A/N: Éomer is whipped and waltzing is the Middle Earth equivalent of dropping it like it's hot on the dancefloor. Aunt Irvriniel is the immoveable object against Lothìriel's unstoppable force. Also, we're getting inventive with language my dudes hence the T rating. I was gonna make the ball section this chapter; but it wouldn't be me if this fic didn't get a ball chapter all to itself. This chapter is entirely in Éomer's perspective save the final vignette, for reasons which will become fairly apparent. Man I thought this was going to be a happier chapter but boy was I wrong.
Chapter 3: Sea silk gossamer
Éomer could feel cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his shirt. One shot, that was all it would take.
If his arrow missed well… he'd never hear the end of it.
"It's a massive fucking target! Miss that and it's just embarrassing!" Turning around he saw the well-built auburn-haired man sitting beside a very amused-looking Amrothos who fiddled with the strands of a dark-coloured braid. Erchirion, ever the sailor was given unspoken permission by Imrahil to curse his clever mouth off without the punishments his siblings would usually encounter. Mostly due to the fact he believed only Erchirion had the sense not to cause scandal with such language at court. Éomer was certain that the tiny princess looking smug beside him became proficient in the curses of Middle Earth's most commonly spoken languages through him. Elphir had recounted upon the battlefield that they had struggled to hide their sister's perniciousness for the potty mouth as a toddler from their father to disastrous effect.
Faramìr by all accounts was still traumatised.
Speaking of Elphir, it would be ideal if the calmest of the three brothers could return home as soon as possible. The least troublesome by a very, very small margin and would be able to keep those two hellions in line. What he wouldn't give for Aragorn to simply stand by and allow the two princes to attend to his every whim as they worshipped the ground he walked upon. Unfortunately, his brother-in-arms was currently occupied with the matter of his impending fatherhood, Arwen was becoming far too large for his liking and he worried over the idea of a journey further than Ithilien.
"Éomer, if you lose you owe me a new horse!" Amrothos now jibed, earning a punch for his elder brother.
"Rothos you shitcock! You know that's fiscally irresponsible for him!" Éomer supposed that Lothìriel only dared speak in such an inventive way as her father (and his courtiers) were not around. Apparently such creativity had allowed for the passing of several bills in the small council during her father's absence.
He took a deep breath and readjusted his grip upon the bow one last time, willing himself to hit the target's bullseye some couple hundred feet away affixed to a statue of one of Lothìriel's less-beloved ancestors. Not even daring to look in fear he missed, he closed his eyes and released his shot. He could hear the release of the arrow from the taught drawstring, his fingers felt the flurry of feathers slip through and his cheek the slight breeze the shot gave. With a heart-stopping thump the arrow met the woven target.
It hit it at least, first sign of hope.
He slowly opened his eyes, trying to view the target in the distance.
The sapphire-plumed arrow had just missed the bullseye, landing slightly to it's left by an inch.
It was mocking him and he didn't like it.
That damned inch had just cost him public humiliation in the form of entreating the annoying princess to his left with her first dance at her first ball.
"Can you not at least be gracious in victory?" He muttered to the understandably delighted princess. No, delighted was too weak a word. She was positively ecstatic, laughing energetically and dropping her bow at the force of her laughter. He reluctantly admitted to himself that her dainty face became wonderfully rosy and bright, eyes almost dripping with tears from the sheer hilarity of it all. Éomer could feel his lips also pull into a smile, finding her simply too infectious. "I demand a rematch, you cheated."
"No! You made the bet, even signed the damned paper Erchi handed you." She pushed his shoulder with a great deal of strength, failing to shove him over. "You look so…" Her tone was more gentle now as Lothìriel tossed her heavy braid over her shoulder once again before daring to look him in the eyes. Éomer found it hard to meet her gaze but he tried all the same.
The fact her eyes were blue in this light should not have taken him by surprise.
And yet it did. It seemed like such an important detail to miss. He'd just assumed her eyes were the same grey he had observed in her brothers and father. But here in the morning light it acquired the slightest tinge of pale blue to the stormy grey. How could he have missed that? Something so beautiful and so uniquely hers?
"So what?" He heard himself respond, perhaps too weakly for his liking. He needed to get better at this, she was barely half his height after all.
"So constipated." He laughed at that. "You're really not so bad,"
"No, I am."
"No, you're not!" She countered back, impassioned. "Besides I can't expect you to be perfect at everything." Things fell comfortably silent between them once again as he noticed Amrothos and Erchirion make their way towards them across the paved courtyard.
"Alright not a horse. Mayhaps a cask of Westfold Ale?" Amrothos conceded. Éomer rolled his eyes, wondering how he ever put up with these two on the campaign trail.
From memory he didn't. It took his new brother-in-law knocking their heads together to get them to actually shut up for a period of longer than five minutes. He could only pity Faramìr and the state of his wits in the future knowing the shenanigans Eòwyn got up to. He was still livid over the horse shit she'd placed into his new boots at Meduseld when she was nine. Éomer recalled Thèodred's particular experience with shoe polish in his hair while he slept, dyeing it the most magnificent shade of green. For the sake of everyone's sanity, he hoped his soon-to-be sister-child took after his father rather than Eòwyn.
"Give it up my dearest, most ancient brother." Lothìriel chimed, grinning an infuriatingly dimpled smile. She was going to be the death of him, and Éomer wasn't entirely sure if he was going to hate it or not. No, he feared that he was enjoying it far too much. "He's already had his dignity skewered."
"I find it galling that I was beaten by a cheating babe, that is all."
"My apologies sire, shall I hand you back your walking stick?" He gave her a cautious shove as he did Eòwyn when they were children, not expecting an even stronger one in return from the short woman. Despite it all, he smiled.
Erchirion raised a brow and Amrothos appeared to be grinning with a delight that could only be described as akin to the time Pippin won a bet against Aragorn about whether he or Faramìr was the greater drinker. And just as that time, Éomer felt a sinking feeling of dread in regards to Lothìriel's two brothers.
"My cousins would have me believe that you are wildly and madly in love with my baby cousin." Éomer spluttered out his ale earning himself a grimace from Eòwyn and a smirk from Faramìr. If anything the damned polished surfaces of the Dol Amroth palace only made him more aware of his apparent roughness. He was sure that his grandmother was somewhere in Gondor having a fit at the lack of finesse she failed to instil into himself and his sister. Or at least into him, Eòwyn could be polished whenever she felt like- though more often than not it was never.
"Bemà will this involve poetry?" Eòwyn's nose scrunched up briefly before releasing a loud laugh, clearly delighted at whatever his facial response may be, her fingers curling around the plush fabric of the seat she sat upon. "Will I finally see you swoon over a woman?"
"I do not swoon." His voice sounded unconvincing even to his ears. He picked up his glass of ale, hoping he was recovering well enough to miss the eyesight of his ranger brother.
"Nay brother, you just blush terribly. Your ears turn a rather remarkable shade of red!"
Instead he attempted to calm himself by observing the airy rooms his sister and husband had been allocated. Lothìriel briefly mentioned that the rooms had once been Faramìr and Boromìr's upon their visits to the city, however now they had been rearranged to suit the young couple. Faramìr's book and scroll cases decorated the walls while one of Eòwyn's newly-completed tapestries in the Rohirric style graced the mantel above the fireplace and some of her seedlings growing by windows. Bemà, there he was thinking about something Lothìriel had said again. It seemed she was inescapable at this point as she was in essence Lady of the House and his personal poltergeist.
"Stop thinking about her," Faramìr warned, barely looking up from half-way down his scroll. "It's audible."
"I am not you Gondorian Bastard."
"Save us all the suffering and elope already, Master Merry tells me the Shire is lovely this time of year." Éomer growled at his sister but held back the insult forming at the fore of his mind. It would serve him little to snipe at her when her silver-tongued husband could easily lash him with his. "But truly, are you to now open the ball with her?"
"It is quite an honour," Faramìr added, though Éomer noted the man seemed to be more genuine than before. "I believe she once forced my brother to promise that he'd open her first ball. Well, I think she tried coercing everyone at one point or another. My brother wasn't much of a dancer, more of a drinker anyway."
"My brother, though he may not look it, can be quite the dancer when he puts his mind to it." There was no end to Eòwyn's teasing. "I'm sure you won't embarrass the entire nation. Perhaps just our Grandmother."
"Ah yes, Grandmother." Éomer gave pause, hearing what appeared to be a heated argument between some guards, scuffled noises from the gravel indicated to him a polite amount of shoving. Though Morwen taught him some Sindarin, he doubted he knew enough to understand the nuances of the insults being hurled.
"Damn cousins," Faramìr, with the familiar tired exasperation of an elder brother or sibling. "No point breaking it up unless you wish an errant fist in your face."
"Speaking from experience husband?" Eòwyn quirked a brow before wincing at the sharp noise of smashed garden pottery. A shrill, angered voice belonging to a woman quickly broke up the tousle. Though it was certainly not the lilting tones of Lothìriel (he'd come to be far too familiar to those melodic notes). Éomer noted a quirk in his new brother's eyebrow, the way his mouth pressed into a displeased line and his nostrils flaring in anger. Indeed, Faramìr seemed agitated, despite his best effort to hide it by dripping onto the wooden arm-rest of his seat.
"Valar save us all from the wrath of Lady Irvriniel." In all of Éomer's experience within Aragorn's councils he had never known The Steward to lose his even-temper as this.
Éomer stood, curious now, making his way to the window in order to view the scene unfolding within the courtyard. In harsh Sindarin a tall, stately woman delivered scathing reprimands to her nephews, gesturing wildly at the broken pot and the soil tumbling from the multitude of cracks. Both Erchirion and Amrothos looked galled, starring down at their feet. Though something in Erchirion's tense jaw seemed to belie a desire to retaliate, to spit something equally as scathing back. His heart stopped the moment he noticed Lothiriel arrive, laughing as she held onto a comically over-dressed cat in a miniature guard's uniform (he had become very well acquainted with Sir Ràvo Whiskers, Royal Mouse-catcher of the Swan Knight Cavalry). The scene would have been utterly hilarious and bizarre had Éomer not seen the effortless smile upon her face disappear. Irvriniel turned to her niece now, saying something beyond his capabilities of hearing. Though he gathered it wasn't anything particularly pleasant.
He'd never seen Lothiriel sad before. Stoic perhaps, angry, nervous, happy. But not sad.
The grace she carried herself with seemed to stiffen at the shoulders, her chin raising and holding itself at a level that appeared to be dignified. Her eyes betrayed those efforts with the glistening of tears forming at the corners, her berry-stained lower lip trembled as she bit out a calm response. Éomer felt a mild sense of disgust well up within him, feeling as if none of this felt right. He noticed the way her petite hands fumbled for the elegant folds of her pale pink skirt, grasping them tight in her palms.
Éomer spotted the arrival of the eldest of Imrahil's children, carrying his small son in his arms, looking to be more on edge than he had anticipated. Elphir's face was set into a concerned line, perhaps having deduced the nature of what was occurring. He greeted his sister by pulling her into as tight of an embrace as he could manage with one arm, placing a kiss upon her brow. He seemed to say something that failed to please his aunt as she turned away with a huff.
"Well that could have been infinitely worse." Faramìr spat out with displeasure, begrudgingly getting out of his comfortable seat and placing a kiss to his wife's cheek. "Now if you'll forgive me brother, darling wife, I must deal with beloved Aunt Irvriniel. Let us pray to the Valar that I return in one piece."
Dinner proved to be an interesting experience that night. As he had done over the past couple of weeks, Éomer had taken the vacated seat to Lothìriel's side, greeting her with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Lothìriel returned it, though her smile seemed less free, much more terse than he had hoped for. Every quiet comment he'd make towards her was rewarded with a brief pause from her empty staring at her bowl as she would turn to look at him and answer back. Occasionally Éomer would make a small face at Alphros as he sat in his beloved Uncle Erchi's lap, earning a giggle from the lad and a small smile from Lothìriel. His persistence paid off as the reserved Princess behind him slowly began to relax, initiating conversation more than she had over the past few minutes. This felt much better to him, hearing her laugh as freely as she had before.
A small cough came from Lady Irvriniel as the tall, wiry woman fixed her niece a glare.
"And what pray, young lady, can be so amusing at this hour?" Éomer took in Irvriniel's tightly coiled back auburn hair, held fast beneath a snood of plain weave. She seemed so severe, so cold in comparison to her brother. Imrahil on the other hand was almost too carefree in his attitude and positively spoiled his children to the extent of almost no discipline. He supposed his sons learned control through their time in their respective military ranks. Lothìriel seemed to have learned hers through her time as Princess of Dol Amroth. Though it appeared to Ivriniel that her niece was still an uncontrollable child.
"I do not think I could properly explain to you, Aunt," Lothìriel's voice was level, measured, though without the fear she had held in moments before. "After all, the youthful shenanigans of today's generation go quite over your head as you so like to say."
Éomer spied Elphir snorting into his soup while Erchirion smothered his laughter into the downy-hairs of the adorably pudgy Alphros.
Irvriniel then sent her icy, grey glare towards him now. As if she accused him of having corrupted her impressionable niece. Both Amrothos and Imrahil noticed this and shared a slightly worried look at the possible offence their unguarded relative was causing. It was a shame his sister and new brother could not join this dinner, he was sure Irvriniel would have several choice words for his Wraithsbane sister, and she in turn several more. Faramìr, he was sure, would be absolutely delighted in being able to use his keen foresight and tongue at her.
"I can assure you, my lady, I am only doing my best to entertain your esteemed niece as best as my unrespectable Rohirric ways can manage." Irvriniel only deigned looked increasingly displeased before returning back to haughtily sipping her soup.
Éomer felt a warmth upon his thigh, and briefly looking down, noticed the small hand of the Princess just above his knee. She mouthed a quiet thank you before extracting her hand and returning to her soup.
Over the coming hours, Éomer didn't think it possible that he could think so much about a small gesture. Indeed, by Rohirric standards, he was used to being manhandled.
Irvriniel seemed to avoid him whenever possible. Though the Dol Amroth palace itself was large, the private quarters were fairly close and any privacy was to be gained by traversing great distances to the various gardens of the palace. Or indeed by fleeing the palace all together and mingling about the streets of Belfalas. Éomer took to joining Lothìriel whenever possible, who was giving a sterling performance in the art of avoiding her father's older sister.
Though it seemed, however, she had not managed it on this occasion. Éomer stood awkwardly near the deep wooden doors to Imrahil's quarters towards the corridor, waiting patiently and watching the impassive faces of the guards standing upon either side. He adjusted the deep-green cloak draped upon his left shoulder (worn in a fashion Aragorn insisted was becoming to him) and began to pace- stopping only when he heard raised voices.
"-And it is none of your business, Aunt! You have no right, and no authority over me. Furthermore, in case it has slipped your memory, I currently out-rank you." Lothìriel wasn't shouting as such, though her voice was raised above much normal levels. There was no heat, only the threat of command over her Aunt.
"And I am your father's elder sister. Imrahil may have spoiled you, child, but you will listen! You will wear whatever dress I put in front of you and you will not embarrass me."
"Lothì, please," Imrahil tried to reason with his daughter.
"I would rather turn up to my ball as naked as the day I was born." Now the anger creeped into her tone, getting upon the verge of breaking into proper rage. "You have no right to criticise what I choose to wear at the ceremony and you do not have the authority to criticise my position upon the council. Return to me when you have spent a year managing this godsforsaken country and a war rather than sniping at everyone who brings you displeasure." Éomer heard approaching footsteps upon the marble floor, rapid and short with the whisper of soft fabric trailing behind.
Lothìriel emerged, pushing the two doors open with her own strength and letting them swing shut behind her, looking righteously furious and ready to attack any person that came into contact with her. Her eyes were alight with anger, their usual gentle grey now akin to the steel of formidable swords. Something in her expression softened when she spotted him, her mouth falling slightly open she turned direction and walked towards him.
He hadn't expected to find her arms flung around his neck, her face buried into his chest as he did his best to compensate and bend a little down. His chin seemed to easily be able to tuck the dainty princess under his frame, holding her as he would a delicate bird within his arms. She was simply so tiny it didn't seem right that something so delicate could hide such strength. But he should have learned by now that Lothìriel was just too many things for him to be able to understand in a single afternoon.
But over a lifetime? Aye, perhaps he could after that, with her in his arms like this. He could feel her heartbeat, fast and passionate as she was, pounding in her chest.
"I-I'm sorry I shouldn't have," She pulled away briefly and he noticed the glistening tracks of fallen tears upon the curve of her cheeks, coloured with her anger.
"No, it's perfectly alright." He felt his fingers, as if moving of their own accord, wipe away a stray tear. "If you do not wish to sit with my sister and myself today,"
"Would you make my excuses? I-I think I need some time to myself."
"I understand," Éomer stepped back, relishing in the final vestiges of warmth that radiated from their contact. He held her hand in his and placed a small kiss upon the back. Once again he wasn't quite sure what over took him in that moment, but it seemed the right choice. "Lothìriel?"
"Yes?"
"Are you sure you're alright?"
She briefly looked down, giving a quick squeeze to the hand she held. "I think I will be, if not there's always the trade agreements from Dale."
Despite his worry he gave a brief chuckle, his heart seemed to contract painfully as he saw her beautiful smile begin to form upon her face.
"What on Arda do you three bastards think you're doing?" The last thing Lothìriel expected after that particular mess was her three brothers hunched about a large table in her private sitting room. She hastily wiped away the tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she remembered the snide comment Irvriniel had tossed at her during her quick meeting with her father.
Her Aunt Irvriniel had once held her mother's coming-of-age dress aloft for her to see. Sea-foam green and just as delicate; young Lothìriel had immediately reached out with pudgy fingers to touch it. She yearned to hold the gossamer-fine fabric in her hands, feel the delicate golden embroidery edging the hemline. Sunlight delicately filtered through the fine weave of sea-silk gossamer, making the entire garment radiate with the soft golden hue of morning light.
Irvriniel then held the gown far above the little girl's dark head, storing it again within the chest containing all of Meldawen's former belongings. Her father said the little oaken chest was to be hers when she came of age. Lothìriel, however, knew the chest was lost. Absconded by one of her mother's siblings and refused to be returned- it was part of Meldawen's dowry and seeing as she was dead it was no longer her property. She was lucky her brothers had been given heirlooms by their mother as she lay dying on her deathbed, strings of pearls and small brooches pressed into their hands, not knowing what the fate of the rest of her belongings held.
"You know dear old Aunt Irvriniel is probably spitting fire at the fact she doesn't get to make your dress." Elphir snuck up beside her, depositing a familiar kiss to the crown of her head. "Lothì we can't promise it'll be perfect-"
"No, I don't want it to be perfect." She took a glance at Amrothos' furrowed brows, observing a pile of pale silver Haradim silk and beginning to draw out a pattern. Erchirion's deft fingers wove a complex pattern with silver-shot wool threads, forming a braided cord from a nail he had hammered partially into the table to hold the threads taut. She imagined her brother did something similar every morning upon his ships, weaving rope as he was taught as a child. His ruddy hair was tied back in a much simpler cord, though also braided by him.
"Well, nanneth taught us enough sewing to hopefully serve you." Amrothos briefly looked up from the fabric with a cheery grin.
"I don't care how messy your stitches are, brother." Lothìriel smiled fondly at the most troublesome of her brothers. "Tradition states that the mother or those who raised the girl who is to come out makes the dress. Besides, even if it's as ugly as your pathetic face I have plenty of other dresses."
"Ouch Lothì. You're well aware at how sensitive I am about my ugliness." Amrothos snorted before going back to the pattern. "If you're not careful we'll make the dress positively scandalous, you'll never find a respectable husband that way."
Lothìriel carefully considered her teasing brother before her, tilting her head a little to the side, feeling for the first time in a long while the formation of a dimple upon her cheek as she smirked. There was something Éomer had said to her over their many dinners, the very words were at the fore of her mind and she berated herself for failing to recall them exactly. But the ghost of it's memory sparked something in her imagination.
"You know what my dearest brother? I won't be entirely satisfied until this gown thoroughly scandalises Irvriniel." In all honesty, scandalising Irvriniel was a fairly easy task.
"Baby sister, when have I ever failed to cater to your demands?" Amrothos shot back with an equally delighted grin as he held his chalk piece aloft and began to make amends to his drafted pattern.
Irvriniel may have given her hell this past week, but since when did Lothìriel ever care about what she said?
A/N: I do think Irvriniel cares in her own way, but I don't think Lothìriel was ever the sort to enjoy receiving love in the form of unnecessary discipline out of mis-placed worry. She won't be an entire villain here because coming from a obscenely large family, there's always that relative (or in my case about 5 of that type of Aunt). Meldawen's gown is inspired by the fact that weaving sea algae into fabric is a dying art and I like to think that the elves (and numenoreans by that extent) managed to develop fine enough weaves in order to manage a gossamer of sea silk. But ya'll probably don't wanna hear about the archaeology of ancient textiles lmao and I didn't wanna turn this fic into my essay on that.
Feel free to leave reviews and let me know what you think of my fic so far! I really do love hearing and replying to them