Éomer stared at the tunic he had replaced the embroidered one with. He wondered if he looked plain enough not to be immediately recognized as a King. In truth, he did not feel like a King, so it was hard to judge if he looked like one. Éomer sighed, this should not be this hard. He decided he looked acceptable, re-buckled his sword belt, and headed out of his apartment. Why was he so nervous? It was nothing, just taking part in the celebrations incognito. With Lothíriel. Whom he could not stop thinking about.

Beregil was outside waiting for Éomer.

"Do I look like a King?" Éomer asked his escort.

"I assume that you do not want to look like a King?" Beregil assessed Éomer's dress.

"Not tonight," Éomer replied

"You carry yourself nobly, but that does not mean you look like a King," Beregil answered, "I'm afraid I may be the giveaway."

Éomer frowned, he had promised Lothíriel an escort of Gondor, and the ability to blend in.

"Let me go change into something less conspicuous." Beregil smiled, "where should I meet you?"

"Prince Imrahil's," Éomer replied. He was aware of the color rising in his face.

"I will call upon you in a quarter hour there," and Beregil was gone.

Éomer took a deep breath, and headed back to the Prince's house. His steps quickened as he went, thinking of who awaited him. He could not stop thinking about her eyes. They twinkled with their own inner light, gray and intelligent, lined with dark lashes. Her laugh was like the ringing of a bell. He would have been satisfied just to sit quietly in her presence all day, listening to her laugh. And when he was the cause? She directed her light and joy at him and he bathed in it too. He would have to think of more stories that brought that joy out of her.

Her door was now in front of him. He stopped and looked at it, then knocked. Éomer was a man of action. He would run down his fear and apprehension, whether it was on the battlefield, or in matters of the heart. He heard footsteps, soft. His heart lurched. Lothíriel was on the other side of the door. Gently it opened, and those gray eyes were locked with his again. She had braided her hair, and changed into a gray dress. Her dressing down did little to hide her beauty, and Éomer was enraptured.

"Good evening Éomer, man of Rohan," Lothíriel smiled brightly at him, then looked around, "I thought you promised an additional companion for our walk through the city?"

"Oh. yes." Éomer was having a hard time finding words, lost in the depths of Lothíriel's eyes, "He is meeting us here. He is changing to be less conspicuous."

"Ah yes!" her laughter was music, "A guard of Gondor would certainly bring notice. Please come in!"

Éomer smiled and followed Lothíriel in. Her gait was tense, he wondered if she was as nervous as he was.

"You look…" Éomer started the sentence, but did not know how to finish it. She looked beautiful. She looked kissed by Elbereth. She looked "...convincing."

Lothíriel turned around, gaping at him, "Convincing? … as do you!"

His words were not the right words. Looking at her made all thoughts and eloquence escape his brain. He was never a master wordsmith anyway.

"And beautiful," Éomer added, feeling the heat come to his face. No, he was not good with words.

Lothíriel though smiled, and he could see a flush come over her as well. Being honest. That would be the way to Lothíriel's heart. That was what Faramir had said. That was what Éowyn had said.

"Are those words you use on every woman you come upon, man of Rohan?" Lothíriel's eyes twinkled. He liked looking into her eyes.

"Knight of Rohan. I don't think that any will be convinced that I am a man at arms," Éomer could feel the corners of his eyes crinkle. Were his eyes twinkling too?

Lothíriel laughed. Crisp and clear as a bell.

"And no," Éomer finished.

Éomer found the dance of wooing to be uncomfortable. It felt so close to what Wormtongue had done to Éowyn.

"I- I'm sorry Lothíriel. I am not good at all this stuff," Éomer blurted out, honesty, "I watched a man try to use words to trap my sister. It put a permanent sour taste in my mouth."

Lothíriel paused, studying Éomer again, but instead of the frown Éomer expected, he saw a shy smile appear on her face.

"I've been taught my entire life that words were weapons," Lothíriel replied, "And as I cannot effectively duel with a sword, so I duel with words."

"I fear I am woefully outmatched for such a duel," Éomer admitted. Honest.

"Then think of this as a dance," Lothíriel smiled at him, "And let me take the lead."

Éomer smiled. His nerves were abating, and he was feeling… comfortable. Her words and her presence put him at ease. Finally, another knock on the door announced that Beregil had returned. Lothíriel brushed past Éomer to answer it, and he felt a thrill as her arm inadvertently made contact with his.

Just before she opened the door, Lothíriel turned a look back at Éomer, "come knight of Rohan, the city awaits us."

He followed without hesitation. Beregil was at the door, hardly recognizable in his plain clothes. A man at arms of Gondor, out for the night. Éomer saw that Beregil carried a sword, but also a dagger. He wondered if Beregil was wearing chainmail under his clothes. It was clear that Beregil knew about stealth. Ithilien Ranger indeed.

"Princess Lothíriel, it is a pleasure," Beregil bowed, "I will watch, but keep my distance. A woman of Gondor and a man of Rohan already begs attention. Adding another soldier from Gondor and you would take far too much notice."

Éomer looked at Beregil, and saw him wink. Éomer and Lothíriel would be alone, but they would also be safe. Éomer placed his hand on his own sword. Two swords to protect the Princess of Dol Amroth. Good. He wondered at Beregil's skill with the blade, perhaps he would ask his escort for some sparring. Éomer offered Lothíriel his arm, which she took, and they stepped out the door. As they walked, Beregil fell in behind them. Close enough to intervene should it be needed, but far enough back not to obviously be guarding them. He was good.

"Where was your father?" it had only just dawned on Éomer at the Imrahil's absence in his own house.

"Upstairs in his study. He is reading over some of the work Faramir sent," replied Lothíriel, "And because I asked him to stay upstairs."

Éomer let out a chuckle. So, honesty was going both directions for them. That was good.

"It appears you may need to take the lead again lady of Gondor, as I do not know this city," Éomer admitted.

"It will be my pleasure, knight of Rohan," Lothíriel replied, and he could hear that musical undertone in her voice. The one that he heard when she laughed. He liked that sound.

"As we are incognito, should we not find names less clearly of princess and king?" Éomer had lowered his voice, he remembered the days of fighting imaginary dragons with Éowyn, "Call me Hemling the bold."

Lothíriel threw her head back and let out that intoxicating laugh.

"I must know the story of Hemling the bold, knight of Rohan," she chortled, "For that was much too fast for spontaneous invention."

Éomer smiled sheepishly. She marked him.

"I will trade you the story of Hemling for your own name, lady of Gondor," Éomer replied.

"I take the deal," Lothíriel turned her head, in deep concentration, "Andawel, daughter of seafaring merchants, who is visiting the city to be at the coronation of the new King. And now… Hemling, tell me who you are."

"Hemling would slay dragons in the fields of Rohan with his sister," Éomer's smile was bright, "He and she would rescue maidens from towers."

"Did Hemling's valiant sister have a name?" Lothíriel had moved just slightly closer to Éomer. He liked it.

"Hemwing." Éomer shrugged, "We were not the most creative with our names, solely our deeds."

Lothíriel laughed again. It filled the air with music.

"Well Hemling, follow me and we will find our celebration of the new Dawn," Lothíriel tightened her grip, and her pace quickened.

As they descended through the city, the sounds of voices and singing were everywhere. Celebration surrounded them, and they absorbed the joy of their neighbors. Éomer wondered where Lothíriel was going, until he saw a small biergarten.

"Do you have coin Hemling?" Lothíriel whispered, and Éomer, embarrassed, realized he did not.

"No- oh, let me go…" Éomer started, feeling color rise in his cheeks. How had he not thought of this? He was escorting a Princess around the city and did not think to bring coin.

"Here, enough for the night." Lothíriel subtly passed him a money bag, and her smile was conspiratorial, "a merchant's daughter always keeps a bit of coin. And I don't think they would take the money of Rohan."

"Thank you… I of course will repay you in full," Éomer was still beat red. He was failing at wooing.

Lothíriel laughed, "Pay me with stories and deeds. Neither of us needs think on coin."

Éomer was not sure he liked that much better. Both then walked into the colorful pub. The energy in the place was warm and jubilant. Éomer could see flaxen hair and dark hair intermingled. Lothíriel had chosen well. There was a small band in the corner playing songs in Westron. Beregil had positioned himself at the bar, with them in his line of sight. Éomer and Lothíriel found a table, and Éomer placed an order for two ales.

"So Hemling. What was your absolute favorite thing to do as a child?" Lothíriel started.

"Probably race. I loved galloping through the fields with my cousin and my sister," Éomer replied, "How about you Andawel?"

"Sailing into the sunset. With my brothers," Lothíriel replied, "You are chasing the sun to have your proper goodbye."

"It sounds beautiful. My sister and I used to race the sunset too, but our sea was a sea of grass," Éomer replied.

"Perhaps you can one day show me. I've only ever really traveled Gondor, and should like to see Rohan too," Lothíriel didn't make eye contact at her statement, her cheeks reddening. Éomer though smiled, and could feel his smile spread through the whole of him. He would love to gallop a horse into the sunset with Lothíriel.

"Yes. I would love to," Éomer caught her eyes, and saw the twinkle he hoped would be there, "And perhaps you could take me sailing. Though I have a fear of the water."

"Why?" Lothíriel asked, and Éomer saw that vision of his sister, blue in his arms as he tried to bring life back to her, Lothíriel seemed to recognize the memory, "Because your sister…"

Éomer nodded solemnly. He could count on one hand the moments in his life that he had truly been terrified. They nearly all involved Éowyn. The first was the death of their father. Second was the day Éowyn nearly drowned. The third was the day in the stables. And the fourth was Éowyn on the Pelennor. All other memories and pains paled in compared to those.

"You can tell me of what pains you. I will listen," Lothíriel placed her hand on Éomer's. It was the lightest of touches, but it effused warmth.

"Our father died when we were young. And our mother just sort of… gave up," Éomer replied.

He could see the pale shell of his mother, catatonic in her grief. Éomer would never let someone love him so much his death would cause them to neglect others who loved them. Éomer took Lothíriel's hand as he thought on it.

"And there were so many moments that I almost lost my sister. That I couldn't save her," Éomer could feel shame bubble up as he thought on it. He felt Lothíriel squeeze his hand.

"It sounds as if you do not give yourself enough credit," Lothíriel leaned into Éomer's ear, "She came to Gondor and delivered it from one of its worst enemies. And she found love, and a way to bring smiles to my cousin's eyes. I never thought I would see him happy, and yet here we are. So perhaps those moments you thought you failed, you did not."

Éomer looked into those thoughtful eyes. He wanted to argue, but realized that Lothíriel was right. Through it all, Éowyn was whole and happy. She had not perished on the Pelennor. She had not been violated by Wormtongue. She had not drowned in the river. He had done his work as the big brother. A smile escaped him.

"My cousin and I taught her much of her swordwork," Éomer was back to those happy moments, "She was always fast. Could dodge nearly every blow I tried. It's no wonder she dodged the Nazgûl's mace so aptly."

"I will be right back," Lothíriel's eyes had lit up, and she quietly made her way to the band, then whispered to them and handed them a coin. They laughed and nodded, and she made her way back.

"What-" Éomer started
"Just wait." Lothíriel replied, a smug smile on her face.

Suddenly the band started playing "The Ballad of the Shieldmaiden," composed by Merry and Pippin. An effusive grin came over Éomer, but the best part was that the rest of the pub had begun singing along. The entirety of this happy gathering were singing the praises to Éowyn Wraithbane, Shieldmaiden of Rohan. Éomer didn't join the song, but he let himself enjoy the moment. Lothíriel was looking at him raptly, but when she saw his smile, she smiled back just as brightly.

In that moment of jubilation around him, in the harmonies of Gondorian and Rohirric voices, the world fell away and there was just Lothíriel. She was smiling, but he was seeing her in a light he had never seen a woman before. He saw her dressed in a shimmering white dress, walking to music, to wed him. He saw a flaxen-haired child running into her arms. His child. He saw her face, adorned in candlelight, laying across from him, in the bed they shared. He saw her galloping a horse full speed, daring him to catch her.

He knew.

"Show me your favorite place in the city," Éomer let the words escape him, but the crowd had started pressing on him, and he wanted to be alone with her.

Lothíriel looked back at him, and considered. He could see her beautiful eyes picturing those places she loved, and it drew a smile to his face. He hoped that she would share every single one of them with him.

"I fear to get to my favorite place would take the title of a King, or permission of the Steward," Lothíriel looked shyly at Éomer.

"The first is trivial, as long as it matters not which Kingdom," Éomer grinned.

"We shall see if that is enough." Lothíriel's eyes twinkled again, and Éomer was now seeing mischief in them as well.

Lothíriel stood up, and drank the remainder of her ale in one gulp. Éomer followed suit, nodding to Beregil that they would soon be on the move. Éomer followed Lothíriel out of the pub, then offered her his arm. She took it, and began taking long strides back up into the city. Up, up they went, through the fifth level, then the sixth. When they got to the gates of the seventh, Éomer nearly stopped to ask where on Middle Earth they were going that could be any further up, then remembered wherever Lothíriel was taking them required the title of King. Éomer was not sure he made such a convincing King. Even dressed as a King, Éomer did not feel like a convincing King.

At the guardhouse, Lothíriel and Éomer stopped.

"Éomer Eadig, King of Rohan wishes to enter the Citadel with Beregil, guard of the Steward and Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth," Lothíriel had used her most commanding voice, and Éomer was surprised to see assent on the guards' faces.

"Dear Lothíriel, even dressed plainly we would never forget your face!" the older guard exclaimed, "So this here is Éomer King? Were you two down in the lower levels celebrating the new Dawn?"

"We came incognito, but yes," Lothíriel's smile was sly, "May we enter? I can find my cousin if need be, since it would be a grievous insult to deny a King."

She was a master of words.

"The Steward had written that the royal families of Rohan and Dol Amroth were free to travel anywhere they please, including into the Citadel, so I daresay I would be breaking orders not to follow. Is that really the King of Rohan?" the guard was still smiling at Lothíriel.

"Yes, I rode at the head of the éored to Gondor's aid. Now please let us through and on our way," Éomer let his commanding voice come forth. He was but one in that small group taken by surprise at its authority. The guard immediately bowed, and Lothíriel and Éomer went through.

"I will stay outside," Beregil called to them, "There is no place better guarded. I shall be here when you would like to return."

"Thank you for your companionship Beregil. I believe this will be the last stop for our evening, and Éomer King can escort me back to my door," Lothíriel called back, "Go and be with your loved ones."

Beregil smiled, bowed, and headed back into the lower levels of the city.

"I thought… you wanted," Éomer started.

"I do not believe harm will come to me whilst I am in your company," Lothíriel interrupted him, and answered, "Now come. I want to show you."

Éomer offered his arm, but Lothíriel took his hand. Their swift pace continued until they were out on the terrace. Éomer looked around and saw the white tree, glowing in the moonlight. Lothíriel was leading him to the tree, which was being guarded by stoic-faced tower guards. Lothíriel then stopped.

"Uncle Denethor let very few people up here, but I would always come as a child. I remember sitting and just looking at the white tree. I would think about the coming of the King," Lothíriel was mesmerized looking at it, "It always looked stark and dead during the day. But at night, it had this unnatural glow. It was beautiful, as if a sign from Elbereth not to give up hope."

Éomer was not sure that the most luminous thing on that terrace was the white tree. Lothíriel then walked toward the edge walls. Éomer followed.

"Look up Éomer," Lothíriel smiled, "There are so many stars. When the Shadow broke, the stars all seemed to get brighter. They are smiling down at us."

"Beautiful," Éomer was not talking about the heavens.

Lothíriel smiled inwardly.

"Éowyn and I used to ride out to a favorite field with a blanket, and lay under the stars. We had ignored our lore lessons in school, so we made up stories about the stars that we saw," Éomer could feel the light in his heart thinking of this memory, "It was after our mother died but before Gríma."

"Gríma?" Lothíriel turned and looked at Éomer.

"Oh, uh." Éomer started to turn pink, "He poisoned my Uncle with words. We called him Wormtongue. And he wanted my sister."

Lothíriel nodded, and Éomer hoped he needed to say no more. He was squirming. It was late now, and he was alone with a woman he now knew he wanted as his wife. Lothíriel looked up at him.

"I think our celebration should come to an end, Hemling," her eyes twinkled, "The story of Gríma Wormtongue can be a story for another time."

It was as if she knew. As if she sensed the memory of that time and that man, of Éomer's shame at it. And she would save him that pain on this most perfect of nights. They walked back down to the residences. When Éomer made it to Lothíriel's door, he was sad to see her go, but he knew he must.

"Goodnight," Éomer leaned down and kissed Lothíriel's hand, lips just brushing her skin. He let them linger.

"Goodnight knight of Rohan," Lothíriel smiled back at him, a red flush to her cheeks.

She leaned closer to him, then pressed her lips to his cheek, lingering. Her eyelashes brushed his skin, and he shuddered. Then she was gone, and Éomer stood at her door. When he turned to make his way back to his apartment, he could not contain the smile that radiated through the whole of him. Whatever he had been expecting in meeting one he was matched for marriage, it was not this, it was not her.

Lothíriel was beautiful, and Éomer finally let his mind wander to thoughts of their marriage bed, the one thought he had denied himself sitting with her at the pub. He liked her eyes most. He could see how thoughtful she was just by gazing into her eyes. Her eyes always seemed to reflect her happiness. Éomer was not sure if his company was the cause, or just that Lothíriel was always that full of joy. He hoped both. He liked her happiness. He wanted to see the world through her eyes.

Before he knew it, Éomer was back at his apartment. He looked up at the stars one more time and sighed. He hoped Lothíriel would ride out with him and share a blanket under them. And they would make up stories of the stars, or perhaps she would teach him.

Then his ears pricked, and he could sense something amiss. Hushed voices in Éowyn's apartment. Had Wormtongue come? No. The voices were soft and relaxed. One was Éowyn's and one was… Faramir's. Éomer could feel the heat coming to his face. They had promised. He pulled out his key, but found Éowyn's door was open. Éomer was about to pound on the bedroom door, but something stopped him.

Éomer saw a small note on the sitting room table, and he knew it was for him.

Brother,

I have had an extremely hard day. Faramir is here because I need him. You can trust us to keep our promise.

Love,
Éowyn

Éomer stopped, then turned around to go to his own apartment. Talking to Éowyn could wait until tomorrow, and he trusted them. If his time with Lothíriel taught him anything, it was that in the company of the right person, carnal thoughts can give way to things that are deeper.