable.
She has a pleasant voice, this prickly princess, when not pinched with anger.
He blinks, realizing she is staring at him expectantly. "I assume you dismissed them for a reason, my lord?"
Bema, he truly hasn't thought this through, has he?
"I...it would seem I owe you another apology, my lady," his mouth running away with him again.
Her eyebrows now nearly disappear into her hairline. "My lord?"
"I should not have snapped at you," he explains, "and certainly not about Faramir's courtship of Eowyn. He is a good man, and though I am not convinced anyone can be truly worthy of my sister, he seems to be the closest any man will ever come to such a high standard. The...traditions of Minas Tirith are hardly his fault."
She nods, relaxing slightly. "I understand your apprehension. The customs here are stuffy. But that does not mean my cousin's feelings towards your sister are any less sincere."
The princess makes a motion somewhere behind him; he turns, to find Faramir spinning passed with Eowyn once more, both of them smiling and flushed.
"No, that I cannot doubt," Eomer admits.
His little sister, all grown up…
"While I appreciate the apology, I do not think that is the true reason you came over here in such a hurry," Lothiriel's voice interrupts his thoughts and he turns back to face her. Her eyes are the dark brown of her mother's, but in that moment, he can see all of Imrahil's shrewdness in them, daring him to reveal his motives.
If he knows anything of this girl, this princess, he knows that she is proud, and to hear that her own countrymen were speaking cruelly of her for no other reason than for her complexion...it would wound her pride, greatly. And for some reason, that, he cannot abide.
"Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?"
It does give him more satisfaction than it should to watch her mouth fallen open in surprise.
"I...truly?"
"Do you see any other outspoken, occasional healer princesses about?"
That startles a laugh out of her, and warmth enters those brown eyes, followed shortly after by a smile.
Bema, a smile like that could warm a man to the backbone!
"I am afraid there is only me, my lord."
"That is just as well. I do not think Middle Earth could handle another," Eomer answers.
Were her hand not already in his, he thinks she might have snatched it back, but the eyes of the court are on them now. She is a tiny thing, barely clearing his shoulder, but her hand is surprisingly warm and her steps light. He has had worse dancing partners; she seems to have dropped her animosity towards him for the time being, instead inquiring about Rohan and its customs.
In fact, they become so absorbed in their conversation that they somehow miss the end of the dance, nearly smacking into a smirking Amrothos.
"Traditionally, when the music ends, one exchanges partners," he says drolly, plucking Lothiriel's hand from Eomer's shoulder and tucking it into the crook of his arm.
"Traditionally, princes are supposed to be handsome and charming," his sister retorts, "a pity that you are only the former."
"Thiri, you wound me," he whines. "Eomer, is your sister half as cruel as mine?"
Two pairs of brown eyes turn on him, and Eomer feels as if he is in a trap. "I do not think I provoke my sister the way you do yours, Amrothos." There! A neutral enough answer.
"Probably because she could run you through with a sword if you did," Amrothos chuckles.
Eomer gives Lothiriel an appraising look; small though she may be, he does not doubt her ability to lift a sword. A bow would perhaps suit her better, if adjusted for her height, or even a dagger...she is no shieldmaiden, but he doubts she would have any sort of trouble with defending herself.
"I think yours could manage it too," he says.
Amrothos pales suddenly, looking nervous, but Lothiriel's eyes are warm again, her smile firmly back in place.
"I appreciate your vouch of confidence, my lord," she says, "but I do not think Aragorn and his lady would thank me for getting my brother's blood all over the floor in the middle of a coronation ball."
"Perhaps save his murder for their wedding feast, instead?"
Bema, he has not had the urge to tease in months, but the action comes easily enough now, in the face of Amrothos's horror and Lothiriel's amusement.
"Ah, yes, a much more appropriate venue," she agrees.
"I think I liked it better when you thought him insufferable," Amrothos grumbles. "But Thiri, really, Naneth sent me. She and Ada wish to retire for the evening, and want to bid you goodnight."
"Oh, of course," Lothiriel says, her face growing more serious. "Eomer King, if you would excuse us?"
He nods and the siblings step away; it's only then that he realizes Lothiriel's other hand has been in his the entire time and drops it quickly. Only a brief, curious glance back at him over her shoulder indicates that she'd noticed as well.
Even when he finds Eothain, smirking in the corner, and accepts a fresh goblet of wine, he cannot forget the sensation of her smaller hand in his.
"Not a total waste of an evening, then?" His captain asks, looking entirely too smug.
"There's still plenty of time to dump you in a fountain," Eomer growls.
Eothain wisely lets the matter rest.
Author's Note: the lyrics from 'Tale As Old As Time' would NOT get out of my head for this chapter, though obviously it's a bit soon for love to be discussed. But the beginnings of a friendship has emerged! I feel like I should clarify that this story does tend to put the 'slow' in slow-burn, very unlike my other Eomer/Lothiriel story, so I hope y'all are willing to stick it out with me!
Next chapter we'll be back with more dancing, meddling friends, and a philosophical discussion of beauty ;)