Chapter 9

"How now, my lady? Why so sad?"

Lothíriel looked up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Standing next to her, despite all of her father's efforts, it seemed, was Lord Belegorn. The princess wanted to do a very un-lady-like thing and throw up her hands in exasperation. "A beautiful woman such as yourself should not be alone on a night of celebration. Will you not dance with me?"

The man's nasally intonations made Lothíriel grind her teeth in frustration. "Forgive me, my lord," she said, sure that she was mustering all the patience in Middle-Earth. "I am feeling quite unwell so you will excuse me if I do not dance."

Belegorn did not make an action as if to move away, however. "Come now, my lady," he said, giving her a nauseating smile. "I have heard that I am a great remedy to a lady's ills. My touch shall be like a balm and my kiss a salve to all your woes."

Sweet Eru, spare me, Lothíriel nearly rolled her eyes in irritation. "I am sure my lord has the best intentions," she said, once more focusing on her wine glass so that she did not lose her temper. "My head pains me a great deal, and I fear dancing will only make it worse." She looked now to the man, as she was sure she had her emotions under control.

She was wrong.

The expression on Belegorn's face was a mix of anger and frustration, reminding her of a spoiled child who was denied his favorite toy. She had to look away, not sure if she was about to laugh or scream. "You must dance with me!" he cried, all but stomping his foot in his petulance. "You may not be privy to this information, but your father intends on us to be wed!"

This was just too much. Lothíriel rose from where she sat, tired suddenly of the way that she had been treated by Éothain, by Belegorn, by the boy in the healing house and even by her own father. The men around her, for too long, had dictated her life or put her off as only a beautiful face, a warrior princess, or a means to her father's pocketbook.

She was not a symbol or statue for others to look upon. She had endured their gaze and their control for the past twenty-two years of her life, but for some reason, she was only now growing tired of it. "My dear Lord Belegorn," she said, her voice tinged with acid. "It matters not what you discussed with my father. Will you be marrying him?"

She watched as his eyes widened in anger. But before he could open his mouth, she continued. "No. It is I you wish to marry, and I will tell you now that I find you as marriageable as a sack of suet. Indeed, sir, I would not marry you if you were the last man on this earth."

Lothíriel left the man sputtering in protest as she stalked form the great hall, ready to go to bed and forget the happenings of the day.

She made it about three-quarters of the way to the door when another voice sounded behind her. "Where are you going, my lady Lothíriel?" It was the Rohirrim King's voice—funny how she already recognized it, even though she had only known the man for two days. "You cannot be tired already. The festivities are just beginning!"

The princess, once more, felt annoyance build within her. Here was another man telling her what to do and how to behave—really, she could not take much more. But her training overcame her annoyance and she turned to sink into a curtsy. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she said, not looking up at the man. "I am afraid I am feeling unwell. Pray, excuse me for this evening."

Then, before he could stop her once more, she turned and left the great hall a quickly as possible.

Éomer was nursing a glass of wine when he bumped into Éothain for the second time that night. The latter, too, was holding a glass of wine, but judging from the look on his face, Éomer guessed he would much rather have been drinking a tankard of ale. But they were in Gondor and guests must drink what their hosts provided them.

"Hail, brother," Éomer greeted his friend in their own tongue. "How goes your evening? Are the festivities treating you well?"

Éothain tried hard not to wince, causing Éomer to cough into his wine. If it were up to his friend, the king knew, there would be more busty serving wenches and less dancing, though Éothain's eyes had stopped wandering as much after his marriage. His wife was everything the captain could have wished for: she was witty enough to talk back and pretty with thick golden hair and ample hips and breasts.

Éothain had always liked his women to be well-endowed, but Éomer found he preferred women that were slenderer.

"Well enough," his friend said. "I did get to dance with the Lady Lothíriel, which is always an honor." Éothain was looking pointedly at him.

Why did I ever confess that I found the woman interesting? Éomer silently lamented. It was as if both Éowyn and Éothain were reading into his words. "She did not seem to like you," he said, a little annoyed at his friend. "She left during the middle of your dance."

His friend nodded. "I am afraid I offended the lady," he said contritely. "But it does not mean she mislikes me. Indeed, she asked me for a second dance."

The king could feel his annoyance rising. He, himself, had only gotten to dance one bout with the lady, and he had spent significantly more time with her. What did it mean that she—"She asked you?" he suddenly realized.

The captain nodded. "Aye. She is a bold one," he answered, shrugging. "But of course, that is not to be unexpected. She did kill two Orcs. The only other woman that I know that has slain any of the beasts is your sister, and my lady Éowyn has a heavy dose of boldness within her."

Éomer sipped his wine. "What did you say to offend her?"

His friend shrugged once more. "Will you have the truth or shall I lie to you?" he asked. "Either way, you shall be displeased with me, I fear."

The kings' annoyance was only building. "Out with it, man!" he roared, shocking a few noble ladies near them. He ignored them and kept his attention on his captain, who seemed perfectly at ease as he sipped his own wine. "Do not think I will not punish you just because you are my friend," Éomer warned. "I may not have your head, but I can put you on stable duties for the rest of the year."

That was enough to elicit a disgusted look from Éothain. He sighed and muttered, "Perhaps your name was mentioned."

"What?!" The ladies near them gave him an evil look and walked away, huffing.

"Perhaps I asked her if she liked you," his friend continued.

"What?!" he was holding his wine glass so tightly, he was surprised it did not shatter in his hands. "Why in Bema's name would you do that?"

The other man blinked innocently as he peered around them. The glittering ballroom that the Great Hall had been made into was positively buzzing, and no one noticed the two men standing in the corner. "Éomer, I shall be blunt," the captain said. "Your experience with women has not been the best." Before the king could interject, the man held up a hand to silence him and plowed forward. "Your council is about to go mad with the fear that you will be a bachelor forever, and frankly, the Riddermark needs a queen."

Had they not been in polite company, Éomer would have grabbed the man by the collar. "I do not need you to meddle in my affairs," he spoke through clenched teeth. However, he knew the necessity of finding a queen soon. It was not so much that Éomer needed help ruling the realm, but that the dowry that came with the bride was the only hope of feeding his people this winter.

It was one of the main reasons for his visit to Minas Tirith, though even his sister and Aragorn did not know of his need. Like a beggar coming in disguise, he was here to find a rich Gondorian noble woman who would not mind the open country and the smell of horses.

"You must be married, and soon, my friend," Éothain said, his tone serious. "The Lady Lothíriel meets your requirements. She is of the right age, and her father is rich enough to provide enough to last the Riddermark another year or two at the very least. Enough time to get our farmers back on their feet."

The king was glad, then, that they were speaking in their own tongue.

"She is fair, and…" Éothain paused. "She has her own mind. Not just a witless yay-sayer as some others. You will like her."

I already do, the other man thought against his will.

Éomer put his glass down with purpose. "I do not need you to find me a wife, 'Thain," he said, his voice tinged with steel. "I can go about my own business well enough."

The other man held up his palms in a token of peace. The look on his face, however, suggested that he knew more than he was letting on. Though he hated to admit it, Éomer knew the other man was right. While he did not know if Lothíriel would ever consent to leaving Gondor, he knew at least that she did not mind riding, that she had a wit faster than Firefoot's gallop, and she was one of the prettiest maids he had ever laid eyes on.

His thoughts wandered to their kiss.

He had been too forward, and she had run. But for a moment, just one moment, he had thought she kissed him back.

But he could not marry her.

Not like this, as a beggar with ulterior motives. Bema, she deserved better than that. But really, if anyone fit the description of his purposes, she could not have been more perfect.

"Well then fare you well in your 'business,' my friend," the captain said as Éomer looked up at him from his glass. "I can see when I am not needed. But do not say I did not let you know of how well the Lady Lothíriel would fit in your plans."

The king only ground his teeth in annoyance.

New chapter! :) Please let me know your thoughts. I always love hearing back from you! What do you think of Eothain? Is he being too meddlesome?