30 July 3017 T.A., Minas Tirith

Lothíriel nibbled at the end of her quill, unusually hesitant of what to say. The request of Éomer's which she was responding to had read thusly: I do agree with the wisdom of your decisions, and I compliment them. But now you must tell me a weakness of yours, for I fear my opinion of you growing too high. Then what would I do?

He had been teasing, she was sure, but she could not not reply to it. With a sigh, for she cared little for more introspection than was usual for her, Lothíriel re-dipped the quill and made her best attempt.

I have many shames, most of which I will not put to parchment (imagine if one of my brothers found this letter before I sent it! My mortification would never end). But I will admit to you that I now recall our first meeting with embarrassment. I wonder how I could have been so bold to be speaking to and petting the horse of a man of Rohan without his express permission! We in Gondor know little of your land, but we believe it is custom to await permission before touching one of your hallow steeds. But I conveniently forgot (or ignored) this tidbit, but of course, I cannot say if this rumor is true. You must enlighten me.

I was terribly forward that day, wasn't I? I hope you may forgive me, in time, if I prove that I have matured.

In return I must ask that you inform me of your own flaws. If you have none, do invent one so that I might feel less foolish.

That was the end of that letter, and Lothíriel sealed it off and sent it by way of a servant to a messenger. She wondered, for many days afterwards, if she had spoken too plainly; she certainly had no desire to alert Éomer to her weaknesses! However highly she thought of his character and that he would not be led astray by anything trivial, the keen desire to earn his admiration remained.

The moment the return messenger hailed the guards at the gate of her father's house, Lothíriel rushed from her chamber to the courtyard (as had become habit), and tried (unsuccessfully) to appear composed as she accepted the letter, thanking both the messenger and the guard rather clumsily before running (inelegantly) back to her chamber. Her heart was pounding fast as she tore the seal.

Lothíriel,

I thank you for your set down in reminding me that I should not have asked you of your weaknesses. I realize now that it was a very personal question. But for your frankness, I will oblige and answer the same.

I have a temper. I am not proud of this—though I was when I was younger. It is a heritage from my father, and during my early youth I perceived it as the only quality I had of his, to remember him by after he died. I did not understand the consequences of such impulsiveness until I had matured some years; my uncle was pivotal in teaching me the foolishness of my mistaken belief, as was my cousin. Since then, I have struggled nearly daily to control this temper. Self-mastery serves me well; I am a better commander and a better man.

Should I also perchance mention my inability to forgive? This flaw troubles me less; I have learned that it is easier to not find offense in the first place, so that I have no one to forgive. Quite wise of me, do you not agree? (See, I can search for compliments with just as much subtlety as you!)

To further discuss the day we met—I did not think you forward at all. I thought you charming. Were you not so, you might have beheld me in an unfortunate case of temper (brought on by the Steward. Thankfully I have grown quite cool about the entire ordeal). And to confess plainly now, I am grateful now for your boldness, for had you been wary, I might have lost the opportunity of gaining a friend.

I suppose it is custom not to handle another person's steed without permission, but it is not so stringent, and certainly one who does not really know better would not be berated for it. Firefoot rarely enjoys such gentle kindness as you showed him, and sometimes when he is in a mood I wonder if he is pining for you.

Alas! It must be a short letter today. I have just been informed that the messenger is saddling his horse. Do not feel that my lack is reason to write less back to me—I would be sorely disappointed.

Yours most sincerely,

Éomer of Rohan

P.S. I realize I did not at all mention the weather once—how remiss of me! It is hot here. Dare I assume the same for Gondor? I will prepare myself for another set down if not.

Lothíriel was laughing as she finished. Somehow, despite the months they had been conversing, Éomer's humor still surprised her at times. Perhaps it was residual bias from all the men she'd known in her life; too many were stern and driven by duty, and it was only within her family that she witnessed humor combined with strength. While she did not doubt Éomer's commitment to being Marshal of Rohan, she might have expected him to be laughless like her father's captain, or proud like her uncle, or harsh like the Lord of Pelargir she had met a few weeks earlier. But she knew Éomer better—and she was grateful for it. Anyways, she had no desire to keep up a correspondence with the Lord of Pelargir or Captain Farad.

Her reply was sent posthaste, and she returned to her waiting with little patience. Boromir came to the city, took her out on two rides before he was sent back to Osgiliath, and she received a letter from her father during the middle of August, surprising her.

I will be the first to inform you of the birth of your nephew, he wrote. Elphir and Nessiel have been blessed with a son. I am sure they will be sending you a letter with further details when they can.

My dearest daughter, I am sorry you must be away from Dol Amroth at this time. Still we are attacked several times a month, and you are safer in Minas Tirith, if not happier. Would that I could spare a son, to give you company. But we form plans to beat the Corsairs at their heart very soon, and if we are victorious, we will welcome you home with the love and affection we have saved these last months.

Be safe; our hearts are with you.

Elphir did send a note, but it was short, mostly reiterating what their father had written, and clearly in haste. Nessiel's enclosed letter was much more informative, and upon reading it Lothíriel found her heart aching to be missing such an important time for her family! She loved babies—at least the few she had ever held—and she wanted to hold Alphros in her arms something awful.

Lothíriel did give the news to her uncle, in an awkward, formal setting in Merethrond. He graciously congratulated her on behalf on her family, and promised to send a gift to Dol Amroth as soon as he could.

"Perhaps you may return home soon, should the threat of our coasts subside," Denethor said in his deep, resonating tone. It was so close to what her father had said that Lothíriel was taken aback for a moment. Stammering, she agreed, and took her leave of him as quickly as she could.

Walking back to her father's house in the sticky, hot sun, Lothíriel remembered a whisper exchanged between her eldest brothers she had overheard many years ago, "If the Steward would bolster our troops, we would not be running patrols dawn 'till dusk; we could launch a full attack and end it forever—"

She wondered if her uncle was to blame for her predicament. But that was nothing she could ever know, and she decided to lull her thoughts with Éomer faraway instead, and her tentative peace returned.

7 September 3017 T.A., Meduseld

"Béma, Éomer, you always did have high sights!"

Éomer chose not to be incensed, instead grinning like the fool his cousin and sister surely already thought him to be. They had escaped for a private conversation in Meduseld's kitchens, which were empty—supper had ended many hours earlier and it would be their last chance to speak before Théodred departed for the Westfold in the morning.

"I do not know what you mean," he said, drinking deeply from a goblet of mead.

"Do not be coy, brother, it does not become you!" Éowyn said with a laugh, her rich voice filling the chamber with liveliness. "I saw you reading a letter—her letter, I cannot but guess—with an expression of what could only be foppishness."

"I happened to look over his shoulder last night when he was writing," Théodred added, grinning at Éomer as if in challenge. "I never expected such sweet inanities from him."

"Sweet inanities?" Éowyn asked, now grimacing in a show of disgust. "Éomer, really!"

"I can write to a woman, if I wish. There is certainly no law against it," Éomer said lazily. "And anyways, that is hardly what we ought to be discussing—"

"But this is far more interesting," Théodred interrupted. "Tell us of her. Ought we to wish you well?"

Éomer's face burned with embarrassment at this, and he hoped in the dim light it would not be noticed. Éowyn had leaned across the table, her eyes bright with interest, and Théodred—while subtler in his expression, was obviously suppressing laughter.

"You needn't wish me well," he said at last. "She is young yet; merely eighteen, and not yet of age in Gondor."

"She is younger than even I!" Éowyn said in astonishment.

"And somehow, she has more sense," Éomer could not help teasing. "I have never heard of Lothíriel knocking out any training master with a wooden sword." This jibe, referring to Éowyn's unfortunate mishap a few weeks earlier, put his sister to blush. But his slip-up did not go unnoticed, either.

"Lothíriel," Théodred said slowly, making a show of deep thought. "A Gondorian woman! I confess myself all the more stunned. Are the women of the Mark so ugly to you, cousin?"

"No," Éomer said stoutly. "And her blood has little to do with it. Were she fair-haired and a poor sheep-herder's daughter, I would still admire her."

"And whose daughter is she?" Éowyn asked curiously.

"Never you mind." He drank again, half-wishing this inquiry to end and half-wishing his sister and cousin could share in his happiness—they would like Lothíriel, he was certain, and she would reciprocate such affection easily.

"When can we meet this mysterious lady, then?" Théodred asked next with a grin. "I can speak to Father about sending you back to Gondor for some reason or another, should you wish to bring her back to marry."

Éomer laughed. "I could not act with such poor manners!" he said. "I dare not tell you whose daughter she is, but I assure you that any kidnapping of her person would worsen our relations with Gondor into nothing short of hostile."

Silence met this, and Éowyn tilted her head slightly to Théodred, asking out of the corner of her mouth though not lowering her voice, "She is important, then. Whom do we know in Gondor that has an important daughter?"

"I have paid Gondor too little attention to give an answer to that," Théodred replied, not removing his shrewd gaze from Éomer. "Denethor has no daughters, I believe."

"He does not," Éomer said with a smile.

"What of the princes? Surely they have sisters or daughters. I have not heard of a Prince of Ithilien, have you, Éowyn?"

"Nay. Only of—somewhere in the south, I believe, though I cannot recall the name. It is something Elvish."

Théodred gave a grunt of disappointment. "You shall have to tell us, Éomer, else we will be forced to ask around and bring more suspicion upon you, as if your constant, mysterious correspondence is not enough."

"Your guesses are quite close," Éomer said. "She is the daughter of a prince, but I dare not tell you more. Think not I have acted unwisely by not making her identity and our correspondence known."

Éowyn frowned, and Théodred's eyes darkened slightly. There would be no more inquiries, then, Éomer guessed—for they three all shared an opinion regarding the matter. They were not safe, Théoden was not safe…and as the threat from Isengard creased, fear of spies grew with it. This reminder dampened the mood between them. But that was well, for their meeting had not been to discuss any princesses of Gondor.