Trust to Hope - Chapter
Twenty-Six
Author: Novedhelion
Type: FP Het
Fandom: Lord of
the Rings
Pairing: Éomer/Lothíriel aka
Anhuil
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Adult situations...but then
again, this is an ADULT site...
Beta: Riyallyn
Disclaimer: The
characters belong to Tolkien. The names of the places belong to
Tolkien. Any similarities to other stories are purely incidental. But
the DIALOGUE and the SCENES are MINE and I do not release them to the
Public Domain.
So I would
choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But
you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to
break
And So It Goes
Billy
Joel
Meduseld
30 Urui, 3019
T.A.
Standing on the steps of the
Golden Hall, Éomer watched them disappear in the distance.
Éowyn slipped her arm around his waist, and was pulled into
his embrace.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I
will be fine," he lied. "Stop your worrying."
"I am a
woman, Éomer. That is my job."
"Then go worry over
Faramir. I have things to attend to." He kissed her forehead and
released her, long legs striding down the path toward the
stable.
Eowyn watched him disappear, his long legs covering
the distance to the stable quickly. She would allow him the solace
he found with his horses for a while, but later, she would make him
some tea.
Meduseld
30
Urui, 3019 T.A.
Éowyn watched
her brother through the window. He had removed his tunic and slung it
over the fence, tied his hair back with a leather thong, and was now
busily splitting wood with a wedge and a heavy hammer. The midday sun
beat down hard, the sweat trickling down his bare chest. He seemed to
take no notice of anyone passing by who might wonder why the king was
chopping wood.
She would swear he had split ten cords of wood
at least over the past days.
"What is it, love?" Faramir
stepped behind her, his arms sliding around her slender waist,
resting his chin on her shoulder.
"I worry about him,
Faramir. He has hardly eaten anything in days. He does not sleep. I
hear him roaming the halls at night."
"I would be in much
the same shape if you were to leave me, dearest."
"Still..."
she watched as he split yet another log, stepping back to wipe his
brow with the back of his forearm. "He is splitting wood in
midsummer, love. This is no job for a king."
"If he had to
stay indoors at that desk all day he would go insane, and you know
it." Turning her in his arms, Faramir cocked his head to one side.
"So you will have more than enough wood to keep warm when winter
comes, is this a problem?"
"When winter comes, love, I
will be your wife. I will have you to keep me warm."
"That
you will, my beauty, and do not forget it. You shall never be cold
another night as long as my heart beats in my chest." He leaned his
forehead against hers.
"Ah, such lovely words from such
beautiful lips. Might I suggest another use for them?" Éowyn
tilted her face up to meet his soft lips with hers.
Pulling
back, Faramir grinned at her. "Feeling better?"
"If I
say no will you kiss me again?"
"You need ask?" He
lowered his mouth to hers again.
She stepped back and looked
up at him. "Faramir..."
"Yes, love?" he leaned in,
his lips finding their way to her neck.
"Will your cousin be
attending our wedding?"
Faramir raised his head and looked
at her, a slow smile crossing his face. "I would certainly hope
so." He wrinkled his brow at the pensive look on her face. "What
are you thinking, Lady of Rohan?" he inquired teasingly, not sure
he wanted an answer.
"I just cannot imagine being doomed to
spend the rest of my life with a man I did not love." She leaned
against his chest.
"Many marriages are arranged, love. My
parents' marriage was arranged, as was Imrahil's. It is not
uncommon. Very often those involved come to love each other."
"I
understand," Éowyn hugged him tightly. "But it seems so
unfair. They love each other so much, Faramir. They should be
together."
"I do not disagree."
"Is it truly
so hard to dissolve such a contract?"
Faramir shrugged. "If
both parties agree, no. Otherwise, yes, it can be a most difficult
situation."
She turned back toward the window. Éomer
had put aside the hammer and was leaning on the fence, wiping the
sweat from his face with his tunic.
"My heart breaks for
him, beloved. Most times I can get him to open his heart, to talk to
me. This time, however, he refuses. He will not discuss it with me at
all." She watched her brother take up the hammer again and renew
his efforts to split every tree in Rohan into firewood.
"When
he is ready, he will. Your brother is strong and stubborn,
Éowyn."
"As if I did not know that," she
commented dryly.
"Just be there when he is ready to discuss
it."
"I plan to," she said quietly.
Meduseld
2 Ivanneth, 3019
T.A.
Éomer entered the
darkened hall, his bare feet shuffling across the floor toward the
fireplace. The fire had died down, the only light coming from the
smoldering embers. Leaning on the mantle above, he stared down into
the red, glowing ashes.
"As much firewood as you have
split, I cannot imagine fires of Meduseld ever dying again."
Her
voice startled him. Turning quickly, the king noticed his sister
leaning on a carved wooden post behind him, arms folded.
"What
are you doing up?" He turned back toward the fire.
"I
could ask you the same, but I know the answer." She walked to where
he stood, pulling her robe tighter around her slender frame. "Put
another log on and I will make us some tea."
"I do not
want tea."
Éowyn's eyes narrowed. "Yes, you
do."
Éomer's lips curved slightly. There was no
debating the issue when she gave him that look. "Upon second
thought, tea would be lovely." He reached for a log from the nearby
basket of wood, tossing it onto the grate. His sister reappeared
moments later with two cups, handing him one.
"The fire in
the kitchen was still hot," she said before he asked. He took a sip
of the tea, made a face, and looked at his sister.
"Éowyn,"
he began.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a chair near
the fire. Pulling up another, she sat close to him, sipping the warm
tea. The log began to catch, the small flames flickering in the dark.
Éomer sat for some time, watching the flames come to life.
"So tell me, do you plan to cut down every stand of trees
in Rohan?" She glanced at him over the top of her cup. "I would
suggest leaving the Fangorn alone," she chided.
He glanced
at her, clearly not amused. "It helps to distract me."
"Éomer,
I know how frustrated you become when something is troubling you and
there is nothing you can do. You were much the same way when Théoden
was bewitched. It hurts me to see you going through that
again."
"Yes, but at least then there were things I could
do," he sighed. "But this? I can do nothing but wait." He
sighed at the thought, looking up at her. "I am so glad you and
Faramir found each other, Éowyn."
"As am I." She
grinned. "A valiant effort to steer me away from the subject at
hand, dear brother, but we are discussing you and the princess."
He
chuckled at her quick repartee. No easy mark, his sister. "There is
nothing to discuss. She has gone home. She will marry Mardil Fenwick,
unless somehow I can find a way to stop her."
He rubbed his
beard with his hand, staring pensively into the flames. The knot in
his stomach had returned. "My thoughts keep returning to something
the Lady Galadriel said," he told her.
"What did she
say?"
"I adore both the Lady and her husband, but I much
prefer Celeborn's direct manner of speech. The Lady speaks in
riddles." He sipped his tea, trying to remember her words to him.
"Before she left, she told me not to be troubled. She told me the
house of Eorl would endure, and that my reign as king would be long
and joyous."
"I would take that as encouragement, brother.
She has the gift of foresight, you know."
"I have heard,"
he agreed.
Éowyn smiled broadly. "Éomer, that
should give you hope."
"Éowyn, you should know that
I trust only in what I can see and touch. I do not know about
trusting in Elvish prophecies."
"That is not true,
brother. You can neither see nor touch your love for your princess,
yet you know it exists."
He pondered this for a moment. "I
suppose you are right again." Setting down his cup, he stood and
walked over to her, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. "Why
is it that you are always the one giving me advice?"
"Being
older does not necessarily make you wiser, dear brother," she
teased.
He pulled her tighter into his embrace. "I keep
reminding myself how much I will miss your sharp tongue when you
leave."
"Oh, I am certain it will be replaced by one
belonging to a rather mouthy little princess."
"I hope you
are right, Éowyn."
"Get some rest, Éomer."
She kissed his cheek and turned to leave.
"I certainly hope
Faramir realizes what a fortunate man he is."
"He does. I
remind him constantly." The White Lady flipped her hair over her
shoulder and grinned back at her brother. "Goodnight,
Éomer."
"Sleep well, Éowyn," he called
softly after her as she left.
With a heavy sigh, he downed
the rest of his tea and headed for his chamber. With any luck, he
might actually sleep tonight.
Meduseld
10
Narbeleth, 3019 T.A.
Weeks
went by, life at Meduseld falling into a pattern of normalcy. The new
king adjusted, as much as one can, to the duty of rebuilding a
shattered realm. Staying occupied helped, and there was much to be
done.
As the weather grew cooler, he knew Meduseld would have
plenty of firewood, if nothing else.
If the mundane daily
operations of rule were boring to a man who would rather have been
out on patrol, the dinners he was required to attend were complete
torture.
One evening in the early fall, Éomer stood
outside the Great Hall in the corridor, leaning on the wall.
"What
are you doing out here?" His sister's voice startled him. "You
have guests. They are asking after you."
"I am
hiding."
"Hiding from what?" She rolled her eyes.
"Éomer, you are king. You cannot hide."
"It is
dangerous in there." The king stated flatly, refusing to
budge.
Éowyn raised one elegantly arched eyebrow, her
gaze raking over her brother. He certainly was handsome in his dark
burgundy vest, embroidered with golden braiding; she couldn't deny
that the women had taste. "That does not sound very brave coming
from a warrior such as you, my dear brother. They are not orcs. They
are only women."
"Yes," he responded. "I know. Were
they orcs I would have no fear of them."
His sister chuckled
and caught him by the arm. "Come on. I will protect you. I fear to
leave my beloved too long alone in there. The sea of silk and velvet
might overtake him."
"You as much as call me a coward and
then admit you fear to leave Faramir alone with them?"
With
a resigned sigh, the king allowed her to drag him back into the hall.
Glancing around with a polite smile, he met the eyes of several
women. Some shyly turned away, some boldly met his gaze, and some
very obviously had plans of their own. One even winked at him as he
past.
"Éowyn," her brother said, clinging to her
hand on his arm.
"Yes, dear brother?"
"Do not
leave me alone with them," he pled.
She cuffed him lightly
on the shoulder. "They are only women, Éomer."
"Only
women, she says," he rolled his eyes. "If a woman can take down
the Witch King, then I hold no hope for myself."
Éowyn
chuckled, then frowned as his expression became serious.
"I
miss her, Éowyn."
"I know," she responded
quietly. "Faramir assures me she will be at the wedding. That is
less than a month away, brother. You can handle this one night. Just
dance with them, Éomer. Be polite." She pulled away from
him. "You don't have to marry one of them."
"Where are
you going?" His voice was almost panicked.
Éowyn
grinned. "I am going to rescue Faramir, and we are going to dance.
I suggest you find one of them and do the same."
"You would rescue him and leave me to the wolves?"
"He is my betrothed. I cannot let some other wench get her claws into him."
"Traitor," he
muttered as she glided away from him across the floor to where
Faramir stood, looking helpless as two women chatted away incessantly
at him.
"Your Majesty," a voice behind him called his
attention. Éomer turned around to see an older woman dressed
in her finery, dragging behind her an obviously shy younger woman.
"May I present my daughter, Treasa." She shoved the girl in front
of her. "She is very shy."
The king smiled pleasantly at
the overbearing mother. "Clearly not a problem shared with her
mother." The woman backed off slightly as he took the young girl's
hand, kissing it lightly. "A pleasure to meet you, Treasa," he
said politely.
The poor thing was so embarrassed by her
mother's brashness she would not even look at him. Her mother
quickly disappeared into the crowd. Once away from her mother, the
young lady looked up at him when he spoke to her.
Seeing her
face clearly, Éomer was taken aback. She was lovely, but
barely more than a girl.
"Treasa, how old are you, if you
do not mind my asking?"
"I am old enough, my Lord, or so
my mother says. Mother says men prefer youth."
Éomer
was taken aback. Her mother actually sought to pawn off such a young
thing? "You seem awfully young to me."
She drew herself
up. "I am seventeen summers, Your Majesty."
The king took
a proprietary step back from her, smiling, but shaking his head. He
sighed heavily, not for the last time. "It was a pleasure to make
your acquaintance, Lady Treasa, but I have a matter I must attend to.
Excuse me, please," he said, bowing, looking furtively around for
Éowyn.
The entire evening was filled with similar
conversations. It seemed every where he turned there was another
hand to kiss, another name to try to remember.
"You are a
beautiful dancer, Your Majesty," the blonde in his arms purred.
"Where did a warrior such as yourself learn such grace?"
Éomer
almost laughed at the outright flattery. "It was forced upon me,
growing up in the courts. The ladies of the court were relentless
when the king's son and I were young."
"Oh?" She
raised her eyebrows, leaning closer to him. "What else did they
teach you?" she queried teasingly.
The king swallowed hard
and threw his sister a pleading look over the woman's shoulder.
Éowyn laughed and turned back to Faramir.
After
dinner, Éomer was sitting on a bench along the side of the
hall, the blonde beside him still chattering away. About what, he
had no idea. He could not seem to shake her no matter what he did.
An attractive woman in a deep blue velvet gown strode up to where he
was sitting, smiling placidly.
He smiled, rising to his feet. Tired of sitting and listening to the prattling of the blonde, he stood and offered his hand. "Care to dance, Isolde?"
"I would be honored," she answered regally, casting a victorious look at the disgruntled blonde.
Isolde was tall, almost as tall as he, with dark hair pinned up in braids. She not a young girl, but was decidedly attractive. The dark blue gown she wore could not have fit more snugly, leaving little doubt as to her attributes. Éomer wondered how she breathed in a gown so tight. He found it a little hard to do that himself with her considerable cleavage almost in his face.
"Isolde is a lovely name," he remarked, looking for a topic of discussion.
"It means beautiful," she answered confidently.
"It is a lovely name," Éomer repeated, not wishing to be rude, but not wishing to encourage her falsely.
What he really wished
was that this night was over.
Every social event he had
attended or hosted had been the same. Women came from all over Gondor
and Rohan, all vying for the attention of the handsome young king.
Éowyn and Faramir seemed to delight in his frustration. Most
nights he tolerated it, was as polite as possible, and was greatly
relieved when the last guest departed.
"My Lord," Isolde's
husky voice drew him back to the present. "Did you hear what I
said?"
Looking down into the dark eyes of the woman in his
arms, he shook his head slightly. "I apologize, my Lady. I did
not."
Glancing down at the front of her dress, one corner
of her mouth turned up into a knowing smile. "Distracted, are we,
my lord?"
Realizing what she meant, Éomer averted his
gaze quickly. "I did not mean...I am sorry, I ...Please, excuse me.
My apologies." He released her and turned quickly away, leaving her
alone on the dance floor.
With a smirk, she folded her arms
and walked slowly to the side of the room, watching him as he spoke
to his sister. That poor man had been alone entirely too long. Much
longer and any one of the she-wolves in the room would be worming
their way into his bed. She'd see about that.
"Faramir,"
the king whispered, sidling up to his sister's fiancé, "if
this is the life of a king then I would much prefer to go back to
being Third Marshal. Why do you not stay here and be king? You and
Éowyn can rule Rohan and I will move back to Aldburg."
"You
would fare no better there, my friend. It is even closer to Minas
Tirith. And the women there are notorious for chasing nobility. There
is only one way to stem the tide." The king looked at him
questioningly. "Get married. And even then it does not always stop
entirely."
Éomer laughed. "You sound as if you
speak from experience."
Faramir cast him a sardonic smile.
"I daresay my brother and I did our fair share of maiden dodging,"
he grinned. "Although sometimes we were the ones chasing..."
The
king chuckled. "I would not say that too loudly in the presence of
my sister."
"Your sister has nothing to concern herself
with. There is not a maiden in this room...or anywhere in Middle
Earth, for that matter, who can compare with her in my eyes."
"I
am pleased that you realize this, Faramir. She is truly a
prize."
Faramir nodded, sipping from his goblet as Éowyn
approached. Éomer smiled at the two of them. He loved seeing
his sister so happy, but their bliss only served to make the ache in
his own heart more pronounced.
As the guests dispersed, he
politely said his farewells, retiring to his chambers.
Éomer
slowly walked the length of the hall to the large bedchamber at the
end. This was the part of the day he hated most. Pushing the heavy
door open, he stepped inside without lighting a lantern. Pale
moonlight streamed in through the window, a fire crackling in the
hearth. He sat down and pulled off his boots and the quilted vest he
wore, dropping them into the chair. Unlacing the front of his tunic,
he stripped to just his trousers, and poured a goblet of wine. He
carried his cup to the window and stood, staring out across the
darkened mountains toward the south, the loneliness overtaking him
once again.
He sighed heavily, dreading getting into his
empty bed. Sleeping in the large bed alone was bad enough, but the
dreams that had plagued him were little incentive to close his eyes.
Reluctantly, he drained the last of the wine and crawled into the
bed, lying on his back and staring at the stone ceiling.
He
did not know how long he had been asleep, but this dream was nice...a
soft hand moving across his chest, warm lips on his ear, the side of
his neck. Much better than the dreams of the battle that had begun to
plague him again. In his dream, he turned toward the warm body beside
him, eyes closed. His hands roamed over soft flesh, pulling the
warmth against him. Lips met his, warm as silk and tasting of wine.
If this was a dream, he wanted nothing to stop it.
"Ani,"
he murmured softly.
"Who is Ani?" She breathed into his
ear, her lips finding the sensitive skin behind it. The husky voice
startled him from sleep.
The king sat bolt upright, turning
around to look at the woman in his bed. In the dim light from the
window, he could see Isolde lying propped on one elbow, grinning
wickedly at him. She was lying atop the covers, clad only in a thin
shift.
"Well, my Lord, are you going to come back down here
or are you going to sit there all day staring like a scared rabbit?"
Éomer realized he was staring and quickly averted his
eyes. Jerking the coverlet up over her, he backed out of the bed.
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought it was clear what
I was doing, Your Majesty," she answered, with a chuckle. Taking in
his muscular chest and shoulders, more pronounced recently with all
the axe swinging he had done, she took a deep breath. "You just
seemed horribly lonely tonight. I thought I might keep you company a
while." She sat up, allowing the covers to drop.
Regaining
his composure, Éomer reached over and grabbed her dress off
the chair, throwing it at her. "Get dressed, please. You should not
be here. It is not proper."
"Since when are men concerned
with propriety?" Isolde responded haughtily, standing from the bed.
She smiled seductively. "Your cousin never was. In fact, he
suggested long ago that I pay you a visit." Éomer's
shocked expression tickled her, and she laughed out loud, a soft,
husky laugh.
"Oh, do not look so shocked! You know he was no
innocent. Théodred is the one who showed me the secret
passages. How do you think I got here?" she asked. Her gaze
traveled down across his hard chest, down his flat stomach to the
lacings of the leggings he wore. "Are you sure you do not wish me
to stay?" She raised an eyebrow.
Éomer sighed. There
had been a point in his life when he would never have believed he
would turn down a willing woman in his bedchamber. "I did not
mean to... My apologies. Please, dress yourself." He turned away
from her, striding across the room to pour another cup of wine,
keeping his back to her.
Sighing with a tinge of regret at
the sight of his muscled back, she relented, tossed her dark hair
over her shoulder, and reluctantly reached for her dress. "If you
insist," she said, pulling it over her head and yanking the laces
to tighten her corset, cinching up her generous cleavage.
"I
assure you, I would not be pleasant company tonight." Glancing
around to see if she was dressed, he turned to face her upon seeing
she was. "I do not know what you have heard about me, Isolde," he
said sharply, "but these days I am not in the habit of retaining
women for the sole purpose of entertaining me in my
bedchamber."
Isolde drew herself up to her full height. "And
I assure you, Your Majesty, my services are not available for
'retention'. Théodred was dear to me. He was a good man,
and I was honored to have known him." She quickly averted her gaze
on the pretense of picking up a discarded slipper. "I offer what
comfort I do of my own free will and take nothing in return but my
own pleasure," she snapped.
Éomer blew out his
breath. His cousin had been several years older than he. It only
stood to reason that there would have been at least one woman in his
life, although Théodred did little to quell the rumors that
there were more. "I am sorry, Isolde. I did not mean to
insinuate--"
She waved him off. "It is of no consequence.
Very few people would understand if I did try to explain," she said
as she slid the slippers on her feet.
Curious, Éomer
sat down, motioning her to sit as well. He poured her a cup of wine
and slid it across the small table. "Try me," he said.
"Why
should you want to hear of your cousin's tainted relationship with
a tart?" She picked up the cup and sipped it, looking at him
questioningly.
"Why should I not?" Éomer reached
over and lit the lantern on the table, keeping the flame low. The
soft glow from the fireplace shadowed her face. She was not young;
Théodred had been more than thirteen years older than him and
he guessed her to be close to the same age. Éomer could see
why Théodred would have been taken with her. She was still
quite beautiful, with fair skin and clear, blue eyes that seemed take
in far more than she revealed. It was quite a contrast to the ebony
silk of her hair, which when let down fell rain straight past her
waist.
She pursed her rose colored lips, running a finger around the rim of the cup in her hand. He could see that the memory pained her still.
"If you do not wish
to talk about him, I understand."
She lifted her shoulders
casually, but Éomer could see the pain behind the gesture.
"Théodred always spoke highly of you. And you were always
so handsome. As you grew older, he used to tease that he would not
introduce us for fear that I would choose you over him." Her gaze
raked over him, still shirtless, leaning back in the chair. The
smile she cast him was slightly wicked.
Not sure how to
respond, he only smiled, sipping his wine.
"You truly wish
to know about this?" He nodded, indicating the chair across from
him near the fire. She moved to the other chair and sat silently for
a while, her gaze falling on the fire.
"Théodred and
I grew up together. I was taken with him from the moment I laid eyes
on him. I suppose we were no more than eight or nine years old. He
was so handsome." She sighed. "When we were but seventeen, he
told me he loved me and kissed me." Isolde shook her head. "From
then on, your cousin owned me as surely as if he had purchased me
with gold."
Her gaze met his, a twinkle in her eye. "I
remember when you came to live here. You were but a child, then, a
tall, lanky boy, barely more than ten, with the darkest eyes I had
ever seen. Théodred told me we would have to be careful not to
be caught by you or Éowyn. That is when he showed me the
secret passages." Éomer looked at her askance. A chuckle
escaped her lips. "I could find my way to Théodred's
chamber blindfolded."
"If the two of you were lovers, why
were you never-"
"Betrothed?" she finished the sentence
for him. "Your cousin tried to convince me to marry him, but I was
never meant to be the wife of a king."
"I do not
understand, Isolde."
Rosy lips curved into a smile. "I am
the daughter of a soldier, not a Lord. I was not raised to be a
queen. Théodred said he did not care, that he loved me and
would marry whom he wished. I knew in my heart he spoke the truth,
but it was not a mistake I could let him make."
Isolde sighed, then looked up at him. "I did love him."
"No doubt he felt the same way," Éomer answered. "Perhaps that was why he turned down every offer for marriage that Théoden suggested to him."
She raised an eyebrow as if this were news to her. It was the king's turn to smile. "You did not know that?" She shook her head, her expression of surprise now amusing him. "Every nobleman within a hundred leagues who had a daughter of age proposed a marriage. Théodred always refused, saying his duty was to Rohan, and until the country was at peace again he would not marry."
Pondering his last statement, she stared down into her empty cup. "May I be completely candid with you, Your Majesty?" She leaned forward.
"If you will stop calling me Your Majesty and call me simply Éomer, you may be as candid as you wish," he answered.
"Why are you here?"
"This is where I sleep. Why are you here, Isolde?"
"A just question," she stated. "It deserves an honest answer." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I am here simply because I loved Théodred. I made a mistake, not marrying him. I should have followed my heart. I will regret to my dying day that I was not his wife, even if my fate was to have been a young widow."
"Had you married him, you would have had several good years together. Perhaps things would have been different," Éomer offered.
"Any children born to us would be heirs to the throne. If I had married him, perhaps you would not be sitting where you are today."
The king nodded in agreement. "To be honest, Isolde, I do not think I would have minded."
Isolde chuckled softly as an uneasy silence fell. She turned to the fire again, watching the flickering flames. "I am lonely, Éomer, as are you. I assure you my intent was nothing more than comfort for both of us." Blue eyes sparkled at him mischievously. "Better I, who you know has no desire for the throne of Rohan, than for you to bed one of those little chits who are determined to get their claws into a king simply because of who he is." Her appraising gaze raked over him again. "Although, I have to admit. You are enough to tempt any woman, even were you not king."
Éomer laughed, a little embarrassed at her bold statement, but then again, she was in his bedchamber. "Trust me, Isolde. Under any other circumstances we would not be sitting here talking," he said.
She continued with a smile. "May I ask you a question?" He nodded his assent. "Who is Ani?"
Éomer downed the remainder of the wine in his cup and cleared his throat. "Her given name is Lothíriel," he answered, surprised by the slight tremor in his voice.
"Ahh, the princess." he nodded again. "She must be a very special woman," she said.
"That she is," he answered hoarsely.
Isolde's dark hair fell forward across her shoulders as she leaned forward again, facing him. "If you are in love with the Princess of Dol Amroth, why are you here? Why are you going to dinners and putting up with every eligible maiden in the realm falling at your feet, hoping they will be the next Queen of the Mark?"
"I have duties here. There is much to be done. We are still re-"His voice stopped dead at the look she cast him. "Isolde, I simply cannot run off and-"
"Do you love her?"
"Yes, but..." he answered without hesitation. She raised her eyebrows, her blue eyes regarding him expectantly. Éomer realized his rationalization would get him nowhere with her. "It is far more complicated. She is betrothed to another -"
The azure gaze held his. "Éomer...do you love her?"
Drawing in a deep breath, the king met her stare. "More than my own life," he answered.
Isolde nodded knowingly, and stood, picking up her cloak. Éomer arose and took it from her, placing it on her shoulders. She smiled up at him. "Do not make the same mistake I did, Éomer."
He looked at her questioningly. She laid a hand on his cheek. "Regret is a very lonely bed partner, my king. Remember that." She turned, striding across the room to the passage. Pausing at the opening, she turned back to face him. "One more thing I must say, Éomer," Isolde ventured, flicking her tongue across her bottom lip.
He smiled at her informal address of him. "Yes?"
"If that kiss was any indication of your feelings for her, she was a fool to ever leave your side." Her fingertips hooked the hidden latch and swung open the doorway.
Éomer felt himself blush, hoping Isolde didn't notice.
"My suggestion to you, Your Majesty, would be to go and find her, marry her, and bring her back here and make mad, passionate love to her every night, and never let her leave your side again." With that, Isolde stepped into the passageway, pulling the door shut behind her.
Éomer watched her go and blew out the lamp on the table. He walked slowly to the bed, sitting down on the edge and raking a hand through the blonde waves. Laying back, he rolled on to his side, and reached for the other pillow, hugging it tightly to his chest. At least then, his arms didn't feel quite so empty.
Meduseld
2 Hithui, 3019 T.A.
"Éowyn?"
The king rapped lightly on the door of her chamber. She creaked it open slightly, smiling at the sight of her brother.
"It is late, Éomer."
"I know." He smiled sheepishly. "I thought you might wish to join me for a cup of tea, one last time."
Her smile broadened. "Let me get my robe and I will be right there."
Éomer waited in the hallway until she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her. Crossing her arms against the chill as they walked to the kitchen, Éowyn glanced at her brother. He had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but she could always tell when something pained him. They had been through so much together as siblings, but had always been there for each other, always able to rely on one another. All that would change after tomorrow.
He caught her stare. "What?"
She shook her head. "Nothing."
They entered the kitchen. Éowyn started across the room to get the teapot, and was stopped by her brother's hand on her arm. "I did not really want the tea," he confessed.
She chuckled softly, turning to face him. "I did not think you did," she replied. "How about wine?" Nodding his agreement, he reached above her and removed a jug from the shelf. She retrieved two cups, and they took their customary positions at the small wooden table by the fireplace.
Eomer filled the cups, sliding hers across the table. "To your happiness, dear sister." He raised his cup, sipping from it.
"And to yours," she responded, doing likewise.
He raised an eyebrow at her, quietly considering her comment. He wished he could be as certain of his own happiness as he was of hers.
"It will certainly be quiet around here without you."
"Yes, for once you will have peace. No one forcing tea on you at all hours of the night," she teased, tipping up her cup.
The king was silent for a moment, watching the flickering flames dancing among the logs.
"And you should have plenty of firewood," she quipped.
Eomer laughed out loud. "Perhaps peace will not be such a bad thing," he joked, "I have not yet decided if I will miss your wit."
"You will," Eowyn grinned.
He fell silent again. His sister reached to refill his cup. Smiling his thanks, he raised the cup to his lips.
"My departure is not what is troubling you, brother."
Eomer looked up at her. "Is it so obvious?"
"You know she will most likely be in attendance," Eowyn offered.
Sighing heavily, he stared down into the cup. "It had not escaped me."
"Surely the thought of seeing her again should please you, Éomer. I know how you have missed her."
"It is more than that. I want nothing more than to be with her, unless it would be never to be parted from her again. But I do not see how that will happen."
"Éomer..."
"Perhaps I am holding on to a false dream, something that can never be. Is it so wrong to hope against hope when all else deems otherwise?"
Éowyn raised an eyebrow at him. "You dare ask me this question? You stood on the field at Pelennor and saw what we faced. You looked upon the Black Gates of Mordor, facing an army of ten thousand, and saw with your own eyes the Eye of the Enemy. You witnessed the black tower crumble to the ground, the Black Gates torn asunder and thrown down. You dare now to ask me if you should give up hope?"
"I would sooner face Sauron again than to know that the woman I love is married to..." his voice trailed off momentarily. "It would be different, Éowyn, if she loved him, or he her."
She smiled feebly, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. "I know, brother. I know the pain of loving one you cannot have."
Éomer's brown eyes met her pale grey. She did know. He had forgotten, wrapped up in his own trauma, that she knew all too well the pain of unrequited love.
Yet she had found another, and found happiness. Perhaps...
He didn't wish to think about that yet.
"I know. I am sorry. You, more than any other, understand." He clasped her hand in his. "I will miss you terribly, Éowyn. I do not know what I will do without you to ground me. To whom will I turn for advice on matters of the heart?" he teased.
His sister squeezed the strong hands holding hers. "You must learn to trust your own heart, my dear brother. It will not lead you astray."
Éomer's mouth curved slightly. He would sorely miss their late night talks. His heart ached at the thought, a new twinge of loneliness tightening in his chest. She yawned, pulling a hand away to cover her mouth.
"I am sorry, I believe this wine is taking affect."
"Get some rest, sister. We have a long ride ahead."
"You should rest as well," she told him, standing from the table and gathering the cups.
"I will rest when I have my bride here in my bed."
Éowyn laughed. "I sincerely doubt that, brother dear. If I know you, you will not be resting much then."
His eyes widened in shock at her brashness. "Such indelicate language from a lady," he admonished her.
"Lady?" she queried sarcastically. "Please, Éomer. I have lived with you men long enough to know what is first and foremost in your thoughts."
"And pray tell, what would that be?" he asked her, replacing the wine jug on the shelf.
Éowyn moved to the doorway, heading for the hall. "If I have to explain that one, dearest brother, then Rohan is in dire trouble. Their king shall never have an heir." She ducked past him through the door, moving quickly out of his reach.
Éomer chuckled and followed her down the hall. Yes, Meduseld was certainly going to be much quieter without her. And far too boring.
The Home of Lord Abrecan
Near the Fortress of Aldburg
Rohan
8 Hithui, 3019 T.A.
The first thing he was aware of was the bright light of the sun shining in through the window. Éomer rolled over, pulling the pillow over his pounding head, and tried to go back to sleep. Suddenly realizing he was not quite sure where he was, he lifted his head, squinting against the blinding sun, and looked around the room.
It was a simple but elegant room, the large bed in which he lay made of a light colored carved wood. His clothing lay across a chair near the fireplace, which someone had thoughtfully stoked recently, making the chamber comfortably warm. He blinked and looked again at his clothing. He could not for the life of him remember taking it off last night. Sitting up, he came to yet another startling conclusion.
He was not wearing his normal nighttime attire. In fact, he was wearing nothing at all. Yanking the covers back over his lower body, he rubbed his throbbing temples. He remembered Lord Abrecan's dinner, the few tankards of ale he had, and dancing with Éowyn. When Faramir had insisted, he had turned her back over to her betrothed and turned his attention to his host, having some long discussions concerning the genealogy of certain steeds in Abrecan's herds. How did he get from there to his own bed?
Pressing his fingers to his closed eyes, he struggled to remember. Dinner, dancing, conversation with Abrecan...he knew no more than two or three tankards of ale, so why couldn't he remember?
He remembered the blonde. The silly, giggling blonde to whom he had tried to be polite. She had been tall and slender like Éowyn, with broad shoulders and nice curves, and she had been far too friendly for his liking. She had smelled of roses, and wore little yellow flowers in her hair. He had tried to dismiss her with as much courtesy as possible. What was her name?
He looked around the room again, blinking against the harsh light. His clothing was piled in the chair by the fireplace, flung rather halphazardly as if it had been done in a hurry. He supposed he could have undressed and could simply not remember. He lay slowly back down, the ache in his head intensifying.
His hand slipped under the pillow he was laying on, fingers coming into contact with something soft and cool. Grasping the item, he pulled it from under the pillow and inspected it.
A small, crumpled yellow flower. He frowned, clutching it in his fist. No way had he been that drunk.
Swearing that he would not be drinking again for quite some time, he dragged himself out of the bed and dressed, hoping his head would stop pounding, or he would be in for a rough day of riding.
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