Author's Note: I live! And so does the story! Too Wise actually celebrated its one year anniversary during the interim, and WOW guys, I can't thank y'all enough for coming on this journey with me. And there's still more to come!
Sorry this has taken a little longer than usual, but I'll level with y'all: I had my confidence shaken by a couple of sharp reviews and messages. But I've also had an overwhelming amount of support and encouragement from my sweet beta and good number of y'all, so hopefully the normal writing schedule will resume now.
Also, I'm still available over on tumblr at theemightypen for those interested!
And now, onwards! A certain situation comes to a head, in rather spectacular fashion...
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There's still snow on the ground, but the morning isn't as bitterly cold as the ones that have come before it.
"Spring isn't far off now," says Merthwyn as she settles their breakfast plates in front of them.
"It is far enough," grumbles Eowyn, poking listlessly at her food. "It feels as if this winter has dragged on for an Age."
Lothiriel hides a smile behind her hand. She remembers Elphir being just as antsy, as sullen, during the months between his and Alycia's betrothal and her arrival in Dol Amroth for their wedding. It would seem Eowyn suffers from a similar vexation. And she certainly has every right to be cross; given the thick snows, all correspondence from Gondor has slowed, if it is able to reach Edoras at all.
(And Eowyn's dour mood gives her something to think of other than the ever-present worry about Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation. To her knowledge, they still have not told Eothain, nor Eothred, and Lothiriel does not particularly want to dwell on how that conversation will likely go.)
"I am sure Faramir feels much the same," she says. "And I am also sure he would not thank me for letting you grow melancholy if it was in my power to stop it. Shall I distract you with another lesson?"
"Oh, Lothiriel, no," groans Eowyn. "There cannot be anything more I need to learn about how to properly seat a large dinner party, or how to manage Ithillien's finances-"
Lothiriel shrugs, smirking. "No? Perhaps you'd rather discuss the latest Gondorian fashions-"
This elicits another pained groan from her friend. Grinning widely now, Lothiriel rests her chin in her hand, continuing on: "Dresses are out, too? Hm. What will you make small talk with the ladies of Minas Tirith with, if all of these subjects are distasteful to you?"
"Bema forbid we discuss sensible things," Eowyn says. "I cannot believe that the women of your country only ever discuss pretty frocks and seating arrangements."
"True enough," Lothiriel agrees, "sometimes even the weather is deemed an appropriate topic of conversation."
Eowyn swats her, her lips twitching with amusement despite the stern look she gives her. "You are horrid."
"And yet you have agreed to marry into my family," she retorts. "One must wonder if you are horrid too."
That earns her a harder smack, and draws an amused snort from Merthwyn.
"Be serious, Lothiriel," Eowyn says. "Am I really to expect only surface level conversations every time I visit Minas Tirith?"
Lothiriel sobers at the hesitant look on Eowyn's face. "No. Much as I dislike much of the Court's manners, many of its ladies are happy to discuss other things besides needlework and marriage prospects. Some of them have a knowledge of military things, by proxy of fathers, husbands, or brothers. More still take a deep interest in art and music. A few who are only children, who stand to inherit wealth and status, if not actual power, are fairly knowledgeable about the ins and outs of the respective provinces. Widows, too, have this knowledge. About feuds between merchants, where food shortages hit the hardest, or the quickest trade routes."
"But those are not considered acceptable topics," Eowyn says with a frown.
"Perhaps not when first meeting a new lady," Lothiriel concedes. "But many of Faramir's friends are married to practical women. I am sure you will find friendship and conversation aplenty with them."
"Mm," she hums, noncommittal. "And I am equally sure I will not like any of them as much as I like you."
"You are biased," Lothiriel reminds her. "And partially obligated to like me, as I am to be your cousin."
"Cousin and sis-" Eowyn starts to say, before Lothiriel pinches her side to silence her.
They grin at each other for a moment before Eowyn speaks again. "So. Which of those acceptable-but-not-entirely-proper topics do you take most interest in? I know you love music, but surely as a princess, you have had to learn about things of more substance as well."
"I know as much as you when it comes to seating arrangements and finances," Lothiriel says. "Though lately I have found myself more interested in the idea of trade."
"With the War at an end, it should make it easier," Eowyn agrees. "But what passes as payment in Gondor is vastly different than what we of the Mark would consider acceptable."
It's true. Gondor, with all of its wealth, has a set system of coins and other monies. Rohan, on the other hand, relies on the exchanging of goods or services. Both have merits in their own right, but leave entirely too much room for miscommunication between people of either country. Coins would do a hungry family little good in the Mark, and most Gondorian merchants would scoff at the idea of trading valuable silks for a number of chickens.
"I wonder if Aragorn and Eomer will not have to come up with some sort of compromise," Eowyn murmurs. "For trade between Gondor and Rohan can only benefit us both."
"And if other allies were to be factored into the mix-" Lothiriel starts.
"Other allies?" Eowyn echoes. "Meaning whom?"
"My father brokered an agreement with some of the Umbarians when Elphir married Alycia. And now that Eomer and Aragorn have struck a truce with the Dunlendings-"
"We could all reap the rewards," says Eowyn. "That is. Hm. Torfrith!"
The older man-indeed, half of the hall-looks up in surprise at Eowyn's sudden outburst.
"My lady?" He says, rising to his feet. "Do you have need of me?"
Lothiriel has not gotten to know Meduseld's Chief Scribe the way she has a few of the other council members, but he has always struck her as a shrewd man, and an opinionated one.
"We have a question for you," Eowyn answers.
"Perhaps I might be of assistance as well," says another councilor-Ordlac, Lothiriel thinks-drifting over as he speaks.
The two men eye each other speculatively, suspiciously. Lothiriel is not unfamiliar to such displays in Gondor's courts, between veteran politicians. Perhaps some things are simply universal.
Ordlac looks intrigued by the idea of facilitating trade across the newly allied parties, where Torfrith-his bushy eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed-looks distinctly against the idea.
"It is simply not done," the older man says. "It would be one thing to build trading routes with Gondor, who have proven themselves to be our true friends, but with the Dunlendings-what if they plan treachery? Or swindle us out of the value of our food? It is not as if the Mark has much to spare."
"But think of all the good it could bring," Lothiriel argues, "every party involved has something the other lacks."
"And every party stands to lose things of significant value, if it were to go ill," Ordlac adds. "But there is much to be gained, also."
Torfrith blinks at the other man. "You cannot be thinking of promoting such a thing, Ordlac."
"The idea as it stands now? No. It is not an equal arrangement. Gondor would have too much financial power over the other three and the Mark would arguably be the most vulnerable physically, with the majority of the routes in our lands. The Dunlendings are not a united people-who is to say all of the tribes would even agree to such a plan? And as for Umbar...they are unknown to us."
Lothiriel bites down on her tongue to keep from speaking. Ordlac's points are sound, but so...pessimistic!
"But," he says, suddenly, "the concept has merit. If the council were to put their minds to it, and invite representatives from all parties to offer their own suggestions…" He trails off, clearly lost in thought.
"'Tis a young person's dream," Torfrith grumbles. "Filled with good intentions, but little wisdom."
"What is youth for, Lord Torfrith," Lothiriel finds herself saying, willing herself not to blush under the man's intense stare, "if not for good intentions and foolishness?"
Ordlac cannot hide his grin, even as the older man's frown deepens. "As a princess, I would have thought you to have more sense, my lady."
"I think she has sense aplenty," Ordlac interjects, "and heart enough to tell two old men that she is displeased that we lack her vision."
Torfrith harrumphs. "I think I will manage without the princess's vision. Good day, my ladies."
They watch him go, Lothiriel's heart feeling somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. Oh, she had not meant to offend him! She knows many of the older Eorlingas were dead-set against the idea of allying with the Dunlendings, and that the idea of introducing another, potentially treacherous ally, would be unappealing to many, despite the good it might bring. And Torfrith was well respected-if he spoke out against the trading routes, it is likely they would never occur-
"Do not let him fluster you, my lady," Ordlac says, startling her. "Torfrith is all bark and no bite. And used to be quite sympathetic to...unorthodox causes, in his day. Give him time to digest the idea and I have no doubt we will have his support."
"We?" Lothiriel says, in a dazed tone.
"Aye," he says, lifting her hand to his mouth for a polite kiss, "we, glómmung cwén."
Eowyn's hand receives a similar treatment before the older man turns, whistling cheerfully as he exits the hall.
A sudden shiver of awareness snakes up her spine, blessedly sparing her from being surprised when she hears Eomer say, "Making friends?"
"Suitors, more like," Eowyn teases as he comes to stand between them, "Beware, Eomer, or you may find Ordlac throwing his hat into the ring for Lothiriel's hand."
"I will have to double my efforts then," he murmurs, mimicking his counselor in raising Lothiriel's hand to press a kiss to its back. Unlike his counselor's, however, the feeling it evokes are anything but polite. Lothiriel's entire hand tingles, and she can feel herself flush from cheeks to chest.
It is on the tip of her tongue to retort that if he doubled his efforts any more, they would likely find themselves in as messy of a situation as her brother and Lisswyn-she cannot forget their interlude on poor, oblivious Wilfled's kitchen table, the overwhelming heat of him, the surprising but far-from-unwanted way he'd lifted her, settled between her legs like he'd been made for it-
Eowyn clearing her throat startles them both and Eomer quickly releases her hand.
"If ever you two call Faramir and I nauseating again, I am going to remind you of this precise moment," she says.
Lothiriel blushes deeper, if possible, while Eomer shifts awkwardly before giving a little lurch, looking at his sister with narrowed eyes. "Why would we have cause to call you and Faramir nauseating, swestor?"
It is Eowyn's turn to look discomforted, twisting the end of her braid around her finger. Merthwyn calls her name and she hurries off, relief plain on her face.
"On second thought, I do not think I want to know," Eomer decides, drawing a laugh from Lothiriel. "I am intrigued, however, to know what it was that sent Torfrith off in such a huff."
She bites her lip, suddenly anxious. She had not truly intended to bring the matter up with Eowyn, let alone any of the council members, and discussing it with Eomer is even more nerve-wracking. He has entered into a truce with the Dunlendings, yes, but the plan as it stands is in its infancy at best, and his approval means more to her than most. "It may come to naught and is therefore unimportant."
Eomer arches an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced. "I do not see how."
Lothiriel cocks her head to the side, confused. "What do you mean?"
Eomer's smile is a warm, private thing. "It clearly matters to you. Thus it cannot resemble anything unimportant."
She can feel her mouth fall open in-surprise? Awe?-and knows she must surely look comical, gaping at him as she is.
I love you, she thinks, unbidden, and can feel her face heat again at the thought. Oh, Elbereth, but she does. She likely has for weeks, now. But it's hardly something to declare in the middle of the hall, with curious eyes already on them, and Eomer's expression losing warmth the longer she lets the silence linger.
"Is this to be another secret I cannot ask about?" He asks, something like hurt in his tone.
Impulsively, instinctively, she reaches out to grasp his hand, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. "No," she says, firmly. "Ask me anything, Eomer."
His smile is back, this time with a teasing edge to it. "Anything?" He murmurs, his thumb sliding over her knuckles in a distracting swoop.
She opens her mouth to retort, but before she can, the doors to the hall swing open with a mighty thud. There are muffled curses as cold air billows in. Freca, Eomer's page, comes stumbling into view. Eomer groans, dropping her hand as other Eorlingas call out confused greetings to the boy.
"Eomer K-King!" He stutters. "Where is Eomer King?"
"Here, Freca," Eomer answers, voice cutting across the din of the hall. "What has happened?"
"He says he means to call for a weorþgeorn hearmplega," the boy says.
"An honor fight?" Eowyn repeats, clearly befuddled. "Who?"
"E-Eothain Captain," he manages, clearly still out of breath, "and Prince Erchirion, they-"
Lothiriel cannot help herself; she gasps. Loud enough to draw Eomer's attention, not to mention a good number of surrounding people.
"Loth-"
"We should go," she interrupts, panic and worry at war in her chest, all earlier happy thoughts banished, "Eomer, we should go now."
Bema alep mec, Eomer thinks, torn between concern and confusion. What reason would Eothain and Erchirion, of all people, have to engage in a weorþgeorn hearmplega? His friend is hot-headed, that is well-known, but Lothiriel's brother is anything but, despite his more recent bouts of melancholy.
Regardless, he is King, and must find the root of this discord and provide justice to whatever party has been wronged. Given the sudden pallor of Lothiriel's face, the problem between the two men is must be related to whatever secret had so upset her the week previously. But he can hardly ask her at the moment-they, along with a gaggle of curious onlookers, are nearing Wilfled and Eothain's home.
"Gamling," he says, giving his loyal friend a stern look. "Find Eothred. It is likely we will need all the help we can get in resolving this situation."
The older man gives a sharp nod before hurrying back off towards the marshal's lodgings.
Eomer rounds the corner and groans aloud at the sight that greets him: Eothain, red-faced and out of breath in his anger, is only kept back from the Gondorian prince by the resolute wall of Wilfled and Lisswyn's bodies.
Erchirion is sporting a sluggishly bleeding nose, but looks-mercifully-no worse for wear.
"Listen to me, Eothain," Lisswyn is saying, her normally sweet voice pinched with no small measure of irritation, "I do not ask you to do this-"
"I cannot understand you!" Eothain cries, interrupting her. "How-how can you stand here and defend this-this-hrot, who has dishonored you in every way-"
"I do not feel dishonored!" She retorts. "I am a grown woman who knows my own mind and heart, brōþor. I am as much to blame for this as Erchirion-"
"I meant no disrespect to Lisswyn or to your family," Erchirion says, the sound warped by his broken nose, "I am sorry it has come to this, Eothain, but we will not be swayed-"
"We?!" Eothain hisses, lunging towards him and Eomer steps closer, intercepting him at the same time Wilfled does.
"Eothain, please," Wilfled says, "listen to what they are saying. Do not let your pride-"
"My pride?" Eothain bellows, swatting away his wife's hands and turning a ferocious glare on Eomer. "What say you, Eomer King? Do you think it is pride that makes me want to rip this disrespectful bastard's head off? For getting my sister with child without a hint of courtship? I doubt he even intends to provide for her, nor the babe!"
There is a gasp from the assembled crowd. To do such a thing is above dishonor-it is a man's sacred duty to care for any child he begets, no matter the circumstances, and to keep its mother in comfort, even if they cannot be wed. For Erchirion to behave thus...Lisswyn is well within her rights, as the wronged party, to call for a weorþgeorn hearmplega.
Eomer turns narrowed eyes on Erchirion. "How do you answer this charge, Prince Erchirion?" He asks, voice shaking with barely contained anger. That any man would treat Lisswyn in such a manner is beyond galling, but that it is Erchirion, Imrahil's son, Lothiriel's brother, a man he has respected and trusted since Morannon-
"That is not my intention," he says, shoulders squared. "I will wed Lisswyn here and now, if that is what you ask of me. I will not deny that I have not behaved as I ought to have, that I have been reckless and disrespectful of your customs, but it was all done in love. I will do whatever is required to prove that I am honest in this. I am not afraid to accept the consequences of my actions."
That is much more in line with what Eomer has come to know of the Prince. Still, to have gotten Lisswyn with child with no courtship gifts exchanged, nor a betrothal announced-it is no small insult. But he is not unwilling to wed her, nor to provide for the child. A fool he has been, but an well-intentioned one, at least.
"What's all this, then?" Eothred says, appearing with Gamling hot on his heels.
Eothain turns to face his uncle, his face still magnificently red. "This Gondorian cifesboren has gotten Lisswyn with child. Without courting gifts, without respect for our traditions-"
"He did not know them," Lisswyn interjects, "and I failed to correct him-I am just as guilty of being irresponsible, Eothain, I wanted Erchirion's love and-"
"I will not hear it!" Eothain cries. "You are too level-headed to behave in such a way, Lisswyn! It-he must have deceived you, somehow-"
Lisswyn's face is nearly as red as her brother's. "You dare-"
"Please, can we not discuss this inside?" Lothiriel says, speaking for the first time since they left the hall. "And in a calmer way-"
"Calm?" Eothain explodes. "You ask me to be calm? Tell me, Lothiriel, would your brother be so calm if it were you and Eomer in this situation?"
Eomer scarcely suppresses a curse as Erchirion lurches forward, stopped only from striking Eothain by Gamling's solid arm around his chest. There is another round of gasps from the crowd, followed swiftly by murmurs.
"Eomer King and glómmung cwén?"
"I knew there had to be more to her being here than merely serving as a companion to Lady Eowyn, especially after Yule-"
"Perhaps she is with child as well-"
"Enough!" Eomer barks, too aware of the consequences of Eothain's reckless question. "This matter should never have been handled in public to begin with. Gamling, Ceola, escort Eothain and Erchirion to the council-room. I will join you shortly."
"I am coming, too," Lisswyn declares, meeting Eomer's gaze with a determination that he cannot help but admire. "I will not have the course of my future decided by others, family or not."
Eomer nods his approval-he would not deny her that. The crowd begins to disperse, though the whispers continue. Lothiriel is rooted to the spot, face flushed nearly as red as Eothain's. Wilfled and Eowyn go to her, taking a hand each, clearly offering her comfort, support.
This is most certainly the secret she'd been burdened with-Bema, what had Erchirion and Lisswyn been thinking, putting themselves in this position? Not to mention drawing Lothiriel and, if he's not mistaken, Duilin, into the web of their confidence. And Eothain, with his damned temper, has not only all but declared their impropriety to all of Edoras, but has also thrown his and Lothiriel's courtship into the open. But he cannot think of that, now. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation must take priority. Imrahil will have to be informed of his son's actions, as well as Aragorn as Erchirion's liege-lord. There is Eothian to placate, not to mention Eothred's thoughts on the matter, and Eomer is certain that the council will have something to say about this scandal as well, if only because it involves a visiting prince and the niece of the Second Marshal.
Gamling and Ceola have successfully herded Eothain and the still-bleeding Erchirion away. Eothred is speaking in a low voice to Lisswyn, whose face crumples only once before she threads her arm through his and allows him to lead her back towards Meduseld.
"I will stay with the children," Wilfled says. "Eowyn, Lothiriel, you may stay-"
"No," Lothiriel answers, voice wobbly. "I have my own place in this, Wilfled. I knew-I saw-"
"We all saw," Wilfled interrupts. "I do not understand how Eothain can profess surprise at this. Lisswyn and Erchirion have had eyes only for each other since the moment they met."
"They are grown people, Lothiriel," Eowyn says soothingly. "This situation is of their own making. Eothain will see reason."
"Or he will be made to see it," Eomer mutters, earning a wry look from Wilfled. "If you are coming, Lothiriel, we should be gone."
All color leaves her face at that, rendering her nearly as pale as she had been at the start of this madness. She drops both other women's hands, twisting her own anxiously as she does so. "I-Eomer, after what Eothain said, what the people must think of me, of us-"
Cursing his friend's loose tongue, he steps closer, crooking a finger under her chin. "I am sorry that it came out this way," he says, unable to keep his thumb from smoothing over her jaw in a gentle motion, "but I can promise that it changes neither my feelings nor my intentions towards you."
"And at the very least," pipes in Eowyn, "when you aren't big with a bastard child at the time of my wedding, even the worst of the gossips would be forced to see what Eothain said was pure nonsense."
Wilfled gives a strangled laugh as Lothiriel's cheeks flush again, but her hand drifts up to fit over his. "I cannot promise not to worry," she says, "but this changes nothing for me, either."
Thank Bema, he thinks, wanting to kiss her so badly he aches with it, but with Wilfled rolling her eyes and Eowyn smirking like a cat that has gotten into the cream behind her, he settles for giving her hand a tight squeeze. "And that is why you're the sensible one, swete."
The sound of someone clearing their throat makes him turn, meeting Erkenbrand's long-suffering expression. "The King's justice is required, sire," he says. "And there's a bruised Gondorian prince whose nose needs tending to."
Lothiriel's arm is only trembling a little when she loops it through his, but her face is composed by the time they make their way through the first square.
"Eall bist fægere," he says in a low tone.
"Let us hope so," she whispers back, a hint of the usual sparkle back in her eyes.
Eomer excuses Lothiriel to stop by her room to gather her medical supplies for Erchirion's nose.
Her absence gives him the opportunity to press a hand to his temple, willing himself to keep his temper in check. More than anything, he wants to shake both men until sense has rattled back into their brains-what had they been thinking, airing such a private matter to any who had been walking by? But that is far from a kingly way to behave. No, his tactics will have to be much more...subtle.
Still, it's with no small supply of pleasure that he flings the door to the council-room open, causing both Eothain and Erchirion to jump in surprise. Gamling gives him an exasperated look, likely knowing his theatrics for what they are. Lisswyn stands anxiously by the fire, with Eothred flanking her, likely for both protection and comfort.
"Would either of you care to explain," Eomer says, in a tone copied from Theoden from countless lectures over the years, "why a captain of Rohan and a prince of Gondor were brawling in the street like common criminals?"
Erchirion, at least, looks appropriately abashed, but Eothain's face goes impressively red once more."Bema's balls, Eomer!" He cries. "You cannot be reprimanding me for taking him to task, as he damn well deserves!"
"I can and I am," Eomer says. "It is one thing to address a matter like this in your own home, but to air such a thing in public-" He has to stop, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have managed to not only call undue attention to your sister and the child she carries, but assaulted a diplomatic guest who is under my protection by guest right."
Eothain looks ready to work himself into another black temper, but Erchirion cuts across him, saying, "I want no action taken against Eothain for that. I deserved the punch and his censure."
Small mercies, Eomer thinks, giving him a stern look. "Yes, and you have earned mine as well. Green boys with not a penny to their names have done better by women than you have by Lisswyn, are a Prince of Gondor, with much to offer her-why keep it a secret?"
"You know the differences between our courting traditions and your own," Erchirion answers. "I had written to my parents to tell them about Lisswyn and they asked me to wait until they'd met her to give us their blessing to be wed. I did not like it, but their logic was sound. As a prince, much of my personal life remains political. I was going to speak to Eothain and Eothred before I returned to Gondor for Faramir and Eowyn's wedding, to make my intentions clear, but-" He pauses, guilt written in every line of his face. "Then-the child-"
"The child you never would have dared to sire on a Gondorian noblewoman?" asks Eothain. "But yes, prince, tell me more about how you respect Lisswyn, love her, when you have taken liberties with her in a way you would never have dreamed of with a woman of your own country?"
Erchirion's face drains of color. "I-"
"Eothain," Lisswyn says, voice soft but even, "there were no liberties taken that I did not give freely and happily."
Eothain blanches-Eomer cannot blame him. Frankly, he cannot imagine discussing something like this with Eowyn without wanting to do the man responsible bodily harm, either. And he suspects his captain has a point; he doubts Erchirion would have ever thought of behaving thus with any Gondorian lady, widowed or otherwise. He has been reckless, both with Lisswyn and with his position.
"Lisswyn," Eomer says, trying to keep his own tone gentle. Bema, how to say this to her? He has known Lisswyn since they were children, and respects her as much as he does Eowyn. "I ask because I must, as your sovereign: do you call for a weorþgeorn hearmplega? If you feel mistreated in any way, it is your right to do so."
"No," she says. "I do not want that. As backwards as this all has been, I do not feel dishonored. I love Erchirion, " at this she offers the prince a watery smile, "and he loves me. That is enough."
"You are too good," Eothain murmurs fiercely, "you have always been too good, too kind-"
Lisswyn's eyes flash dangerously at that, but a soft knock at the door that interrupts her before she can answer. It's pushed open by a grim-faced Erkenbrand, with Lothiriel at his side.
"The princess would like to tend her brother's nose," Erkenbrand says.
Eothain opens his mouth-to say Bema knows what-but Eothred interrupts, mercifully tactful for once. "Aye, lass, we'll not deny you that."
Lothiriel offers him a grateful smile, crossing the room to Erchirion's side. There are muffled grumbles coming from the other side of the door-the councilors, presumably.
"The council would like to speak to you, sire," Erkenbrand says, the exasperation on his face greater than ever.
"You can tell the council to-" Eothain starts, temper clearly boiling over again, but Eomer silences him with a fierce glare.
"I will speak to them when the matter between Erchirion and Lisswyn has been resolved to their satisfaction," he says, "and not before."
Erkenbrand lets out a long-suffering sigh before offering him a crisp nod. The door closes again, muffling the sound of his councilors' outraged squawks.
"What's the verdict, my lady?" Gamling asks.
"Broken, though not too badly," murmurs Lothiriel.
"A pity," hisses Eothain, earning exasperated looks from Gamling and Eothred, and a frown from Lisswyn.
"Enough," his uncle barks, surprising them all-for once, Eothred's face is devoid of its usual humor. "You may have satisfied your anger, Eothain, but breaking the man's nose does nothing for Lisswyn nor the child. They love each other, and if she's agreed to marry him, there's precious little we can do to dissuade her."
Eothain gawks at him. "How can you say that? Uncle, he is scarcely fit to look at Lisswyn, let alone wed her-"
"That isn't how she sees it," Eothred interrupts, "and our opinions of the prince scarcely matter compared to what will make Lisswyn happy." He turns to face his niece, reaching out to take her hands. "You are sure of this, lass? He's still the man you want?"
"I would have no other," she assures him. "Erchirion is a good man, Uncle. I know you and Eothain will come to see what I do in time."
"But what of the matter of Prince Imrahil and the Lady Dejah?" Asks Gamling, sensibly. "Did you not say they only offered their approval on the condition the pair of you waited to be troughed until after they'd met Lisswyn?"
Erchirion's face shifts from pale to flushed so rapidly that Lothiriel gives a cry of alarm, reaching to steady him with a hand at his elbow. "I wrote to them. When we found out about the child. As angry as they will be with me, as disappointed, not even a direct order from my father could sway me from my current course."
Both Lisswyn and Lothiriel turn wide eyes on him, but where Lisswyn's face is hopeful, relieved, Lothiriel's is a study in worry.
"Which is what?" Eothred asks.
Erchirion meets the older man's eyes. "I will wed Lisswyn. If my parents revoke my status as a prince of Dol Amroth, I will write to my uncles in Pelargir and offer myself as a soldier for their border patrols. If they will not accept me, I have contacts in the Gondorian fleet who would hire me. Lisswyn, Darwyn, and our child will not want for anything as long as I draw breath, no matter the cost. Our family holds more value to me than any crown ever could."
It is clear he has thought about this, and clearer still that he is sincere in what he says. Lisswyn has drifted closer, slipping her hand into Erchirion's, but Eomer's gaze is drawn to Lothiriel. Lothiriel, who meets his eyes with an expression that can only be described as stricken. It takes all of his self-control not to go to her, to offer her comfort in any way he can, to repeat his promise that all will be well-
"And we are to have no say in the matter," Eothain says, voice pulling him from his thoughts, "and are supposed to be content with the idea of you moving Lisswyn and Darwyn leagues away from their kin and home?"
"I did not want to presume I would be welcome to remain in Rohan," Erchirion answers. "I know I have not done as I ought to have, and that Eomer is well within his rights to expel me from the country for an extended period, if not permanently."
Erchirion isn't wrong, but Eomer can scarcely imagine doing such a thing. For one, any banishment imposed on the prince would extend to his wife and children as well, and Lisswyn has done nothing to deserve such a punishment. Secondly it is not as if Erchirion has done anything against Lisswyn's will-if he had, Eomer would not lift one finger to prevent Eothain and Eothred tearing him limb from limb-and it is not as if he is not offering to do the right thing, now.
"That is not necessary," Eomer says. He has been disrespectful to their customs, rash with his and Lisswyn's lives, but not malicious or actively harmful. "You have committed no criminal offense, Erchirion."
Eothain opens his mouth to protest, but Lisswyn interrupts with a glare, saying, "I am the only one with the right to accuse him of any wrongdoing, which I will not and certainly never shall."
"In that case, I would like to provide another option," Eomer says, aware of every eye in the room turning in his direction. Eothain's are narrowed, Eothred and Gamling's accompanied by arched eyebrows, Lisswyn and Erchirion's hopeful, and Lothiriel's...Bema, he could not say what emotion shines there but whatever it is makes his chest tighten, the urge to comfort her stronger than ever. "Should your parents displeasure cost you your prince-hood, or your uncles refuse your offer to serve them, there will be a place for you in the eored based out of Aldburg."
Eothain splutters at that. "Eomer, you cannot be serious! You would reward him for spitting in the face of tradition, of our goodwill, by becoming a rider of the Riddermark?"
"He will begin as any new rider would," Eomer says, giving his captain a stony look, "at the bottom. It will be a chance for him to prove himself, both as a warrior and as a man."
Erchirion nods, sharply. "I thank you for your offer, Eomer King." At this, he turns taking both of Lisswyn's hands in his. "But the choice must be yours, meleth."
"Mine alone?" She asks, smiling despite the small shake of her head. "Erchirion, we must face this as we have everything else. Together."
"And it's not one that should be made lightly," Eothred adds. "Might I suggest until waiting until after you're wed to choose a nesting spot?"
That draws a startled laugh from Gamling, but Eothain's face is still hostile as he eyes the couple. "Sweostor," he finally says, "this is what you want? Truly?"
"Yes," Lisswyn says, without hesitation, "and I am sorry that the manner in which it has happened has upset you, Eothain, but I am happy. I finally understand what it is that you and Wilfled share. Is that not reason enough?"
Eothain's shoulders droop. "I would not deny you that. No matter how unworthy I think the man you have given your heart to has proven himself to be."
Erchirion stiffens. "I only ask for the opportunity to show that I can be better than I have been these past months. To Lisswyn, to your family, to Rohan itself, if I must."
"Yes," Eothain agrees, "you must."
"I believe we have a wedding to plan, then," Eothred says, good humor clearly creeping back in, despite everything. "Come now, niece, nephew, pup," ah, Eomer can hear the slightly menacing tone there as he claps a hand to Erchirion's shoulder hard enough to make him flinch, "we need to share the happy news with Wilfled and the children."
Confident that Eothain is no longer likely to throttle the prince, Eomer gives his marshal a nod of dismissal. The four of the move to the door, flanked by Gamling.
"Should I allow the councilors in, sire?" He asks.
Eomer turns his head to meet Lothiriel's eyes. "Not yet," he says.
"Eomer-" Erchirion starts to say, protest clear in his tone.
"I'll stay with them," Gamling says. "Fret not, prince, for you have bigger concerns than Eomer wooing your sister."
With that, he all but shoos the group from the room, shutting the door quickly behind them before Erkenbrand can so much as blink in surprise. He remains by the door, his weathered face creasing slightly in amusement. "Go on then, leofbriddas. Pretend I'm not here."
Lothiriel's arms are around his waist before Eomer can blink, her face pressed tightly against his chest. "I am sorry," she's murmuring, the sound muffled, "I should have told you, I should have done something-"
"Swete," he says, stroking a hand through her hair. "It is good that you did not. I would have had to intervene regardless, and at least now we can be sure that Eothain will not murder your brother in the street."
"For now, anyways," she concedes, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "Oh, Eomer, what you have done for them-"
"I cannot pretend that I think well of Erchirion at the moment, nor that it will be easy for him should he choose to join the eored," Eomer admits. "Eorlingas are proud, and they will see how he has behaved towards Lisswyn thus far as dishonorable. But I know him to be a good man, this instance aside, and my people are fair. If he proves himself to be a good husband to Lisswyn, no one will speak a word against him."
Lothiriel sniffs. "I hate the situation he has made for himself, and for Lisswyn. But I cannot deny it is a relief knowing it is resolved, at least in part. Though what my parents will say…"
"Your father is a wise man and your mother kind. Angry as they may be at Erchirion for his lack of judgement, I cannot see them banishing him from Dol Amroth, nor forbidding him to wed Lisswyn."
"You are right," she agrees. "I...I am more worried what they will say about you and I, in the wake of all of this."
"Lothiriel," he says, crooking a finger under her chin, "I meant what I said, before. This changes nothing in regards to my intentions or feelings towards you. Whatever challenges the council or your family offers, we will manage them. There is-" His throat feels dry, nervousness clawing at him, but he continues on, "there is no other woman I would want at my side. As my queen, as my wife."
Lothiriel's mouth has fallen open in a round 'o' of surprise. It's endearing, and it would be amusing, were his heart not thundering as loud as a herd of horses in his chest. Bema, has he been too blunt, too honest? Has he spoken too soon-
The sudden press of her hands on either side of his face startles him out of his thoughts, and then she's kissing him, fiercely, stretched up on her toes to reach him. "Eomer," she gasps, breathlessly, "oh, Eomer-"
The sound of Gamling clearing his throat rather pointedly makes them break apart. Lothiriel is flushed and Eomer imagines his face is no less red. "Well, then," the older man says wryly, "I suppose the prince was right to worry. Amusing as this has been, the council still awaits you, sire."
Eomer groans. "I know." He turns to Lothiriel. "They will have questions for both of us. And likely Erchirion, and Eothain."
Lothiriel squares her shoulders. "It is the first of the challenges we must face, I suppose." She smiles, saying, "And I find I am not afraid, if you are with me."
Lisswyn has the right of it, Eomer thinks as Gamling opens the door, there's something to be said for together.
Author's Note: This was a doozy of a chapter, both to write and to plot, so I'm a little too worn out to give the long, rambling breakdown I usually do. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation is out in the open now, and you can bet your bottom dollar the council has thoughts on that, and on Eothain's charming reveal of Eomer and Lothiriel's courtship. We'll be meeting a new character next chapter who has some choice words as well-but that has to wait until next time.
Terms:
weorþgeorn hearmplega: honor fight, similar to a duel
hrot: scoundrel
cifesboren: bastard
Eall bist fægere: all will be well
meleth: Sindarian, 'love'