Chapter Thirty-Five: A Strong Heart

The breeze off the ocean swept through the room and carried with it the scent of salt, the burning embers of fire, and even the sweet essence of the bouquets littered throughout the hall. The candelabras and the torches burned orange and yellow, lending their bright mirth to the people packed in the hall. Light from the moon outside flitted in through the open windows, and if one listened closely, a barn owl from the nearby stables could be heard, his song floating languidly through on the wind.

However, the silence in the hall was deafening.

No one moved, no one spoke, no one blinked, as surely as no one breathed.

Éomer knelt before Lothíriel, as regal as the king he was, yet subservient in her presence. She stood before him, employing all the nobility yielded to her by blood, trying desperately to hide the quake in her hands, the trembling of her knees, the raging beat of her heart. She knew her eyes were bright, too bright, and her lips quivered as she peered down at him, meeting those brown eyes that had haunted her for days and nights untold. He looked up to her as if she held the moon and the sun, begging her unashamedly for the peace locked in his soul.

A peace that only she had the key to.

"Tell me," Lothíriel whispered, a hoarse whisper. "What changed? Why are you acting on your thoughts now if you realized them however many weeks ago? Why are you no longer afraid to admit your true feelings, feelings that were once so deplorable to you that you scorned them?" Her voice grew in its ferocity, growing hard as if to strengthen the crumbling wall around her heart.

Except Éomer's reply shattered her, as all his words before had.

"I lost you. I realized that I am not willing to go through that again.

"After countless nights of little sleep, of drinking ale until I succumbed to nothingness, of fighting with those I call kin, I had finally had enough. I admitted the heart of my turmoil, and accepted my fate for what it was: if I did not have you, I had nothing at all. In doing so, I was brought a sort of peace that, if I had known existed, I would have accepted it far sooner than I had. But I was a fool, Lothíriel, a fool in so many ways. A fool for thinking that I could live without you, that I could love without you, that I could move on without you, that I could achieve happiness without you. I am sorry it took so long for me to come to this conclusion… But I am here now. Please, let that speak."

A disgusted snarl of outrage tore through the silence that had permeated the atmosphere and Elphir broke free from the hold on his anger and surged forward, grabbing Éomer by the arm to bring him from his knees.

"I care not if you are the King of Rohan; take him to the dungeons."

The crowd reeled, gasping in outrage and denial, from the sudden onslaught of movement. Guards began to push their way in. Too shocked by the sudden action in the room and what had just transpired between she and Éomer, Lothíriel could not act. The guards came forward and two took him into their grasp while the remaining six fitted in tight formation around him. Imrahil did not stop them, and Lothíriel's pleas were lost in the heavy pounding of their feet against the cold, stone floor.

"No! Wait! Please!"

The crowd parted to allow them to pass, and Lothíriel could do nothing but watch as Éomer was forced out of the hall and through the double doors, Elphir and Amrothos in his wake, before they were all swallowed up with the darkness of the night. The crowd had turned to watch him go, but their eyes wavered back to her then, murmuring and whispering between one another and growing louder with every moment that passed.

In a swirl of scarlet skirts Lothíriel turned to face her father, her face pale in the bright light of the room. She rushed toward him on unsteady feet, her heart pounding, her soul weeping, but why, for what…

Why do you care so much, if you claim to not care at all?

"Father please—"

"Go to my study." His tone brokered no room for argument, but Lothíriel wouldn't have even if she wanted to. In another moment, the emotions she had been so tenaciously holding back were about to break the dam of her resolve.

Instantly Nissa was there, and clutching onto the woman like the lifeline she so suddenly was, the two hurried across the hall and disappeared through the door to her father's study. A quick word to a nearby servant had the hall spirited with music once more, and soon enough the crowd had dispersed and fallen back into their forgotten revelry.

"It has been almost five days, my lady. Do you not think it would be prudent to send out a search party for Éomer King?"

Éowyn smiled, glancing from her stitching to look at Gamling, who smiled into his mug but promptly ignored Frond. Éothain looked up from his own mug, snorting a laugh before he smiled and shook his head. The three sat before the hearth in the hall of Meduseld while Frond hovered between them, their kinsmen lining the trestle tables behind them, all taking part in the fine ale and peace of the land. The hall was warm, welcoming, and there was laughter and much to be happy about on this splendid Rohirric evening. It was what Éowyn had missed most being at war: being at home with her kin and tranquil of heart.

"Go ahead, Master Frond. Send out a search party."

"Aye, straight to Dol Amroth."

Frond glowered, his brow drawn low over his beady brown eyes. He looked nervously from Éothain to Éowyn, to Gamling back to Éowyn, becoming flustered when no one paid him a single mind. He fluttered his hands through the confines of his thick, brown robes, sweat dotting his forehead.

"Perhaps you would share your levity with me? I find nothing humorous about a missing king!"

"Master Frond," Éowyn set aside her stitching, turning slightly in her seat to peer at Frond over a slender shoulder. "Do you see anyone else in this hall that looks worried?"

Frond spun about to look at the people in the hall, and not one of them batted an eye in his direction. They were making merry through bawdy stories or tales of war while sipping their Rohirric ale without a single care in the world.

Frond turned back to look at Éowyn, his eyes wide and full of fright. "No, and that is the problem my lady! Are you not worried for your brother? He did not take a single guard with him! Just his sword and that awful beast of a horse."

"I assure you, Master Frond, my brother is just fine."

Gamling snorted. "That is debatable."

"He will be there by now, do you not think, Gamling?"

"Just about."

"Right in time for the celebration." Éowyn said, turning back toward the fire to finish her stitching. And hopefully not a second too late.

"Be where? What celebration?" Frond was aghast, sputtering his words as he looked from one person to the next. "Did he leave you a missive before he left? If you know something, speak it please!"

"Be silent, would you? I am trying to enjoy my ale." Gamling grumbled, throwing a dark look at Frond.

Frond gaped at Gamling, before closing his mouth to sputter once more, "How dare you—"

"Master Frond, please, for the sake of our nerves, perhaps you should retire for the night. You will rest easy knowing that I am privy to exactly where my brother has gone. Although, his return is somewhat questionable…"

Gamling and Éothain snickered.

"Perhaps you would care to share your enlightenment with me?" Frond said tightly.

"Not really."

Frond regained his speech entirely too soon for Éowyn's liking. "Then what has you so sure of this, my lady?"

Éowyn grinned, her eyes never wavering from her careful stitching. "It is a visit he has been most overdue for."

Lothíriel paced the length of her father's study, ruby skirts billowing about her slippered feet as she briskly scoured the stone floor. Her hair fluttered out behind her in long, shining rivulets, her eyes gleaming in the low light of the moon that filtered in through the open window and the single candle standing on her father's desk. Her father sat at said desk looking through the window over her mother's garden, the patch having gone untended since the last time she had set foot in it all those years ago. Her brothers, Elphir and Amrothos having returned, stood near the hearth, all brooding and silent; Amrothos alternated between looking at her and Imrahil, Elphir had his arms crossed over his burly chest and watched her, and Erchirion's eyes were lost to the flames. Nissa and Celís were in the far corner, watching Lothíriel with pale faces and moon-wide eyes.

The raucous noise of the ongoing celebration permeated the solid oak door, though Lothíriel heard nothing but the memory of Éomer's words resounding throughout her soul. She replayed them, over and over and over as she paced, but was drawn from her reverie at the sound of her brother's acidic tone.

"How dare he ride here," Elphir suddenly seethed, the first to speak since they all had reconvened in Imrahil's study. He was bruised up well enough; his right eye was black and his nose had just finished dripping blood, but it was bulbous, and an angry red at that. "How dare he show up unannounced, uninvited—"

"You sound like a petulant girl." Lothíriel snapped, never ceasing her pacing.

Elphir ignored her. "—storming into the hall as if he owned it, breaking the solace of our home, and then making such bold, ridiculous claims!"

"Ridiculous!" Lothíriel whirled to face her brother, her face mottled in her anger. "They were no more ridiculous than you attacking him like a beast!"

Amrothos interjected hotly, "That brigand deserved a good pummeling—"

"And you are no better!" She turned to confront Amrothos, her brow drawn low over her eyes. "I needed your help to stop the brawl that was taking place, but out of selfishness of your own thoughts you acted like a heathen!"

"Selfish?" Amrothos drew back, completely and genuinely aghast at her words. "Heathen?"

Elphir bristled, his chest swelling with white-hot anger. "Do not tell me you are to fall prey to his pretty words?"

Lothíriel burned hot with embarrassment, but her heart hummed. And, in turn, cast away all the hate and sadness you have been secretly carrying? This is what you wanted, thought was lost to you. For weeks and weeks and weeks it is what you have longed for, this moment…

"He treated you no better than one of his dogs! You were there for his pleasure, to keep him company and make him smile, but then when you stepped out of line he kicked you aside without remorse or reason! He tarnished your good name, made you feel like the dirt beneath his boots, and spared no thought for your feelings in the process—"

"Like you are!" Lothíriel shouted, her body trembling with her anger. "Like you have in the past! Always telling me 'you are too young, Little Loth', or 'you would not understand', or 'this is not for women to know'. How does your scorn of my behavior all those weeks ago differ from his own? How has any of your ridicule or demoralizations differed? You have never thought to take in account my feelings, Elphir, always telling me in so many words that I was too weak, too foolish, too stupid to do or say anything worthwhile!At least he had the right mind to apologize for degrading me and not continue to treat me like an invalid!"

Elphir reared back as if she had slapped him. "Your feelings are the very reason I have a black eye and a broken nose! Do you really think so little of me as to believe I think those things of you? That is the farthest thing from the truth I have ever heard! And are you so daft as to think that all that has transpired tonight has not been for you?"

"For me? That was for me?" Lothíriel laughed without humor, stepping back from her brother as she shook her head. "You may keep your angry fists and heated words, brother. Please, do not rise to my defense again if that is all you can bring to the table.

"Selfish, both of you." Lothíriel spat, her eyes dancing with fire from Elphir to Amrothos. "If either of you had thought about me for one second you would not have acted at all. What has transpired between Éomer and I is my battle and my battle alone. Do you still think me a child incapable of her own decisions?

"For weeks I laid in the cesspit of my own mind, and a dark and forbidding place it was. Do you not think I remember that time? Moreover, do you not think I have learned from it? Grown from it? I am more woman now than I have ever been and I have vowed not to tremble and fall silent in anyone's shadow again. Including your own."

"You are being ungrateful—"

Amrothos cut Elphir off. "You claim to have learned from it. If that is true and you are to still fall at his feet after his show of dramatics, after the way he has treated you and what he rendered you to, then I will not stand around and wait for it to happen." Amrothos seethed, his tone low and dangerous. His eyes reflected the light of the candle and the roaring hearth, alight with his fury, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I cannot see you like that again, Lothíriel. The light died within you; he did that to you."

"You do not understand, Amrothos." Lothíriel said, exasperation in her tone. "I cannot let the past define me or the path I am to take. A part of moving on, of growing from what has happened, is forgiveness."

Amrothos coiled back like a snake, his eyes wide with disbelief. Nissa saw his reaction, and that of her husband as he took a step forward, and she glided forward to lay a hand on Elphir's forearm, her voice soft as she interjected, "Perhaps you two should give Lothíriel some time alone, to think about what has happened. A lot has taken place this night, and I am sure we can all reconcile tomorrow with clearer minds."

Innumerable moments of silence passed, with only the snapping and crackling of the fire and the muted sounds of merriment to fill the void, before Imrahil said, "Return to the celebration."

Lothíriel paled. There is no way I could—

"Lothíriel, you will stay."

Amrothos and Elphir, men in their own right, liked little being ordered about. But they also both knew their father was still to be obeyed. Stiffly, they strode across the room for the door, with Erchirion slow in their wake. However, Amrothos paused next to Lothíriel to impart on her his final words. She did not look at him, would not acknowledge him for her anger, and instead stared at the leaping flames in the hearth as he spoke.

"I will be there when you return with another broken heart." Amrothos said, his voice like rough-hewn mountain rock. "And I will help you pick up the pieces once more, because I am your brother and no matter what has or will transpire I love you Lothíriel, without question."

Tears shimmered in Lothíriel's eyes, and because the fire of her anger burned bright she refused to answer her brother's sentiment and the wordless meaning they intoned.

Will he break my heart again?

Am I to trust him?

Could I trust him?

Is Elphir right; were they just pretty words, with weightless meaning?

Lothíriel closed her eyes as the slamming of the oak door resounded throughout the room. She only opened them again when Imrahil asked, "What would you have me do, daughter?"

Lothíriel could not bring herself to turn the scant amount it would take to face her father. She was bleeding, her heart a mangled mess of emotion, as tears pooled in her eyes. She felt gentle hands then, two pair, one on her shoulder and the other wrapping delicately around her waist. Celís and Nissa were with her, had not left with her brothers, and she suddenly felt marginally more calm knowing they had stayed.

"I do not know," she whispered as the tears poured down her cheeks. "I do not know what to do."

Lothíriel counted her heartbeats. The traitorous organ was racing, pounding within her chest, pumping her blood hot and tumultuous through her veins. Her soul was silent for the moment, too saturated with sentiment to lend any insight to the situation, while her conscience continued to pester, to poison her with reason.

He broke you. Remember what that was like, lying in your own filth and degradation?

You swore never to allow it to happen again.

When Imrahil spoke, his words were heavy, rumbling from his great barrel of a chest with an emotion that Lothíriel could not name. "And no one can tell you what to do. They will all speak though, thinking they know what is right for you, the best path you should take. However, keep in mind this: you have no reprieve from yourself. You live with your thoughts, your decisions, and your regrets, face them in the mirror every day just as well as your own flesh. The happiness you choose should not be swayed by anyone else's hand, because they do not have to live as you."

Celís began to stroke her hair softly while Nissa squeezed her waist for comfort.

"Would you think me weak?" Lothíriel whispered, closing her eyes in fear of the answer to the question she so desperately wanted the answer to. "If I were to so easily forgive him?"

Her father, her steadfast rock in the treacherous sea of her emotions, sat silently. It pained her, this silence, and she looked at him then, Nissa and Celís dropping their hands.

Imrahil met her gaze without wavering. His storm-grey eyes, so familiar and soothing to her, gleamed low in the light of his study.

"No, I would not. Forgiveness is not easily given and nor is it easily earned; for it is not a weak heart that forgives, but a strong one."

Imrahil rose from his seat then, and walked the length of the small room to stand before his beloved daughter. He raised a large, calloused hand to her cheek, and Lothíriel trembled as she met his glittering grey gaze. His voice was coarse and low as he said, "I have only ever wanted to see you happy, daughter. I realize now, can see it in your eyes, that he is the only thing that will truly ever leave you so. Do not deny that."

And with that Imrahil left the room, leaving Lothíriel to her thoughts.

Lothíriel sat with her knees drawn up to her chest in her window overlooking the sea, watching as the sun lit the sky as it rose from the east. She was dressed in her chemise and nothing else, with her hair lying in a shining ebony cascade to her waist, her circlet discarded, her gown forgotten in a heap on her bed. Her feet were bare, cold against the stone of her window ledge, and she shivered slightly as the morning mist teased her skin. Celís slept noisily in a rocking chair by the hearth and Nissa had fallen asleep on Lothíriel's bed, leaving the princess the tranquility she needed to sort through all that had happened the night before.

And what a night it was, she thought, as the sky changed from indigo, to plum, to a vibrant shade of pink. Pink bled into orange, and with it the song of the birds began to harmonize, ride the wind to where she sat.

The celebration had drawn into the wee hours of the morning, and downstairs now all was quiet. She was sure no one would be awake before noon save herself, for the wine had been plentiful and the music boisterous, lending merriment to the atmosphere that was long awaited and rightfully indulged. However, Lothíriel had not returned to the affair after all that had transpired; that, coupled with her worry for Éomer still residing in the dungeons, left her anxious throughout the night.

He is here. He rode here, for days on end. Has suffered, been suffering, just as I had.

For me.

Those words he spoke, those actions he took, were for me.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the salty sea air, breathing in the familiarity of it to calm her further.

"You have not slept." Nissa was beside her then, laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

Lothíriel smiled and glanced at her friend. "How could I?"

Nissa moved to take the seat opposite Lothíriel in the wide window frame. Her feet barely touched the floor, dangling nakedly from beneath the emerald folds of the gown she had not changed out of. "Fair enough."

"Thank you for staying with me." Lothíriel told her softly, her grey eyes weary. "You did not have to do so."

"And return to the bed I share with that swine of a husband?" Nissa snorted, a very unladylike maneuver for her, which spoke leagues for her anger. "No thank you."

Lothíriel chuckled low before a yawn overtook her, and then a groan sounded from the chair before the fire. Both women glanced over to see Celís stretching her arms high above her head, grey hair disheveled as she blinked away her slumber.

"Good heavens…" The old maid stood, hands on the small of her back. "I am too old to be sleeping in chairs."

Nissa and Lothíriel shared a laugh, watching as Celís shook her head and pushed her hair out of her face, smoothed the wrinkles from her gown, before winding her way to the two younger women. She reached out to Lothíriel, brushed an errant lock of hair from her eyes as Lothíriel gazed at her with a soft smile.

"I am sorry if we woke you."

"Nonsense; I am usually up before the sun." Celís raised a hand to cover her mouth as she yawned, an apologetic smile quick to follow. "Although I cannot say what poor Margod is thinking of my failure to return home."

"I am sure the entire town of Dol Amroth has heard of what has transpired." Lothíriel said, with only a slight amount of embarrassment in her voice. "Your husband need not be worried. Though I do appreciate you staying with me."

"Would you stop that? You are scaring me with all your niceties." Celís teased.

Lothíriel smiled again, though it was a weak one at best. She sighed deeply before looking down at her fingers, tangled within the folds of her white chemise. When she lifted her gaze to Nissa, and then Celís, it was fraught with longing so desperate that it ached. "I have no further insight this morning than I did last night. Tell me, what should I do?"

"My love, we cannot tell you that." Celís told her softly, her smile gentle as she brushed a hand over Lothíriel's forehead. "The choice has to come from within your own heart."

Lothíriel looked down again, and was unable to bring her gaze up after a few moments of silence.

"That is where your fear lies." Nissa said, laying a hand atop her knee.

"Yes," Lothíriel whispered.

"What about it?"

"Everything." Her voice was laden with tears, and her eyes shining bright when she finally looked up. "If I forgive him, how can I learn to trust him again? He shattered that when he uttered those hateful words, because it showed he had no faith in me. How can he forgive and trust me for my own transgressions? I know what I did was wrong, and I could not be with him if I knew he did not trust me. Does he truly mean all that he said? How can I know for sure? I cannot deny that he holds my heart, but I fear the power that allows him to yield over me."

Nissa shook her head. "But only if you allow it, Lothíriel. And if he truly loves you as he claims, he will never use it to encumber you. Instead he will help your heart flourish, and in turn, yourself."

"And the only way you will know for sure is if you allow him the chance to prove it." Celís added. "And sometimes, it is better knowing than not knowing at all."

"I have come too far to fall again."

"And so you will not; you are stronger than that. He knows that, and it seems as though he respects the sentiment."

"You will learn to trust him, just as he has learned to have faith in you." Nissa told her, drawing Lothíriel's eyes to her. "That is just one part of making a commitment to one another and he has already made half of the journey there. It is up to you to meet him halfway."

"It was no small feat for him, least of all any man, to ride here and display his affections before a crowd of people he did not know. And to have a king at your feet?" Celís's eyes grew wide as she shook her head. "And Lothíriel he is handsome. Even covered in mud and dung, I could see it."

Lothíriel snorted, a laugh erupting from the pit of her stomach. "What a sight I am sure it was."

"I cannot wait to hear the gossips. I am certain it will be the talk of the castle for weeks." Nissa said, nudging Lothíriel with a smirk on her lips.

"That aside, his actions have spoken volumes, enough to move the entire Ered Nimrais." Celís said with another shake of her head. "No woman has ever been shown that much dedication, I am sure of it."

"And if this is what your heart wants, your father is right: do not deny it. If you know this is a key to a part of your happiness, do not squander the chance to snatch it from fate's hands." Nissa told her vehemently, shaking her slightly. "For who is to refuse you your happiness, but yourself? No one else is entitled to such a thing. And who cares what others think, in any case? It is you that knows what lies within your heart."

"Take the chance, Lothíriel. For there are those who were never given the choice."

Lothíriel thought of her father then, of her beautiful, vivacious mother of whom she never got the chance to meet. She thought of the love Rusalinè had shared with her father, strong and nurturing despite how their worlds had been so vastly different. Lothíriel recalled the words he had spoken to her those weeks ago, how the longing in his heart had been reflected in his eyes.

I will not live like that. Not if I have the choice.

And so they had come full circle.

It was in this conversation that Lothíriel had found her decision.

She realized she wanted to forgive Éomer. More than that, she realized she could forgive him, had already started to do so the second she laid eyes upon him.

She would take the chance for the true, whole happiness he offered her. She was happy in this life, yes, but Éomer, being with him and sharing his love, could give her everything she had truly dreamed of, and would mend her tattered heart, for there was no other that could. She would take the risk of believing his words, for they had been accompanied with the greatest action one could offer: the giving of oneself.

Happiness, pure and white and wondrous, stole her breath. Lothíriel looked at Nissa and then Celís, grinning bright enough to rival the rays of the sun.

"Well do not just sit there; help me dress!"

Freshened, in a summer gown of periwinkle with her hair braided loosely, Lothíriel took the stairs to the main hall in a hurried pitter-patter of slippered feet. Nissa and Celís had retired to their respective rooms to also wash and change, though promised they would be down to accompany her shortly.

Lothíriel knew breakfast was being served in the great hall where she would undoubtedly find her father (but hopefully not her brothers), and was eager to implore of him Éomer's freedom from Dol Amroth's dank dungeons and begin the newest chapter in her life. Even if I were to rebuke him, father could not keep Rohan's king captive. She giggled at the notion; her father, Prince of Dol Amroth, ensconcing a king.

She burst into the great hall to find it still being tidied from the night before, with barely a soul in sight save the poor servants whose job it was to clean up after the revelers. However, sure enough, her father sat at the high table partaking in his usual boiled eggs and porridge, with what she knew was watered-down wine in the goblet beside his hand. Up the slight stairs of the dais she bounded, rushing to her father's side with all the radiance of joy shining through her features.

Imrahil glanced at Lothíriel as she all but skidded to a stop beside him, forgoing to take a seat for the anticipation running through her veins, hot and heady and rampant.

"Good morning father." Lothíriel rushed out breathlessly, barely able to stand still. "When you are finished eating, I would implore a moment of your time."

"Sit." Imrahil rumbled, nodding to her vacant chair to his right. "Break your fast."

Lothíriel fell into her chair, reaching for an apple lying in the wooden bowl in the center of the table, but abstaining from breaking its skin. Restlessly she arranged her skirts, too eager to sit still and too nervous to eat. She tried not to watch her father eat, but by the gods is he always this slow?

A few moments of silence passed before a maid silently brought her a mug of steaming tea, but Lothíriel ignored that as well, her eyes flickering to her father. His dark grey hair was damp from his morning wash, his beard neatly and closely trimmed and face cleanly shaved. Dressed in a black linen shirt with a grey tunic overtop, black leather breeches fixed at his hips with his sword always at his side, Imrahil looked as imposing and mighty as he ever did. Lothíriel knew better than to interrupt his meal, but she could not help watching him, counting how many more spoonfuls of porridge he had left, measuring how much wine was left in his goblet.

Imrahil was no fool. He sighed loudly and sat back in his chair, lifting a napkin to his mouth to wipe it before he said, with only a slight amount of annoyance, "I will get no peace from you, sitting there like that. Speak what is on your mind."

"If it would please you, father, I would like to speak with Éomer once more." Lothíriel rushed out excitedly, unable to contain her smile.

She did not miss the glimmer in her father's grey eyes, but he prolonged his answer as he reached for his goblet and brought it to his lips.

Lothíriel could not suppress her eager anxiousness. "Please, father."

Imrahil sat down his cup, swirling his wine around before finally swallowing. Lothíriel watched his every movement like one of his prized hawks, becoming breathless when he finally opened his mouth to respond.

"It seems as though—"

"Lord Imrahil."

So focused on her father she had been that Lothíriel had not heard nor seen the figure that had walked the length of the hall to stand before the dais. She jumped at having been startled and turned to face the newcomer, before frowning and silently cursing the stablemaster Borigan for his ill timing.

Borigan bowed to her father, and Lothíriel was slightly irritated when the smile on her father's face was not so easily dispersed; he found jest in Borigan's timing when she wanted to snap at the man to be gone.

"What is it Borigan?"

"The horse King Éomer brought with him sire, it is a most unruly beast. He has been knocking about the stables all night, stirring the other horses to madness. None of my boys can touch him. About took my hand off when I tried to harness him."

Lothíriel gasped. Her father looked at her quizzically when she stood from her chair, almost overturning the piece of furniture in her haste.

"You mean the horse he rode here?" she dared to ask, her tone so thick with hope it left her windless.

Borigan frowned at her in deep confusion, before clearing his throat and righting his stare. "No, my lady. He rode one and brought another."

Her heart leapt into her throat, but still she managed to ask, "This horse, what does he look like?"

Borigan frowned again, and this time did not smooth it as he said, "All black, my lady, about nineteen hands tall, with the fiercest temper I have ever seen on a stallion."

Like one of her fine arrows Lothíriel shot off the dais, skirts gathered clumsily in her hands. She took off over the stone floor of the hall, leaving a very befuddled Borigan and an even more flabbergasted Imrahil in her wake.

Tell me it is true. Please, tell me it is true.

Lothíriel burst through the double doors of the throne room and stumbled down the stairs, across the courtyard, her feet now impatiently running for the stables. The sun was bright this morning, so warm and just as joyous as she, with a land breeze rippling through the air and waking the city from its slumber with the scent of morning fires and the ever-present salt air on it. There were a few soldiers milling about, a handful of servants in the middle of their morning chores, but they all paused to watch as Lothíriel flew across the courtyard toward the stables, sharing gazes of concern with one another at her errant behavior.

Lothíriel drew up short as a rebellious neigh rent the air. Not ten paces from the stables was she, and gasping her breaths she watched as a stableboy struggled through the gaping mouth of the barn with the reins of a horse who was doing all he could to fight the poor boy. The horse was prancing, tossing his elegant head in an effort to rip the tether out of the boy's hands, and when he came partially into view Lothíriel cried out, a happiness so potent it stole her thoughts.

"Firebreather!"

At the sound of his name from his mistress's lips, the destrier jerked his head to look at her, his ears pinned forward. Brown eyes locked on her form and with a neigh of recognition, he gave one great tug to be free of the stableboy's restraint. He reared slightly and then cantered to her, and with laughter in her voice Lothíriel caught his muzzle between her hands.

"You awful creature," she laughed, tears in her eyes. "I thought I would never see you again."

Firebreather placed his mighty head over her shoulder and nudged her none-too-gently, sending Lothíriel stumbling back a pace. She laughed again, laying her head against his warm horseflesh as she closed her eyes, stroking the fine hair on his neck with an arm wrapped around either side of him. The horse whinnied softly, shaking his head and tickling her with his mane, and Lothíriel stepped back to gaze up at him and scratch the hair beneath his forelock.

Éomer… Her movements slowed then, her eyes growing soft. He did this. Brought Firebreather home to me.

Éomer.

She dropped her hands, turning in a flash of skirts, suddenly desperate to see him.

And there he was.

As dirty and as weary as he was the night before, there he stood, Imrahil not twenty paces behind him, standing on the stone steps leading to the castle. Those who had stopped to watch her flight a few moments before lingered now, watching with bated breath as she looked at Éomer, taking every bit of him in: from his mud-caked boots to his dirtied armor, his tangled hair to his warm, brown eyes. Eyes that shone with happiness and only for her, alight with a grin on his unkempt, unshaven face.

"Éomer."

Lothíriel ran across the courtyard and Éomer broke his stance to do the same. Laughing, tears streaming down her face, she threw herself into his arms and Éomer caught her, lifting her off of the ground and hugging her to his chest so tightly she knew, she felt that she had made the right decision. Éomer spun them, one hand buried in her hair and the other bound around her waist as if he never wanted to let her go.

"Lothíriel, my Lothíriel…"

She drew back to gaze down at him with all the love and adoration she possessed, and he set her down to do the same. His eyes never left her own, his brown to her grey, and the happiness, the wonder, the absolute devotion she saw in his depths mirrored her own. Lothíriel trembled against this man, this wildly ardent, disastrously handsome man, curling her fingers over the cuff of his leather brigandine as his hands tightened around her slim waist.

And without another moment to spare Éomer crushed her against his chest and captured her lips in a passionate, earth-shattering kiss, and Lothíriel knew, in that very moment, that his actions and words from the night before had been driven by the emotion he shared with her now.

Love.