10. Midwinter Gifts

"Éomer, might I have a word?" the Prince Imrahil asked Éomer that night as the supper party dispersed, catching his arm as Éomer meant to leave.

"Of course," Éomer replied, caught off guard but not entirely surprised. "Walk with me if you will."

"It is good to see you again," Imrahil said after a moment. "And to see your homeland after all these years – I had almost forgotten its strange sort of beauty, but now that I am here it captures me again."

"Yes – Rohan does have that power, doesn't it?" Éomer said with a touch of pride over the lure of his homeland. "So tell me, my friend, of what is it that you wished to speak with me?" He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to spur this conversation along.

Imrahil cleared his throat. "My daughter, if you can believe it."

"I can." Éomer clasped his hands behind his back and waited for his friend and future father-in-law to continue.

"How is she? Tell me truthfully, for you know she would never want to worry me." The older man said this with an air of lightness, but beneath his smile looked truly concerned.

Éomer was uncertain of how to answer this. He hardly wanted to admit to Imrahil that he had, by and large, been avoiding Lothíriel with determination. "I – I think she is adjusting rather well."

"She is adaptive," Imrahil said. "She has always been so. But for all her resilience, I fear that she will reach her breaking point if care is not taken to make sure she is well in spirit."

Éomer was quiet. "I detect a certain fragility about her, it is true. But she seldom seems willing to show it."

"She wants to be strong. And she is," Imrahil said quickly. "But no one can be strong all of the time. Lothíriel takes her desire for self-control to excess." He looked at Éomer, then away. "When her mother died, there was a time when I thought I might lose Lothíriel too. You can imagine what that fear must have been like for me."

Éomer tried to absorb this information. "What do you mean by losing her?"

"She locked herself away for a time," Imrahil said. "From all of us – she hid her grief with harsh words, if she gave any at all. She disobeyed me, acted the rebel, even ran away on several occasions. She stopped eating properly. She did not even let herself cry at her mother's funeral, and if she cried at all, it must have been in private. All this lasted months, until she made herself ill from it. She was eleven years old."

"What brought her back?" Éomer asked, wondering at this new insight into Lothíriel's past.

Imrahil took a while to answer. "I think it was Amrothos. But I will never be sure exactly. All I know is that my daughter came back to life again, thank the Valar. But do you see why I tell you this?"

Éomer was hesitant. "Do you fear she might travel down that path again?"

"In a sense, yes, I do," Imrahil said. "I wanted you to be aware of it so that you can keep an eye on her. She has been through a great deal in the last year, first with holding Dol Amroth together and helping with the wounded during the war and now with preparing to wed you, with leaving her home. She has appeared resilient through all of it but you see that I have reason to fear for her well-being. If she suffers, she may disguise it, although I hope she has learned to let herself be open to those around her. No one can be strong indefinitely. She needs tenderness, as do we all." He looked Éomer in the eyes intently and gripped his shoulders. "I am entrusting my daughter to you. Take care of her, Éomer."

Éomer was overwhelmed but could hardly refuse this man's entreaty or show hesitation in his face. "I will do my best." He placed his hands on the man's shoulders in return. "You have my word."

"Good man," Imrahil said with a smile that broke the tension. "I know you will. So, tell me about that warhorse of yours. I remember you had plans to breed him."

That night, Éomer was left with much to think about. So Lothíriel, like him, had a past. He could not help feeling drawn to her a little more, knowing that perhaps she understood what he himself had gone through. He certainly was not about to stand back and watch another woman fade away if he could help it. But how could he take care of her, when at times he felt he could barely handle taking care of himself? He was beginning to think that perhaps in getting married he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nothing was as simple as he would like it to be.

Imrahil was only the first to seek Éomer out with regard to Lothíriel. The very next morning, Erchirion and Amrothos commandeered Éomer on his way out of the stables and told him that if he did not treat their sister well they would personally disembowel him and leave his body in a ditch by the side of the road at the eastern border of Rohan, where bands of orcs still roamed, "or worse."

Then, later that day, Faramir found him brooding in the Great Hall and sat down beside him with vigor. "You marry my cousin in less than a week. Why are you here, skulking by yourself, and not with her, getting to know her?"

Éomer looked at the other man in shock.

"Forgive me my impudence," Faramir said quickly. "But I like you, Éomer. You are my future brother-in-law, so it is good that I like you. You are good company, and you are an intelligent man. But, frankly, in regard to my cousin, you are being a bit of a dolt. You are going to marry the girl, not hire her as a stablehand or place her beside your throne like a decorative sculpture. So talk to her. You might like her, after all."

Éomer stood up, annoyed at this constant barrage, but mostly at the fact that this man was completely right. "Thank you for your insight, Faramir. Now, begging your leave…"

"Please do not take offense," called the other man as Éomer hurried away. "I speak out of concern for both of you."

Éomer set his jaw and went to find Éothain, whom he hoped might be sympathetic as an old friend. But it was not to be so.

He found his steward in his home, a cottage close to Meduseld – Éothain preferred to live as simply as he always had. The man was seated on the floor, surrounded by a pile of dried flowered herbs, and he was deftly weaving them together.

"What are you doing?" Éomer asked, momentarily distracted from his troubles. He bent down to peer at Éothain's handiwork.

Éothain held up a nearly finished bracelet. "Midwinter gifts."

"Multiple ladies, or just one?" Éomer asked at that, grinning. The longest night of the year was the next one, and there would be a feast in Meduseld, though smaller this year because the wedding would take place just days later, and it would be too much to have two major celebrations in such a short span of time. "For you have quite a lot of herbs there."

Éothain's gaze was serious and pointed, instead of smiling the way he ought to have at Éomer's teasing. "Just one."

"The one I think you mean?" Éomer asked warily. "Éothain, she lost her husband not even a year past."

"I know," the other man said tersely. "And this is to remind her of our enduring friendship, not to imply anything more."

"Are you certain of that?" Éomer asked, furrowing his brow. He knew the depth of his friend's true feeling for the woman in question.

"Éomer, let me worry about my own problems. You have your own wedding to think about," Éothain deflected with barely a falter in the timing of his response. "So what is it, anyway, that caused you to nearly bang down my door? Anything having to do with that very subject?"

"You know me too well," Éomer conceded, taking his place on the ground next to his friend. He told Éothain of what Faramir had said.

"He's right, you know," was Éothain's response.

Éomer groaned. "You were supposed to be on my side."

"I make a point of not taking sides with idiots." Éothain shrugged. "And you are being one."

"You know how hard it is for me," Éomer protested. "How do I reach out to her when the reminder of our circumstances stands so firmly in the way?"

"You just do," Éothain replied. "It is not your circumstances but you who stands in the way of yourself."

Éomer picked up some herbs and fiddled with them, pulling them apart in frustration. He knew Éothain was right although it begrudged him to admit it. "So how do I begin?"

After a moment, Éothain looked up at him with a twinkle in his eye. "Give the girl a Midwinter gift."

"I beg your pardon?" Éomer stared at him.

"You heard me," Éothain said. "And stop doing that, you're making a mess." He gestured to the tiny bits of dried herbs that were now littering the ground in front of Éomer's folded legs.

Éomer dropped the herbs. "You expect me to court her, like I was in love with her?" He slammed his fists into the ground, barely wincing as the pain kicked in seconds later. "Why, so she will fall at my feet? I expect soon I'll be asked to make myself fall in love with her!"

"No one is asking you to fall in love with her," Éothain said more gently. "Nor to make her love you. Just… make her feel welcome. Show her a little kindness."

"I am kind to her," Éomer grumbled.

"No, you are civil to her, there is a difference." Éothain held out the newly finished bracelet. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," Éomer said, peering at the bracelet with new interest. He let out a heavy breath, suddenly feeling a bit lighter. "So I am to give Lothíriel a gift, then?"

"That's right," Éothain replied, grinning.

"Hmm…"

"Éothain is somehow very wise," Éomer said to Firefoot the next day on his customary morning visit. "Even I must admit to that."

Firefoot shook his mane and pawed the ground.

"You want to ride, don't you? You could not care less about my troubles, could you?" He laughed. "Well, I am sorry, but the icy grounds make it too dangerous. If it thaws a little with the sun this afternoon, I will try my best to slip away and take you out."

Firefoot snorted in what Éomer assumed was agreement.

Momentarily, Éomer looked up at the sound of movement at the stall door. Lothíriel stood there, her pale face framed by the deep blue of her cloak. The striking shade had been a common sight over the last month – from a distance, one could easily pick out Lothíriel in a sea of the other, muted colors that dotted the white snow that covered the ground and rooftops.

"Happy Midwinter," she said softly.

"Happy Midwinter," he replied, wondering what she was doing there. Had she sought him out? That would be a new development. She had saved him the trouble of finding her, whatever the cause of this visit was. Firefoot snorted in her direction, and pawed at the ground. "Firefoot extends the same greetings."

She smiled at that, though she remained uncertain. "I brought him a Midwinter's gift. May I?" She held up a carrot.

"Of course." He gestured her in with a flourish that received another small smile as she opened the lower section of the split door and stepped inside. "Careful now," he warned. "He does not always take kindly to strangers."

She raised her eyebrows and held out the treat, palm flat as any good horseman was trained to do to prevent losing fingers. Firefoot approached her, sniffing the air curiously. He lipped at the treat and then took it greedily.

Both Lothíriel and Éomer laughed as the stallion chomped at the carrot. To Éomer's surprise, when the horse finished he craned his neck out towards Lothíriel and nickered, looking for more. He sniffed her all over, then, having failed to find treats, began to nuzzle Lothíriel quite intently.

"Apologies, Firefoot," Lothíriel said with a giggle as Firefoot nibbled her sleeve. "I gave all my other treats away already. No, don't eat me." She put her hand on his nose and moved his mouth away from its target. The animal then allowed her to scratch his forehead, and Éomer watched in amazement.

"He likes you," he said, gathering his wits about him.

"You sound surprised," she replied archly.

"Well, you are a stranger."

She gave him a half-smile and shook her head. "We are well acquainted. You are not the only one who finds in Firefoot a kind ear. We have had many a good chat, Firefoot and I."

Éomer took a moment to absorb this information, unsure of how he felt about sharing Firefoot's affection. He had grown attached to the idea of himself as the temperamental horse's sole human companion. "Is that so?"

"Yes. You don't mind?" she looked a bit concerned at the thought.

"No," he responded quickly. "At least, I don't think I do."

She stared at him strangely for a moment, then returned her attention to the horse. "I have something for you as well," she said after a period of silence, during which Éomer traced circles with his foot in the wood chips that lined the bottom of the stall. "A Midwinter gift, of sorts."

Éomer was taken aback but tried to cover his surprise. This was indeed turning out to be an unexpected visit. "You did?"

She reached into the pocket sewn on the inside of her cloak, suddenly shy again. "Here," she said, extracting a small package and offering it to him. "It is nothing much but I thought I ought to give you something. I had my brother Elphir bring it with him from Dol Amroth."

He accepted the package and turned it over in his hands. Whatever it was, it was not too heavy but substantial nonetheless. The package was longer than it was wide. "Should I open it now?"

She shrugged. "If you would like." She folded her hands and waited, looking expectant.

He carefully tore open the paper and extracted from a swab of blue velvet a small dagger. The hilt unmistakably resembled the head, neck and wings of a swan, the emblem of Dol Amroth. He weighed the weapon in his hand and inspected the quality of the metal. He looked up at Lothíriel. She was biting her lip.

"This is a good weapon," he said truthfully. "Thank you."

She looked relieved to see that he did indeed like it. "It's to remind you that although you are now also a diplomat, you are still a warrior king."

She remembered that conversation, then, as vividly as he did. Éomer was truly touched and tried to convey that feeling without saying it in so many words. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Lothíriel replied. They smiled hesitantly at each other before Lothíriel cleared her throat. "Well, I should probably – "

"Wait, I have something for you in return," Éomer interjected, clearing his throat. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

Lothíriel obliged as he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the bracelet he had made with Éothain's help. It had taken him three tries to achieve any success at all, and several more before he could make one that also held any semblance of beauty.

Carefully, he took Lothíriel's hand and slipped the wreath onto her wrist, watching her expression carefully as he did so. She looked like she was trying not to laugh or open her eyes from curiosity.

"Open them."

She opened her eyes and looked at her wrist. "Why, this is beautiful!" She fingered the wreath and raised her gaze to meet his. "Did you make it?"

"With difficulty. I am a warrior, not a craftsman," he replied wryly.

"Well, perhaps you should pursue the latter occupation in your spare time," she said with a pointed smile, as she obviously knew that Éomer's spare time was indeed spare. "Truly, it is lovely. Thank you."

"It was nothing," Éomer lied. "Will you walk up to Meduseld with me?"

She looked pleased as she nodded and accepted the invitation. Éomer gave her his arm and they fell into pace with each other as they walked out of the stable and made their way up the hill.

"So tell me about this Lady Ivorwen," Éomer said with the intent of making conversation. "For she strikes me as a most – remarkable woman. Has she always had a burr under her saddle?"

Lothíriel's unladylike snort was response enough for him, and he laughed all the way up to the Golden Hall.

When Éomer first caught sight of Lothíriel that night at the feast, he could not help but suck in his breath. She was wearing a gown of deep green, the color of Rohan, and he noted that it was in the style of his people, a fact that touched him deeply. What was more, he found the sight of her arresting. The creamy paleness of her skin looked luminous against the deep green of her gown. The gown's bodice hugged the curves of her body closely down to her hips, below which the dark green fabric opened up and was drawn away to reveal an under-gown of lighter green embroidery. Her golden belt was simple, which pleased him – he strongly disliked overly ornate clothing.

When he looked back at Lothíriel's face, she met his gaze squarely, the corner of her mouth twitching. She had caught his once-over glance. What must she think of him?

He cleared his throat as she approached him, placing his hands behind his back. She swept a curtsy, and he bowed slightly in return.

"Do I have your approval?" She smiled up at him.

Éomer nodded after a moment. "Yes," he said simply. There was nothing more he could say, no jest or quip that might deflect her from the truth.

She looked him up and down and raised her chin. "Good. You have mine as well." He saw the amusement in her eyes. "No stains or bits of straw, at least. You are not a barbarian."

Her confidence and easy rebuttal of his own assessment of her caught him off guard but he recovered quickly and held out his hand. "Will you come sit beside me?"

"I believe custom deems I must," she said with a gesture to the place clearly reserved for her. "But it happens that I would be glad to join you." As she lifted her hand to place it in his, Éomer watched her sleeve fall away to reveal his bracelet on her slender wrist. Seeing what had captured his gaze, Lothíriel met his eyes and smiled.

As Éomer and Lothíriel took their places, a hush fell over the crowded hall. A sea of faces looked back at them, assessing the picture – their still-new king and a not-yet queen. Éomer swallowed. He loved his people and had accepted this charge of leading and protecting them, but it was times like these when he felt very small, very unfit to rule. Beside him, he sensed Lothíriel tense up as well. What must she feel, he wondered, confronted with the same sight?

An amazing thing happened then. Somehow, her hand found his under the table and gave it a quick and gentle squeeze. His mouth twitched, and he felt a bit calmer. They were in this together.

Throughout the meal, Lothíriel could not help but reflect back on those first few interactions with Éomer, where every word between them was stilted and carefully measured. Although they were still strangers at large, at least now the tension had eased.

If she ignored the thought of wedding him, of bedding him, of bearing his children, she could bear sitting next to him, talking with him, even laughing with him (and how strange that now she saw him laugh, when all those months ago all she could see was a grave, sad man – now she saw a sad man who, in between bouts of darkness, was as quick to smile as he was to frown). Perhaps they were becoming friends, allied by their shared apprehension of being suddenly rulers, softened by the exchange of gifts and kind words, and (at least for her part) drawn toward the other by knowledge of the challenges that person faced.

Éomer's past still stood firmly between them, however, and Lothíriel was certain that it would likely never fade.

Much, much later, as the last few guests were departing and making their way down the hill to their homes, Lothíriel too made her way towards the warmth and comfort of her own bed, but her mission was quickly interrupted by the sight upon which she stumbled.

A couple was standing together in the dim light of the golden hall, their shapes silhouetted against the flickering light of torches. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, but his posture hinted at something close to apprehension. The woman's head was bowed as she looked at something she held in her hand. Lothíriel meant to turn away and flee before she was noticed, but as the woman looked up, her face caught the light and Lothíriel realized it was Brithwyn. Her curiosity got the better of her and Lothíriel remained a moment in the shadows to listen.

"Éothain, you know I cannot accept this." The woman's intense whisper carried in the emptiness to Lothíriel's ears and she widened her eyes in shock. Éothain… and Brithwyn?

"It is a token of friendship, nothing more," the man whose identity had now been revealed replied evenly. "A symbol of the regard I have held for you have since we were children. I give this to you with the same intent– "

"Am I expected to believe that, Éothain? You stood beside me and my husband in friendship and nothing more, never secretly hoping for what did eventually come to pass, so the way might be clear for you to woo me?" Brithwyn's voice was hard and flecked with a rawness of which Lothíriel had never imagined the gentle, composed woman to be capable.

"With the same intent that I stood by your husband until his death, fighting beside him, mentoring him, protecting him as best I could – all because I knew how you loved him, because you asked me, nay, begged me to watch out for him!" Éothain interrupted, fists clenched. "That you could accuse me of such pettiness wounds me more than you could ever imagine, Brithwyn. If I could have gotten to him in time, the blow that killed him would have fallen on me, and I would have it be so if it meant you would think upon me with but a little of the affection you once held in your heart."

Brithwyn looked at him, her countenance visibly wavering, but she only said, "Éothain, I would to Béma that it had been so."

Lothíriel winced at the harshness of this statement. She knew she should leave, right now, but to attract attention to herself at this point would prove disastrous.

"That I had died in place of Hunfred?" Éothain asked, his voice almost inaudibly low. "Or that I speak the truth, that my actions up to this point have indeed been rooted in the desire to protect your happiness – and your welfare, for that matter? Because I am afraid that only the latter wish could ever be granted to you now – but no longer." He stepped away, hands raised in a gesture of defeat. "Take the bracelet, Brithwyn. Do what you will with it, but for the Mearas' sake, do not think that I could ever want it back. I wash my hands of your indifference and your cruelty."

Brithwyn's shaky gasp hung in the air as Éothain turned on his heel. As he did so his eyes came to rest directly on Lothíriel in the shadows, and he scoffed in annoyance before disappearing. Brithwyn followed his gaze, and she looked at Lothíriel with half-focused, disbelieving eyes before fleeing the scene.

Lothíriel was on the verge of following the woman, and would have done so had a hand not caught her wrist – the same wrist around which her own bracelet encircled. She gasped, and turned to see Éomer's eyes glinting at her in the torchlight. "I – you – what?" Where had he come from?

"Stay, Lothíriel, theirs is not our business to intrude upon anymore than we already have," he whispered with a glance in the direction where the two had just stood.

"But I want to apologize – wait. We?" Lothíriel asked, for a moment forgetting her concern for Brithwyn and Éothain.

She could see his mouth quirk. "I fear we both share a voyeuristic tendency. I happened upon this exchange at about the same time you did, I imagine, and like you I could not help but listen."

"How awful of us," Lothíriel whispered, her cheeks warming at being caught eavesdropping, but the sting of her embarrassment was softened by the knowledge of his shared culpability. She realized that he still held her wrist and looked down at the evidence, blushing further. His gaze followed hers and he let go immediately. Lothíriel rubbed her arm unconsciously – his grip had been quite firm. He noticed.

"Forgive me," he said with obvious embarrassment.

Lothíriel shook her head. "It's nothing." Her thoughts traveled back to what she had just learned. "Did you know?"

"Of the relationship between the seamstress and Éothain? Yes," Éomer conceded. "It is complicated. They were childhood friends – sweethearts, perhaps you might have called them, but if their mutual affections ever progressed to those of lovers, it did not work out between them. Why, well, I have ideas, but I do not know for certain. Brithwyn married another, and Éothain…" he sighed. "Well, Éothain took any disappointment he might have felt in his stride and soldiered on."

"But he loves her," Lothíriel interjected.

"Yes, he does." Éomer looked rather saddened as he said this. "If he was jealous, he rose above it and has since acted with the same sense of honor that he has always shown in life. He befriended Hunfred, if only because Brithwyn asked him to, and he was prepared to protect the man – a good man, a fair fighter, but with the soul of a poet, not a warrior - to the end but could not reach him in time on the Pelennor." He looked at Lothíriel intently. "Brithwyn's words spring from grief and anger. I know in my heart that Éothain's intentions have always been true."

Lothíriel nodded slowly. "And does she love him, do you think?"

"That I do not know. You would have to ask her." Éomer sighed again. "Whatever her feelings, after all he has done for her, she would be a fool if she let her words toward him this evening go without apology. It was Éothain who convinced me to find a place for Brithwyn and her sister in Meduseld after they, like so many women, were left without the protection of a man or family. He could not bear to see her scrape by for survival."

Lothíriel watched as a sense of heaviness fell over Éomer's shoulders. She could see that the reminder of yet another struggle for his people affected him, and wondered what she could say. She was not quick enough, however, for he seemed to realize he had fallen into deep thought and shook his head to clear it. "Enough of this talk. It is very late. You must be exhausted."

Lothíriel nodded, struggling to find the words to bid him goodnight, but he seemed to sense that she was a little overwhelmed. "Can you find your way to your room?"

She nodded. "Of course."

His smile was small but warm. "Good."

Lothíriel felt overcome with the urge to touch him again, then, to make a friendly gesture of goodnight, but she did not know how, and so she merely returned the smile and left. She felt that there was a barrier there that she was not authorized to cross, at least not in so intimate a manner. A squeeze of the hand was one thing, and a proffered arm in public was another, but to embrace him or softly caress his cheek – such intimate gestures of comfort and affection she had always envisioned making towards a husband or lover – those actions were not for Éomer. Not for her.

In retrospect, as she prepared for bed, it struck her as odd that she would want to.

[A/N: Well, hello there. Good to see you again, , good to see you. As always, sorry for the long wait, but this chapter is one of the longest I've ever written, and it's taken time to get it to where I wanted it to be (for a long while, I didn't know). I'm surprising myself with the way this story is developing. Thanks to all who have been following this story, I've received some very thoughtful and encouraging reviews since the last update! I hope you like this chapter. ~ GB]