The following days were a flurry of excitements. Following the arrival of Éowyn and Éomer, Faramir's entire household plunged into an impossibly frenzied state. Elessar and Queen Arwen soon arrived with what seemed to be all of Minas Tirith's nobles, and since then Lothíriel had not had a moment to herself. She had barely seen Éomer, either—even during the wedding feast itself, they had only danced together once. There were simply too many guests for one's attentions to be exclusive.
To her dismay, Faramir had taken his uncle's advice some weeks back that there be entertainments planned following the wedding, for those who were not newly-wed to have some enjoyment. He had arranged a series of tournaments—sword-fighting, spear-throwing, wrestling, fist-fighting, riding courses and races, and archery, both on foot and horseback.
Lothíriel observed the fray below with cool but unhappy eyes. She was sitting in a newly-constructed wooden stand, overhung with thick fabrics to keep the wind out, and with wooden stoves heating the seats from below. Still she shivered in the chilly air, huddled in her furs as she was. But the tournament below held little appeal; it was mostly for the recreation of the soldiers, anyway.
It was terribly dull.
There was little company for her in the stand, which ought to have held her father and brothers, Faramir and Éowyn, and especially Elessar and Queen Arwen. But her brothers had gone to participate in the tournaments, Faramir and Éowyn were nowhere to be found, and her king and queen had only stayed for an hour before leaving. Only her father loyally remained, and Lothíriel wished she could come and go as she pleased. Besides the dullness, she was chilled to the bone.
"Amrothos has not a chance."
Lothíriel dragged her attention back to the hand-to-hand fighting, which was divided into several rings below. Amrothos, his black moppy head easily visible in the crowd, was paired off with a positive bear of man—a man of Rohan whose arms, bare even in the cold, looked thick enough to pull a tree from the the ground.
"It does seem poorly matched. He likely volunteered to fight the man because no one else wished to," she said dryly.
"That does sound like our Amrothos," her father replied, chuckling to himself. "Care to wager a gold piece?"
Lothíriel glanced at her father, who was watching the start of the fight with shrewd eyes. She sighed, her heart twisting oddly in exasperation at—at everything. "No, thank you," she said, and startling him, she hastened to add, "I would not be so foolish to bet against the large man."
Imrahil laughed again, and thankfully accepted her explanation. Together they observed the inevitable and painful-looking defeat of Amrothos, who, after only a short time, was limping away with a blackened eye but forcing a smile in the direction of the opposite side of the courtyard; where the remainder of the guests were watching (mostly young ladies). Imrahil lamented the loss with good humor, and Lothíriel sighed to herself.
After the hand-fighting, the yard was cleared for riding. Servants brought drinks and refreshments, and still Lothíriel's stupor kept her only half-aware. The warm mead brought some feeling to her fingers as she held it, but in the cold air it chilled quickly.
"May I sit by you?"
She started, nearly spilling the mead on her cloak as she twisted to see Éowyn, bright-eyed, gazing down at her with a smile. Faramir lingered behind, looking no less pleased with himself though he was watching the soldiers below.
"Oh—of course," Lothíriel said, and the new princess swept into her seat with all the elegance that Lothíriel could only hope for. But instead of burning envy, which she would have felt last spring—Lothíriel only felt hollow.
Éowyn leaned close as if whispering a secret, saying, "Éomer insisted that we come to watch him ride."
"He—he is going to compete?"
"Of course! Éomer would never decline a riding competition. I have never seen him lose."
"Ah…oh." Lothíriel felt like smacking herself in her face; could she think of nothing wittier to say? Nothing even remotely conversational? Even thinking of Éomer and the anticipation of seeing him made her stomach turn with anxiety. To hide this, she turned towards the courtyard, where the first of the riders was reining in his horse at the far end. On the opposite side, a pole had been set up and from it hung a wreath woven from colorful ribbons, high in the air and waving in the wind. A horn sounded, and the fair-haired rider adjusted his spear in hand. His horse spring forward with no visible command, hooves thundering in the hushed, anticipating air.
A groan rose from the crowds as he missed the hoop entirely, and dejected, the rider moved aside for the next competitor.
"Bad luck," Éowyn said beside her with a sigh. "It does seem the wreath is smaller than normal—Faramir, did you intend that?"
"I did," Faramir replied. "I know your Rohirrim are better riders than we are; I had to level the chances a bit."
Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from laughing, which her cousin and his bride did, the sound echoing merrily. Did it surprise her that Éowyn was not offended by Faramir's attempt to hinder the Rohirrim? Indeed it did—but it did not, either. If Éomer was there, would he laugh too? It seemed likely.
A rider wearing the swan-ship of Dol Amroth on his sleeve was next, and just as the first, he failed to catch the wreath on his spear. Imrahil sighed, shaking his head.
"More drills with spears," he muttered to himself.
"Do you ride, Lothíriel?"
Lothíriel blinked, turning to look at Éowyn, who was smiling kindly. She swallowed—what could she say? "Not very well," she admitted at last. This was the truth. She could only hope the princess would not compare answers with her brother! "I have always given my attention to—to other matters," she explained lamely. That the other matters were gossip and young men, she did not say.
"I see. Perhaps the right horse would make a difference." Éowyn's eyes were twinkling. They were the same shade as her brother's, and Lothíriel's polite smile felt forced.
"Perhaps."
More groans from the crowd. Another rider—this one wearing Elessar's livery, threw his spear on the ground in frustration. This did not deter the ladies on the opposite side of the courtyard; many white handkerchiefs were waving. He was an exceptionally handsome man, Lothíriel thought. But while she might have sought him out later for a flirtation, the notion did not appeal to her one whit. She did see Wilrith's pudgy, eager face in the faraway crowd; she too was holding a handkerchief for the guard. Lothíriel pursed her lips disdainfully.
Several more riders attempted to spear the wreath, but to no avail. One after one, they were disappointed. Lothíriel cared little, but could sense Éowyn's agitation beside her.
"Perhaps the hoop is too small," the lady said gallantly, in defense of a Rohirric man whose name she said was Elfhelm.
"I would not judge it as such quite yet," Faramir said.
Éowyn hummed in agreement. "That is fair. I am sure Éomer shan't have any trouble."
Of course not, Lothíriel thought. Perfect Éomer will succeed, naturally. If only he would ride next so that this could end…
More riders. More failures. The overcast sky made it seem as though they were stuck in the day forever; the sun's descent, which surely was nearing, made no change in the light. Would the tournament never end?
"There he is! I am sure he wished to be last a-purpose." Éowyn nearly leapt out of her chair, her hands clenching the armrests in excitement as she spotted her brother. Lothíriel likewise recognized Éomer, though he wore strange armor and a helm covered his face. But the set of his shoulders was impossible to mistake for anyone else. His warhorse—Lothíriel could not recall its name—pranced to the starting point, snorting and shifting his weight as if sensing the excitement of the crowd. The King! The King of Rohan will win!, was the general sentiment. Some scoffed, and Lothíriel, trying not to let the exhilaration affect her, could not help shivering.
Éomer placed a gloved hand on his horse's neck, and the beast stilled. He spun the spear in his hand, tilting his head briefly towards their stand. Éowyn was clapping her hands in excitement, her color high. Lothíriel bit her lip.
The horse screamed, and sprang forward so quickly that any other rider might have fallen. But this was no ordinary rider, Lothíriel chided herself. Of course the King of the Horselords would be the most accomplished from among them. He lowered his spear to aim for the hoop, and a collective breath was drawn from the entire watching crowd. Lothíriel clenched her fur cloak together at her throat, trying to keep her heart from racing. No such luck.
Utter silence, apart from the thundering hoofbeats. Just audible was the sound of the beribboned wreath, sliding down Éomer's spear with a whoosh and a thump. The crowd burst into roars of approval.
Éowyn had stood, adding her voice to the noise as Lothíriel flinched, at last letting out the breath she had been holding. Éomer was now taking the perimeter of the yard, his horse positively prancing as the shouts of admiration grew. He passed the sea of white handkerchiefs. His popularity had not dimmed in the last months, and Lothíriel looked away, unable to bear it.
Her father's eyes were glinting in her direction with a wry smile, and flushing at the insinuation, she wished she had continued to watch Éomer's trek.
"I should have known you would only have the best," Imrahil said with a chuckle. Lothíriel returned the smile stiffly.
Éomer had removed his helm and set it on the front of his saddle, and so his mischievous smile was clearly visible as his horse trotted towards their stand. His eyes met hers, and held them captive. Her heart thumped.
He reined in the horse, coming to a stop—not in front of her father, not in front of his sister—but clearly in front of her. Éomer lowered the spear, and after a split-second of fear, Lothíriel realized he was offering her the wreath. Oh, no… The noise around them had dimmed, and were there whispers now?
"Lothíriel…" she heard her father mutter beside her. She shook herself from her stupor and stood. Just as her fingers touched the end of the cold ribbons, Éomer hefted his spear back in the air, shaking his head with a grin. The hoop slid several inches back towards him.
"For a kiss," he said.
Lothíriel's mouth fell open. Was he mad? Her father was only a few feet away! Éowyn was positively laughing—were there titters coming from the crowd? If she kissed him, it would be declaring their intentions in public! No one, apart from their relations, knew of the betrothal feast which would take place in four days' time. But Éomer's twinkling eyes showed that he, at least, was willing to announce things a bit sooner. What choice did she have, without the risk of offending him? She nodded shortly.
Éomer nudged his horse forward until he was standing alongside the barrier, and Lothíriel leaned forward out of the stand. If he was going to tease her, she would give it right back—she aimed for his bearded cheek. But at the last second, he turned his head and her lips met his.
Face tingling with a hot red flush, Lothíriel retreated at once. Her ears were ringing, and she could not hear whatever reaction was coursing through the eagerly watching spectators. Éomer was laughing, and he inclined his head towards her father as he offered the wreath to her once more. Lothíriel snatched it, and sat down as quickly as she could, attempting some semblance of dignity.
"My lady," Éomer said, inclining his head. "Good day to you." She returned the nod stiffly, wishing that she could disappear. Everyone was looking at her as he reined his horse back towards the lists—she was positive of that.
"A cruel trick!" Éowyn said loudly beside her. "I am sorry for my brother, Lothíriel. Sometimes he has no shame at all!"
"I do not think any admonishment is going to reach him," Faramir told his bride dryly.
"He needs no admonishment." Imrahil startled them all which his jovial words. "Let the man claim a prize for his gift! Lothíriel did not mind—did you, my dear?"
"No," she mumbled. She kept her face averted from her companions; she did not want them to see her turmoil.
As embarrassing as the scene was, Lothíriel could not help the warm feeling blossoming in her breast as her eyes followed Éomer's straight back. Oh, no! Why was she feeling so warm? Though she quite admired Éomer in many ways, that was all she felt, surely. There was simply no accounting for the odd thumping in her heart which had been accosting her those last minutes.
Though she watched as the yard was quickly prepared for the next competition, she did not see. There were too many roiling feelings in her breast. Admiration at Éomer's feat, some pride at having been given the prize (though less than she expected), and attraction for the handsome king. She wished he would come sit with them—she had a great deal to say. And somehow she anticipated their next banter with pleasure.
Oh, great Ulmo below! She had not developed feelings for him, had she?
A hasty assessment confirmed that she had, and her face burned. Éomer's goodness would be impossible not to love, especially for Lothíriel. She had never before beheld such plain goodness, excepting perhaps his sister. His marked attentions after they had agreed to marry made her think he would be a good and faithful husband. And his teasing—as much as it was insufferable at times, often made their time spent together enjoyable. She loved him! Oh, how she loved him!
"Lothíriel? It is time for supper."
Jolted from her reverie, Lothíriel accepted her father's proffered hand with a smile. She had not noticed the conclusion of the tournament—the crowd was dispersing and mingling with the soldiers. With some disappointment, she did not see Éomer's distinguishing height.
"It was a good tournament," Imrahil said heartily as they made their way back towards Faramir's house. Her cousin and his lady had gone on ahead.
"Yes," Lothíriel replied absently, fingering the ribbons which she still held. "I hope that I might regain feeling back in my feet before tomorrow."
Her father laughed, but there was no more opportunity for a private conversation. As they strode through the open doors, the crowd swarmed in behind them, seeking warmth. Lothíriel was pulled towards their quarters by Imrahil, and without warning something hard shoved into her shoulder, and she stumbled. Her father kept her on her feet, and Lothíriel glared at the back of an unfamiliar woman, who was striding away from them without looking back.
"Are you well?" Imrahil asked with concern.
"I am. But others are not, it seems."
Her father glanced at the woman as well just before she disappeared into the crowd, and he shook his head. "Pay them no heed," he said.
"I will not."
But her aching shoulder suggested otherwise.
