The crash of furniture had pulled Éomer out of his apartment so fast he was not aware that he had grabbed his sword. He was sure that this was it, that something had happened to his sister again and he would be damned if he was not there to protect her this time. Then at the look on his sister's face, he knew she had been the one to throw a chair out the window. A chair? Horsehair indeed, from a particular part of the horse. Éomer knew it now. Éowyn found love. Éowyn would never need his protection again. Faramir would protect her, and she could protect herself. She also protected those she loved. He was… proud… and sad.
After the meeting that morning, it was time to contact the families of all those from Rohan recorded in the Book of the Dead. Éomer had almost refused Faramir's offer of a scribe, insisting on writing all letters himself, but Éowyn was right. He could not do everything. Imrahil had suggested he personally write the letters out for his éored. Éomer would do that. And Legolas had already made a clay seal of Rohan for Éomer, the young King. The unexpected King. The unprepared King. Éowyn would have made an extraordinary Queen had Éomer fallen. He longed for her to be with him as he learned to be the King he was supposed to be. But she deserved her happiness, and he would always have her heart. She just would not be by his side.
A messenger came to his door to deliver the clay seal, stacks and stacks of parchment, and vials of ink. Éomer had 40 letters to write. He would write them all. Éomer sat down, looked at the light out the window, and got to work. He would not leave that table until all 40 were written. He would not cry until all 40 were written. First, Gamling. Éomer placed pen to paper and began writing. He wrote of Gamling's bravery, of the fact that Gamling sacrificed himself for his King (Aragorn had told him). Éomer promised his wife and children that they would forever be taken care of, and would be granted a special audience with the King should they desire it. Éomer could feel the tears in his throat, he swallowed them down. 39 to go.. Then 38… 37… 36...
He thought the letters would get easier, and so they did, but they also became harder. He could see their faces. He could see the faces of their children. He could see their deaths. Gondor's generosity felt cheap compared to their lives. Éomer kept reminding himself that Gondor needed Rohan, and Gondor had protected Rohan from the encroachment of Sauron for hundreds of years. He kept repeating it to himself. It eased his grief. 28… 27… 26… Just as Éomer thought he would break, a light knock came on his door. Éowyn?
Éomer stood and opened the door, expecting the golden light of his sister. It was not Éowyn. Gray thoughtful eyes, braided curly hair, a gray dress that did not make her beauty any less noticeable… Lothíriel.
"I brought you fruit and mead from the market," Lothíriel held a basket out to Éomer, who had not been able to wipe the stunned look from his face. Lothíriel smiled brightly, "Perhaps a cloth too, you have ink smudged all over your cheeks."
Éomer tried to suppress the blush, of course she called on him when he was disheveled. He nearly wanted to turn her away and walk back to his dark table and his grief, but more, he wanted her to stay. Lothíriel's eyes had not left his, and he saw them change from amusement to concern.
"My father said you were discussing the Book of the Dead today," her voice softened and she looked at the table behind Éomer, "And Éowyn told me you were writing letters to the families of your men, and might need company."
Éomer felt as if Éowyn had hugged him through Lothíriel's words.
"So many died to save me, and now it is up to me to tell their families," Éomer could feel the tears crawling slowly up the back of his throat. He was not sure he was ready to show such weakness with her.
"I would not ask you divide your writing, my father is writing to the families of his fallen Knights as we speak, and Faramir will be writing personally to the families of his fallen Rangers," Lothíriel walked in and put the basket down in his sitting room, "But perhaps I could keep you company? You could tell me one fine thing about each of these men, and it will be the first thing I have heard of them, then all my memories of them will be good. I can also roll them and stamp your seal upon them, to save you the labor."
Lothíriel looked hopeful. And Éomer wanted her there, but… he couldn't. He would be alone with her. He would not sully her reputation. He was not able to keep the flapping tongues away from his sister, but he would not do this, not to one he dared to believe he could love as much as he loved Éowyn.
"It would not be proper to be alone with me," Éomer could hear his own sharp disappointment.
"Of all the things I had been taught of Rohan, the genteel nature of its King was one that I missed," Lothíriel spoke gently, and Éomer thought he saw something twinkle in her eyes, he hoped he saw that twinkle, "Come and let us crash my cousin's. He is with my father, and we could sit in the Steward's garden together, fully in view of his staff. We will have privacy, but we will also be watched by observant eyes."
Had Lothíriel thought of that on the spot? Likely, he thought, you will be forever blessed and cursed to be around women with wits far surpassing your own.
"Yes," Éomer assented, "Lead on."
Lothíriel smiled, picked up Éomer's parchments, ink, wax, and seal, and placed them atop the cloth of her basket. Éomer could smell the strawberries hiding beneath the cloth. He wanted to feed Lothíriel wild strawberries in early spring in the Eastfold. Then he remembered a conversation from earlier…
"I heard a curious story about you," Éomer spoke, and Lothíriel's gaze pierced him, he should know better than to try to speak with any authority on intrigue, "That when you were young, you cut your hair off with a dagger."
Lothíriel's cheeks turned red, and she looked away from him, a smile on her face, "I did not like being excluded from my brothers' games."
"My sister braids her hair like an Elven warrior, and rode to war with a helm and shield," Éomer stuttered, he wasn't explaining himself very well, "I sparred with her, but I never treated her as an equal. After her duel with the Wraith, I will never make that mistake again with her. With anyone..."
What Éomer was saying was I will never underestimate you.
Lothíriel's eyes narrowed, and Éomer suspected she was reading his mind. They walked in silence the rest of the short way to the Steward's House. The broken chair had been cleaned up, but still Éomer grinned, remembering the mischief in his sister's eyes, and the befuddlement of the Steward. Lothíriel rapped on the white door, much harder than she had when she called upon him.
"What brings you to our door, dear Princess?" Faramir's butler answered, and smiled brightly at Lothíriel. Clearly she had captured the butler's heart too.
"Good afternoon Maravel," Lothíriel put on a bright smile, "We were hoping to haunt the Steward's garden while he was away? The King of Rohan and I have errands and need fresh air, and our tasks need to be away from wandering eyes."
Maravel laughed, "Your family's?"
Lothíriel scoffed, "Not this time. Éomer King needs to write to the families of his fallen Knights and could use a private space. I have offered him help."
"I have orders to never refuse the Princess of Dol Amroth," Maravel replied, and let them both in.
Lothíriel glided through the door and into the garden. Éomer watched her. He watched the way she moved, the way her dark braid swayed with the motions of her feet. He followed Lothíriel into the garden, sitting across from her at the table. Somehow in that place, with her, crying and grieving for his éored, for his friends, didn't seem so scary. He was safe.
Lothíriel laid the ink and parchment before Éomer, finally lifting the list of the dead and handing it to him. She then took from her basket the strawberries, bread, honey, and the jug of mead.
"Who is your next brave Knight?" Lothíriel smiled gently.
"Dúnhere,"Éomer replied gravely, "Sister-son to my brave Erkenbrand. He was still a boy."
The tears had started to rise again.
"Tell me your favorite thing about him," Lothíriel's voice was quiet and soothing, bathing Éomer in warmth.
"He had a habit of nearly getting kicked by the horses," Éomer smiled, "We always said that one day he would, and that would be the day he learned to stop being unwary near a horse's behind."
Unbidden, a laugh came to Éomer's throat. All needed to be watchful of horse's arses. Especially Faramir. Lothíriel saw his small memory.
"Whatever brought that laugh was not from Dúnhere," she spoke, "And it brought you joy in a moment of grief. I must know."
"Rohan must send a fine horsehair chair to Gondor, to repay my sister's debt," Éomer groaned, but he could not hide his amusement, "For some reason, she threw a chair out Faramir's window. So I called her a horse's arse."
Lothíriel let out a rapturous laugh. It always sounded like little bells to his ears.
"You called Éowyn a horse's arse for destroying Denethor's chair?" tears were in Lothíriel's eyes.
"Well… not quite. But Éowyn knew what I meant," Éomer blushed a bit, he did call the Princess of Rohan a horse's arse, to Aragorn no less, "And you don't throw people's chairs out the window unless you want your brother to call you one."
Lothíriel had not stopped laughing, "I saw my cousin after that incident. He seems utterly delighted by the whole thing. I do hope that you will find the finest horsehair in the land just so that the joke becomes eternal."
Éomer smiled. He was among friends, even as a new King, even in Gondor. It would always be okay still to treat the future wife of the Steward like he had always treated his little sister. Perhaps no more toads in her bed, but at least they would always be able to joke. Albeit subtly.
Éomer returned his pen to paper and wrote with warmth to Dúnhere's family. The grief was still present, but he felt cleansed. Lothíriel asked for a small story of every knight in turn, and Éomer found it easier and easier to speak of them. Writing got easier, and so did grieving. The gravitas was not lost, but the hopelessness was gone. Before he knew it, they were finished. Éomer gave the letters to Maravel, who passed them onto the messengers heading toward Rohan. All letters had been sealed expertly by Lothíriel. They had eaten all of Lothíriel's food, and they'd raided Faramir's kitchen. They were practically Hobbits.
"Lothíriel, thank you," Éomer said, "You made a dark and hard task fill with light."
Éomer blushed as he said it. But it was true. Honest.
"You are welcome, Éomer King," Lothíriel smiled back. Éomer took her hand, and placed the gentle, lingering kiss upon it.
"Now Princess, I must go," Éomer smiled sheepishly, "I needs must have a bath before your Uncle's party. I will see you soon."
"I look forward to it," Lothíriel replied, and pressed the lightest of kisses on Éomer's cheek.
Lothíriel smiled, bid farewell to Maravel, and was out the door. Éomer looked at the table, a grin coming to his face. He would tell Faramir at the party of the wine and kitchen raid. He did feel it was proper payback for stealing his sister. But even as he thought of Faramir and Éowyn, his mind kept returning to Lothíriel. He did not think he would ever feel safe after his father died. But she made him feel it. Safe.
Éomer bathed slowly. When he arose, he looked at his wardrobe and sighed at its plainness. He wanted to be regal. He wanted to be high and noble, so that when she looked upon him, she saw a King. He would ask Éowyn to braid his hair after the high Elven lords...
No. That was not him. He would braid his own hair, and he would wear a tunic fitting his station, but utterly familiar. That was who he was. That was honest.
The light was nearly gone from the sky. It was time. He would meet Frodo and Sam. He would get to watch Lothíriel and Éowyn interact. He may even get to challenge Faramir to spar again, as payment for holding his tongue at the previous night's activities.
Éomer walked to the door of Imrahil's. No longer would he pause uncertainly at the door. Éomer could hear laughing voices, including the musical tinkle of Lothíriel. He knocked. Heavy footsteps approached, and the door opened to a slightly red-cheeked Prince Imrahil.
"Éomer!" Imrahil clapped him on the back, "We are in the garden."
Éomer nodded and followed Imrahil in. In the garden, Éomer saw Lothíriel immediately. She was in the corner playing chess with Merry. They were speaking quietly and laughing. You're hopeless, he thought, you will always seek her out. Éomer decided to first head to the table, where he grabbed turkey and wine. He saw Legolas and Gimli, and made his way to them.
"If it isn't my favorite dwarf and favorite elf," Éomer grinned, "Where is Aragorn?"
"He arrived shortly before we did, but was beckoned upstairs," Gimli replied.
Éomer then realized he saw neither Faramir nor his sister in the garden. He wondered at that. Why was he not also invited to such a meeting? There was something strange between those three…
"Elbereth smiles upon us this night," Legolas was looking intently at Lothíriel, and at him. He could feel heat coming into his cheeks.
Éomer coughed, "Gimli, can you tell me why my sister needed to use the forge?"
Gimli laughed, both at Éomer's abrupt change of subject, but also at whatever it was Éowyn had planned, "Cleansing spirits Éomer King."
Dwarfs were near as insufferable as elves.
"The old ring of the Steward will become a seal, much better suited to the new Steward," Gimli had leaned into Éomer's ear, "Between Legolas and I, we will see it done."
Éomer nodded, so that was what his sister had been up to.
"It will be ready for Éowyn in about a week," Legolas smiled, "She has eyes keen as an elf's where she sees pain."
Éomer smiled. That was true. Éowyn always gravitated toward those who were pained to help them. She always took care of him. So much so that he did not know how much pain she herself was in. For all that time. He hoped that in the new age, he would never close his eyes again. He would never underestimate a woman again. Éomer chanced a glance over at Lothíriel. Right as he did it, she looked up and caught his eyes. She smiled. Éomer blushed, but also smiled back, as if her eyes had called the smile from him. Éomer walked to them.
"I see you've met my squire, soon to be Knight, of the Riddermark," Éomer said as he approached, and Merry rushed to stand.
"Good evening Éomer King," Merry bowed, a smile on his red face. Éomer then saw the mug of ale that was half gone.
"Merry was telling me of a game of spoons," Lothíriel's smile was bright, mischievous, "The stakes are quite high."
"I declare a double or nothing rematch!" the booming voice of Imrahil broke in.
Lothíriel laughed musically, "Depends on the stakes!"
"A bag of Westfold truffles, a bundle of Longbottom leaf, salted sweetfish from the Brandywine, a bushel of wild strawberries, and your father put up a bucket of Amroth oysters," Éomer replied, he could feel his grin.
Lothíriel nodded intently, "I'm in."
"We must wait for Aragorn, Faramir, and Éowyn to finish their business," Imrahil replied, "Seeing Éowyn wear that spoon when Aragorn came to call…!"
Imrahil and Merry both burst out laughing. Éomer grinned as well, then shrugged sympathetically at Lothíriel, clearly unhappy about being left out of the jest.
"Perhaps we should wait for a moment where the chances of glory in the face of embarrassment are greater," Lothíriel exclaimed, "For now we are amongst friends. Ada - please let me plan!"
Éomer did not like the look in Lothíriel's eyes, as if she was already in the midst of planning a grand scheme, but he was relieved they would not wear spoons that night.
Éomer felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, then turned around to see that Éowyn and Faramir had returned to the party.
"Laughter at my expense brother?" Éowyn smiled, clearly unabashed.
"At Lord Aragorn's expense, I reckon," grinned Imrahil, "Who has returned! I needs must speak with him."
"Brother, may I have a word?" Éowyn spoke softly, and Éomer saw that Faramir's hands were fidgeting.
"Of course," Éomer replied, shot a look at Lothíriel, who winked at him, and followed his sister to another corner of the garden. Faramir seated himself next to the chess players, watching their game. But he betrayed his worry by periodically looking up hopefully at Éowyn. But Faramir was not who Éomer's gaze followed at the chess board...
"If you continue to have clandestine meetings all night, you will never enjoy the party," Éomer was still looking at Lothíriel. Éowyn's smile of understanding brought the blush to Éomer's cheeks. Again.
"My hope is that this need not be a long conversation," Éowyn's voice was serious. It scared Éomer.
"Ask sister," Éomer thought to joke, but something in Éowyn's tone stayed his jest.
"Two things. First is Faramir and I would like to be married at the return of our uncle to Rohan," Éowyn had put her hand on Éomer's, "Please say yes."
Éomer wanted to say no, it was too soon. He wanted to tell her how much he needed her to help him lead Rohan. That if she married Faramir, then it was all up to him. Alone. He was scared of losing her, of failing his people. But he could not refuse her for his own fear. The hope in Éowyn's eyes stilled his thoughts. He would not refuse her this, her deepest joy.
"Yes," Éomer said, "The Rohirrim deserve a celebration of love and hope after all this grief. Seeing you happy with the Steward of Gondor… yes."
"We will stay in Rohan as long as you need us," Éowyn squeezed Éomer's hand. She had read his worry. She always knew.
"I'm scared Éowyn," Éomer's honesty startled even him, "I was meant to be a soldier, not a King."
Éowyn pulled Éomer in for a hug, "None of us were meant to be what we now are. But we are. You are a good King, and you have the makings of a great King. Not least because you listen to your wise sister."
Éomer laughed. He knew she had said it to make him laugh, but her words were also true.
"What will I do without you?" Éomer pleaded.
"You will turn to other trusted advisors. I believe Imrahil will ask you tonight if he could become a permanent fixture in your court, as ambassador to Gondor," Éowyn's eyes twinkled, "And I will always come when you need me."
Éomer looked for jest in Éowyn's statement, but knew there was none. Imrahil intended to remain in Rohan with him. He wondered if that meant that so too would Lothíriel. As the blush rose in his face, so did a smile. Éowyn was smiling too; she always knew what he was thinking.
"You said there was a second thing," Éomer was worried what the second one would be.
"I would like to serve a similar role," Éowyn had exhaled, clearly she was less worried about this request, "To be Rohan's ambassador in Gondor."
"Yes!" the words escaped Éomer before he had even finished hearing her request, "Sister, that is perfect! Rohan will never go wanting when its ambassador has brought both its King and Steward to heel!"
Éowyn laughed so loud that the rest of the party looked up at her. Aragorn in particular. A silent signal passed between his sister and Aragorn, then also Faramir. All of a sudden, Aragorn had stepped forward, and Faramir stood too.
Éowyn took Éomer's hand and whispered, "The rest is about to become clear brother."
"To my dearest of friends, both old and new, I have an announcement," Aragorn spoke, "Though this will not be made official until I am crowned, I have been blessed tonight. For tonight, my wish that Faramir and his House would remain Stewards even after I am King has been granted. Additionally, the House of Húrin will be returning to its seat in Emyn Arnen, with the Prince of Ithilien, and my Steward, at its helm."
Everyone looked to Faramir, who carried a thoughtful smile. Éomer felt Éowyn squeeze his hand tightly. So that was what they were speaking about. They had talked with Aragorn before they talked with him, to make sure everything was in place. It felt conspiratorial, then Éomer realized that Éowyn knew his mind so well that she did not need to ask him to know his answers. She would make a fine ambassador. Éomer cleared his throat. Faramir would be sharing the spotlight.
"One more thing," Éomer spoke clearly, and tried to ignore the harsh look his sister was giving him, "Éowyn will be the vessel of Rohan in Gondor. She will be ambassador, and will speak for me. I hope you like Éowyn on council Aragorn!"
Imrahil and Faramir started to laugh. Éomer had started to wonder just how deep the scheme had run. He did not care. Éowyn was the right person for the role. He had nodded to Aragorn, who nodded back.
"A toast," Aragorn raised a glass, "To the brave men and women who gave their lives to give us this moment, to the Hobbits who delivered us from evil, and to those who will help us write our bright future."
"Hear hear," the call was harmonious from all participants.
Faramir stood, and strode over to Éomer and Éowyn. He looked hopeful, but also anxious.
"Don't worry, I said yes to all my sister's requests," Éomer tried to scowl, but his smile was obvious, "Be ready for a lifetime of horsehair."
Éowyn and Faramir both laughed. Then Faramir pulled Éomer in for a tight hug, "Thank you brother."
Éomer nodded, "I should like to take more sparring practice with you. Perhaps just after you wake up from your slumber."
"I reckon that as your skill increases, so too will the number of my bruises," Faramir smiled mildly.
"I reckon so, yes," Éomer knew he was not being intimidating, but yes, he liked making sure that Faramir understood that he was marrying Éomer's beloved baby sister.
"Min elskede, I will just have to double my healing," Éowyn said it to Faramir, but she was looking at Éomer. He and Faramir both turned slightly redder, understanding her intimation.
"Then I should expect a similar service, sister," Éomer retorted, but he regretted it immediately.
"Lothíriel, have you ever tried your hand at the healing arts?" Éowyn called over to the chess match.
Lothíriel moved one last piece, checkmating Merry, then strolled over to their crew, Merry in tow.
"I had not, I compose and paint," Lothíriel replied, "Might you teach me the basics?"
Éowyn was still grinning at the color she had made Éomer turn. Éomer did not like it.
"We can practice on my brother and your cousin," Éowyn replied, she was enjoying herself too much, "Apparently when they spar, they enjoy putting dents into one another."
Lothíriel smiled, but her cheeks had turned nearly as red as Éomer's face. She shot him a glance.
"I heard you may also be willing to teach me swordplay?" Lothíriel looked at Éowyn intently.
"I can teach you," the words came from Éomer's mouth unbidden. He felt his face become a deeper shade of red.
Éowyn smiled, "Éomer taught me my skill. He is an excellent teacher."
Lothíriel smiled brightly, a smile that radiated from her. Yes. Éomer would teach her to spar, to protect her. He had given that gift to his sister. For Lothíriel, he would teach her so well that if any man ever tried to take her, she could kill him.
"I have one piece of business to attend to, then we can speak of what you want to learn," Éomer spoke authoritatively, even as he continued to blush.
He knew he wanted Lothíriel to be his wife. He knew he would woo her, and he would take the first steps toward that today. Éomer walked over to Imrahil.
"If you want to be ambassador to Rohan, it is yours," Éomer spoke seriously, but he could hear the hope in his voice, "I will set up a quarters befitting your title when I return to Edoras."
Imrahil smiled nearly as brightly as when Sauron's power broke.
"As long as Aragorn approves, I accept," Imrahil replied, his eyes twinkling with joy.
"He will consent," Éomer replied, he knew that was where Imrahil belonged, "And your family. Let them visit and see if the rolling hills and mountain air are… acceptable."
Imrahil nodded, he understood.
"Oh, and please invite your family to accompany my uncle on his last ride," Éomer spoke, "We will have a Rohirric wedding with a funeral. In Rohan, celebration and joy often go hand in hand with grief."
Imrahil laughed, "I am glad my nephew took my advice."
"So… this was all your doing?" Éomer asked, more amused than upset, "My sister has a lot to teach me in a much shorter time than I thought."
"Well, now that you've appointed me ambassador, so too will I be there. And I daresay my daughter might want to explore Rohan. She has the insight and wits of her cousin," Imrahil replied, "You are a good man, and have the makings of a great King."
"Let us speak no more of this tonight," Éomer felt the blood in his face, "We have far too much to celebrate to continue discussing these things any further."
Imrahil nodded, still smiling brightly, then headed to speak with Aragorn. Éomer suspected he knew what about. Éomer stood quietly for a while, breathing in the air of the garden. He listened to the sound of his friends' voices. To the laughter of Hobbits and men and dwarves. He then turned to see Lothíriel standing with Éowyn and Faramir. He walked back to them. This. Those conversations, those jokes, the laughter, that was his future. Every person in that garden would make sure that he was a good King, perhaps even a great King.
Everything was changing. No, everything had changed. Éowyn was always destined to leave him, or him her, and she was doing so in bliss, with a man who had won her heart by seeing and loving the whole of her. Éomer would forever be proud to call Faramir brother. And Lothíriel, a woman Éomer dreamed about, whose voice was music in his ears, whose words wove a sense of wonder in him. He hoped that the fresh air, green grass and mountains of Rohan would feel home to a jewel of the sea, and that he would get to call her wife. And with them all the return of a King, and the Hobbits, the unexpected saviors of Middle Earth.
Éomer breathed in and took in the moment. With friends around him, he welcomed the fresh beginnings of the new Dawn.