Lift the wings that carry me away from here, fill the sail that breaks the line to home. But when I'm miles and miles apart from you; I'm beside you when I think of you, my darling...

.

.

July 3020 TA

They left before first light. Éomer had intended to sojourn in Edoras an extra day, but found that the business he had was easily dealt with, and apart from that, he was eager to make his trek to Yuldburg. Éothain accompanied him this time with a half éored, as Elfhelm had made clear his exhaustion of 'chasing a princess through the mountains,' as he had put it. Éomer had been hard pressed to keep his temper, but for the sake of avoiding gossip, gave the marshal a gritty smile and permission to stay behind.

He pushed the pace, and although still feeling the effects of a hard tour through the Westfold, he was impatient to reach their destination. He wondered, as they rode, what Lothíriel would be doing. What would she say? Would she want to kiss him again? And the question that kept him awake during lonely nights...did she return his love? The anxiety of such a notion, whether it be true or not, flipped his stomach. For the first time, he knew that he had found a woman worthy to be a queen. And as further recommendation, she held his heart in her hands, though said hands as often held a hoe or basket of mushrooms. He could appreciate her strength, and begrudged her accomplishments none. Well, perhaps a little.

Rolling plains disappeared under pounding hoofbeats. Adrenaline began to set in, for the sound of galloping horses stirred Éomer's blood like little else could. Nervous excitement ran up his spine. He was clenching the reins in his hands, and he tried to keep them slack else Firefoot become distressed at his master's agitation.

As the curved vale appeared ahead of them, a pair of riders rose from the golden grasses. These riders were running their horses towards them, and it was only a matter of moments before they could be identified. Éomer felt that he could recognize his lady anywhere all.

Lothíriel's form was tall, and she rode astride a dark bay gelding, hair loose in the wind. Her companion was a young woman Éomer recognized from Yuldburg, a flirt that more than one of his soldiers had mentioned in passing. He could not remember her name, but he cared little, for his attention was elsewhere. Specifically, it was heading straight towards him. The ladies pulled in their horses, and as the éored slowed down at Éomer's order, the energetic horses pranced in front of himself and Éothain.

"Hail, Éomer king," the young woman said.

"Hail, my lord," Lothíriel inclined her head slightly, and met his eyes with a mixture of mirth and challenge. What could she possibly be trying to indicate?

"Greetings, Lady Lothíriel," Éomer replied correctly. "I am glad you find you in good spirits," At her expectant look, he cleared his throat. "Ah, this is Éothain, a great friend and member of my éored."

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, my lady," Éothain said, giving her proud form all the respect he could from the back of a horse. "Éomer King has told us much about your hard work in these parts. He did not say that your beauty matched your accomplishments." Éomer saw her lips press in a thin line to keep from grinning, as he felt blood rush to his face. Lothíriel's companion hid a giggle behind her hand.

"I thank you for your compliment," Lothíriel said. "Though I imagine your king does not appreciate your making bare his slight. This is my great friend, Rowyn." She gestured towards the woman. Rowyn had golden curls that bounced around her face, which was illuminated with a lively smile and rosy cheeks, and she responded to their greetings with the enthusiasm of youth.

"We were taking a break from pulling weeds," Lothíriel informed them. "I had the opportunity of purchasing a new horse from a herdsman that comes through Dunharrow in the spring," She patted the bay's neck. "Chaser has an incredible amount of energy, I have to gallop him near every day." In response, the gelding shifted his footing, making clear that he was not yet finished with his exercising.

Rowyn was looking from Éothain to Éomer and then to Lothíriel. A smile spreading, she said, "My Greymane is winded, I think she might prefer a slower pace back home. If you would like to keep going, Lothíriel, I can stay with the éored. Assuming, of course," she shot her king a look. "That you are coming to Yuldburg."

"Indeed, that is our destination," he said.

"I think I will continue, Rowyn," Lothíriel decided. "A turn past Watchbeam Hill and I will be straight behind."

"Firefoot is itching for a run," Éomer said quickly. Firefoot had been chomping lazily on the available grass, and only snorted when his master gave him a nudge. Lothíriel smiled at that, as if she saw through his pretense, which she was likely to. He felt as if he was bared naked in front of her, and she could see straight through any of his attempts to hide his own shortcomings.

"Very well then," she said. "Let us be off."

The first several minutes were spent at too high a speed for conversation. A foursome of guards rode behind them, quickly falling behind, for Chaser was a speedy fellow. Lothíriel had an immaculate taste in horseflesh, Éomer learned. The gelding had smooth, clean lines, and an even pace. Though Firefoot would undoubtedly win over a large distance, the stallion was having trouble keeping up. Éomer did not mind, for he could watch the lady's form from behind, which he enjoyed very much. Finally she began to slow her pace, and Éomer caught up with her.

"Rowyn is a dear, but she has certain ideas of my status," the lady said without preamble. "She seems to believe that I should ride with kings, not farmers. That is why she was so intent on you and I together."

"She cannot be too convinced," he replied. "For she retains her friendship with you, and I wager that she is a farmer's daughter. Unless Yuldburg has other occupations to offer."

Lothíriel laughed. "I always appreciate an unbiased view. Though I do have a grievance to take up with you."

"And what is that?"

"You did not tell Éothain that I was beautiful!"

He snorted at her expression of faux indignance. "In all honesty, my lady, I did not take you to be a woman of vanity. I was unaware that I would have to reassure you of your attributes."

"All women are vain," she corrected, and then shot him a conspiring look. "And to spare you future trouble, I shall tell you a secret of my sex. It does not matter from whom the compliment comes, or in what context, but all women want to hear that they are beautiful. It is especially to be gratified to hear such from the king," she grinned. "But since the king does not say so, I shall make do with his friend, and lose an ounce of esteem for my own looks."

"Then you have my sincerest apologies, for I have seen few women who may match you for beauty, and near none for strength of will," Éomer said this with all honesty, but tried to keep his feelings from becoming transparent. "I give you nothing but the truth. I fear Éothain was teasing me, for sometimes I struggle to speak of anything besides you, Lothíriel."

A brief expression of discomfort and surprise flashed on her face. He wondered if he should have refrained from using her name, for she had never invited him to do so. "That is compliment indeed," she mused, half to herself. "So thorough that I may doubt the validity."

"I would not -"

"Peace!" She held up a hand, and he realized she was laughing. "I have tormented you enough, and I apologize for it. I should not antagonize you so. It is terribly easy, and so I partake when I should refrain."

The guards were catching up now, and Éomer clenched his jaw in annoyance. He wanted to speak to her of his feelings, of his love and his desire, but this was apparently not the right time. What relief it would bring! And in her response he would find joy in reciprocity, or a cold finality in rejection. Even then he would be able to recover his own usefulness, for though it was never spoken of in his presence, he knew his riders, marshals, and housekeeper alike agreed on his moon-eyed behavior. A queen would be fine recompense for the last months of heartache, but this lady's love was not guaranteed, nor would it come swiftly, if it was to come at all. He felt damned for it.

They trotted around the hill, and on the return journey towards the vale, Éomer broke the silence. "How fare things in Yuldburg?" he asked.

A shadow passed the lady's face. "Well enough," she said. "The crops are growing nicely, and we are still reaping from the mountains, albeit little at a time."

"And what is the problem?"

"I said nothing of a problem, my lord."

Éomer could not help grinning at her confusion. "You do not hide your emotions well."

This earned him a small smile, before she said, "About a month ago a small boy drowned in the stream wherefrom we take our water. His mother has been grief-stricken and her field has gone to waste. The rest of us try to rotate through her chores, but we cannot afford to coddle her for much longer. I heard a complaint this morning from another mother whose babe died in her arms a year ago, that the woman should not be allowed to shirk her work. It is a difficult situation, but I am obliged to tell the mother that she must return to her fields when we return," she sat straighter in her saddle. "That is partially why I am riding. It clears my mind and makes me a better judge."

"Then you certainly should not feel guilty for it."

She cast him an amused glance. "I am gratified you think so. I do appreciate your concern for that facet of my conceit."

"Is there anything myself or the members of my éored can do to help with any farming or other chores?" he asked.

"We are doing quite well, but thank you," she said. "I cannot think your men enjoy such work in every village wherein they patrol."

"We all do what we must."

Yuldburg began to appear as they left the plains, mountains closing in behind and beside them. They slowed to a walk, and various individuals began hailing them from their farms. Lothíriel called everyone by name, expressing delight as they assured her of their well-being. Éomer could do nothing but nod, for he was not so familiar with these his lady's people, and he regretted it. The obvious affection they had for their mistress was enviable. Most of Edoras liked him well enough, but as king and an amateur one at that, he was far more susceptible to criticism. The militarism of his past had given him no experience with being questioned.

"Would you care to join me for dinner?" Lothíriel asked, breaking him from his dour contemplation. They had arrived at the dirt road that separated the houses. "That is, I often eat with Widow Halfa. I have little talent for preparing meals, and so we pool our resources and she cooks for me. She would not mind one extra guest, though the rest of your company may not fit around her table."

Éomer smiled as he stared into her twinkling slate eyes. He knew he was smitten, but the awareness of her overwhelmed his senses. "Er, yes. I would like that very much. My men will be happy eating the provisions from Meduseld. Though," he felt mischievous as he told her this. "A few have found ladies to woo in your little town. They will be welcome in those homes, I am sure."

She laughed then, an open and unabashed sound, and was content to joke cheerily with his guards as they unsaddled their horses and groomed them briefly. There was a small enclosure at the western-most corner of the twin rows of houses, and there the horses were led to graze in the corral. "Widow Halfa lives in the cottage next to mine," Lothíriel told him as they walked towards her dwelling. "I shall tell her of your expected company, then I must finish weeding my garden before I speak to the mother of whom I told you. Why don't you take your time to assess our economy, as I am sure you are supposed to."

A twine of guilt pricked his heart, even in the sight of her gleaming eyes. He could send any of his marshals to Yuldburg to take care of necessary business, but Imrahil's beseeching plea had drawn him here in the beginning. He now returned for the lady's smiling lips, but he could not very well tell her that without begging to marry her. Agreeing to do as she suggested, he prepared himself to do without her company for the following hours.

.

.

Widow Halfa was a formidable woman. Éomer had always found Lothíriel imperious by his standards, but this older woman was in a class of her own. Within seconds of his entrance into her neat home, his muddy boots were removed and his hands and face washed, all while she told him exactly how she had had guests in the past that had dirtied her home more than her children ever had. But he knew how to take a hint, and stood without moving while she finished preparing the vegetables, his arms folded across his chest and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Lothíriel entered soon after him with the suddenness of thunder though none of the fright, shutting the door behind her none too gently. She was obviously quite familiar with the rules of the house, and was properly cleaned by the time she kissed the Widow in the cheek, sent Éomer a teasing glance, and began to set the table of dining ware. She was wearing a clean dress the color of dark blue, a color that would always remind him of her. He did not notice that he was staring until the Widow addressed him.

"King you may be, but entitled to laziness you are not. Put this on the table," she barked at him. Éomer opened his arms automatically to have them filled with a platter of mushrooms and and bowl of what looked like carrot greens. He moved to his lady's side to set them on the table, trying not to disturb the pristine rug. Lothíriel took the mushrooms from him, which improved his balance briefly until their hips touched. Béma! He needed to be more careful. The greens had almost spilled onto the floor in his hyper-awareness of the tingles the lady sent through him. And that surely would have been a disaster. He gulped, trying not to inhale her scent too much.

The Widow brought a skillet of roasted rabbit to the table and ordered them to sit. After seeing that all were served food and water (wine being in short supply, as she told him), she turned to Éomer. "Many things baffle me in my old age, King, but none more than your frequent presence in my little hamlet. Théoden certainly never graced us with his presence. Why do you?"

He nearly choked on a bit of meat. Lothíriel intervened, giving him time to clear his throat. "Halfa considers Yuldburg to be hers," she explained. "For she has lived longer here than everybody. She has seen nearly all the residents born."

"I see," he said. "And I apologize for lack of courtesy to you, Widow Halfa. I have not the time to meet with all of the village's most experienced leaders." He saw Lothíriel cover her smile behind a napkin, but the Widow smiled graciously at his compliment. "And in defense of my unusual behavior, I do try to oversee the most desolate towns either myself or assign such tasks to my marshals. That way we can better ration resources and manpower."

"You have a good head on your shoulders. But I see fit to warn you," she poked a fork in his direction. "You should not dally chasing princesses through the woods!"

Lothíriel blushed a pretty pink, and Éomer felt the blood rush to his own face. "You must forgive me," he said. "This one is too easy on the eyes by half, and she seems to find the time to inform me of all the local affairs." He winked at his lady, and she smiled. Didn't compliment her enough, indeed!

The Widow was laughing loudly. "Lot is very good at what she does, that cannot be debated. If she can pull herself from your arms enough to show you just that, I suppose I can trust you to wrap your head around our affairs. Experience aside, a king should never dally."

"Madam, I assure you that I have never dallied!" Éomer said. His pride was catching up with him, for he hated to be accused of such paltriness. He struggled to loosen his grip on his knife.

"Never?" This from Lothíriel, who leaned across the table slightly to study him closely.

"I swear it," he said. "For I find that such trysts belittle sacred relationships to a high degree." His lady's gaze dropped quickly, as if ashamed. Could a lady so proud feel such a sentiment?

"What does the king have to say about the affairs of the rest of the Mark?" The Widow was asking. Éomer covered his discomfort and that of his lady's with an overly enthusiastic description of the progress of repairs made throughout the Mark. And on that subject he was fortunately able to keep the women occupied, as they spent the remainder of the evening making comments and sharing opinions of what he should do. He had to laugh to himself though, for the outspokenness they exhibited was absent in his council chamber in Edoras. They also spoke briefly of Lothíriel's audience with the woman in the afternoon, and of the potential amount of crops expected in the autumn.

The sun has sunk long past by the time Éomer found himself escorting Lothíriel to her door, at the Widow's insistence and despite the princess's protests. They walked slowly, having been filled to great satisfaction with a blackberry and custard tart, which Halfa had proudly declared to be her specialty and made particularly for her king.

"You have learned Rohirric very well," he told her to fill the silence.

She smiled at him. "Complete immersion is the best way of learning any skill."

"It is obvious you care deeply for the people. They thrive, and I am very well pleased. You have eased my burden in Edoras, to be sure."

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment before responding. "Yes," she said. "We have all worked hard."

"But you especially, no?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "I cannot comprehend why, but you seem to be wanting me to say something. What is it?"

He shrugged. "You must be imagining things."

"I have worked hard, and perhaps more diligently in organizing matters than others, but that comes with the station of my office. That is all, my lord."

Éomer wondered why she did not use his name. Did she still hold him in high formal regard? Too high for any romantic sentiments?

"My lord," she said suddenly. Her eyes were focused in the distance, as if her thoughts had deserted their conversation. "Do you draw?"

He growled as his temper rose faster than a deadly missile loosed from a longbow. "I will tan the backsides of those soldiers! I swear, it is bad enough that they are inclined to snoop, but the fact that they cannot hold to a direct order from their king -"

She was looking mightily bewildered as she held up her hands and said, "Peace! I did not realize that this particular question would affront you so. You have my apology."

His temper eased as quickly as it had risen. "You do not need to give it, but please accept mine," Éomer said, his heated color betraying his embarrassment. He should not have concluded her intentions so quickly. His damned anger! "I do draw - to answer your inquiry, but only privately. I was unlucky on a recent tour that one of my men came upon me in such a pursuit. I have yet to live it down, though I have sworn them all to secrecy."

She was laughing. "Such irony of inquiry! And I hardly believe that artistic talent is something to be frowned upon. Men are unfathomable creatures! I only ask because I wish to spend my free hours stitching. I have not the capability to stitch something pleasing without a pattern, and I cannot draw worth a fig. I would ask for a template of designs is all."

"Then you shall have it," Éomer bowed. "Perhaps tomorrow morning? We can delay our departure by an hour or two if it pleases you."

"Then I shall see you at dawn, my lord king," Lothíriel curtseyed in return, a grandiose and exaggerated gesture, and by her smirk he knew she was teasing him. But she acceded to having him kiss her hand, and with the promise of tomorrow, she entered her cottage and he left to seek his own sleep, whether it came or not.

.

.

He had already prepared a satchel with parchment and charcoal sticks when Lothíriel arrived at the camp just as the sun was rising. She had been eating a handful of strawberries as she walked, and threw the last of the stems over her shoulder unconsciously. As she got closer, Éomer was delighted to see her tongue licking up the red juice staining her lips. He had not yet breakfasted, but now he knew what he was craving.

"Shall we?" he asked, with his satchel on one shoulder and offering the opposite arm to her. They walked in all the comforts of a steady friendship, and she directed him towards their primary source of water, a chill and respectable sized stream about a quarter-mile from the village. He sat on a mossy log and pulled out some supplies while the lady roamed along the bank before returning with handfuls of blossoms.

"I would like each to be about the size of a gold coin," she said. "For I will only be stitching small items, for now."

"As you wish," Éomer said. He had little interest in flowers, but one by one he spread the petals on his parchment to copy. He found solace in drawing; ever since he was a little boy it had been one of his greatest pleasures. But as he had become a hardened marshal, he was pressed to enjoy his hobby in small, rushed doses while worrying of being snuck upon by judgmental acquaintances or Dunlendings. And so he was out of practice, but Lothíriel's compliments even of half-finished drawings pleased him greatly. "For your use," he said when he was finished, and the last of the blossoms had been brushed unceremoniously to the ground. "Though for my sweat and expounded effort -" he mocked wiping his brow. "I ask for a favor by the lady's hand in return."

She smiled as she ruffled through the pages once more, murmuring over her favorites. "I am in your debt, my lord," she said. "I would prepare a hundred favors for you, if they could begin to repay the kindness you have shown me. Indeed, for the attention that you have always bestowed upon me," Her eyes were guileless, and the expression in them made his heart pound. "But I should keep you from your seat no longer. I will leave you here, for I wish to take a short hike in the forest before I am required to spend the rest of my day in less...exhilarating pursuits."

Éomer caught her hand in his as she was turning to leave, and he raised it to his lips. "Until next we meet, Lothíriel."

.

.

Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen.