A/N: arrgh. my computer is evil. it crashed a second time last week, and so we had to re-install the word processor and all that crap AGAIN. i think we're getting a new computer soon, but i'll probably still be using this one for my stories (and school papers...it will, in essence, be all mine). anyways, i'm sorry for not updating anything sooner. i had band camp this week and haven't had time for anything. in any case, this is my new e/l fic. sorry it took so long to get it up. hope you like this! i worked hard on it!

disclaimer my reward for going to band camp is full rights to eomer. MWA-HAHAHA...i wish. i really own nothing. i promise.

Chapter I

He met her in Dol Amroth. Éomer had been sent as the emissary to Lord Imrahil, for Théodred was on a campaign when the messenger had arrived. The young marshal went with doubts: he was merely the king's nephew, and this was his first assignment. Would the great lords of Gondor listen to his thoughts on the trade agreements or would they merely laugh at his ideas? Such were his thoughts as he rode through the city gates of the great principality.

He had expected some sort of greeting party once he reached the palace. What he received was a solitary woman in a simple but regal dress with a small circlet of dull silver upon her dark hair. She seemed to be daydreaming, and for a moment Éomer wondered if she were touched in the head. But then she turned to him and spoke. "Greetings, Master-Horselord," she said in heavily-accented and horribly mangled Rohirric.

To spare his ears and native language further insult from the Amrothian, Éomer quickly answered in Common Tongue. "Greetings to you, my lady," he said, bowing low and glancing around for any sign of Lord Imrahil, "but where is your husband, if I may ask? Or does he not give Théoden-king's emissary enough credit to greet me himself?"

The girl laughed at him. "You may ask, milord, but truly I could not tell you where he is or what he thinks of your king's emissary," she replied, a great smile upon her face, "for I have yet to meet him myself. But believe me, sir, the moment we meet, I shall ask him both questions."

Needless to say, Éomer was terribly confused. He wondered again if the woman was perhaps quite mad, because that seemed to be the only possible answer for her odd response. "You speak riddles milady," he said at last. "You stand at the steps of the prince's palace, yet you say you have never met him? Where is Lord Imrahil? Does he prepare for your wedding?"

"I should certainly hope not," she answered, "for this would be the first I have ever heard of any wedding. My father rode to Dor-en-Ernil yesterday along with my brothers to meet with some villagers who were having problems with bandits. He asked me to wait for you because he knew you would arrive sometime today. He sends his regards and bids thee rest from your journey. He will be back tomorrow if all goes well."

Éomer's jaw went slack. This was Imrahil's daughter? He could feel a heavy blush creep from his neck up to his hairline, and he desperately hoped the maiden did not notice.

"A wasp will fly in your mouth and sting your tongue if you stay like that too long," said the girl matter-of-factly. "I daresay your trade talks would end rather quickly if that were to happen." Éomer immediately closed his mouth, causing her to giggle. "Now if you would follow me, I shall show you to your rooms."

As he trailed behind her through the winding corridors, Éomer at last found his voice. "What is your name, milady?" he asked.

"Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil. And yours?"

"Éomer," he replied, "son of Éomund, nephew of Théoden-king, and recently-appointed Third Marshal of the Mark." He smiled as he spoke: his uncle had honored him greatly by naming him a marshal. At twenty-six, he was the youngest anyone could remember.

"Welcome, then, Éomer, nephew of the king and recently-appointed Third Marshal, to Dol Amroth." He couldn't see it, but Éomer knew she was smiling again. "Ah, here we are," she said after some time. She beckoned him to the door of the room. "There should be a bath drawn for you already. I will fetch some food from the kitchens and bring it to you. It will be ready when you have washed." She gave a quick nod and was gone down the hall.

Éomer, however, stepped inside the room and immediately gasped. A finer guestroom he had never seen. It was airy and light, as the rest of the palace had been, with large windows that let in the bright sun. It smelled of lavendar and another scent that he could not quite place; he would later learn that it was the salt air blowing in from the sea. He sighed in pleasure; this room was a far cry from the officer's barracks at Aldburg. He ran his hand through his hair while glancing around for the washbasin. Much to his surprise, there wasn't one. Lady Lothíriel had been mistaken. Disgruntled at having to be grimy a while longer, Éomer went to the door, planning to search the halls for a servant to bring a basin. Instead, he found Lothíriel with a tray of food in her hands at his door.

"Milord Éomer," she stammered, obviously startled, "I did not expect--I mean, I thought you would be in the bath already. Was it not to your liking?"

"The bath is not here," he said, slightly embarrassed that it was the princess who would be dealing with it.

She looked at him oddly for a moment before pushing her way into the room. She set down the tray and walked to a door Éomer had not noticed before. "It all seems to be here," she called as she looked in. She opened the door wider, revealing a room with a steaming fountain of water in the center of it. "You'll find soaps and sponges in that cupboard, there. Use any of them you wish. I'd recommend the one with chamomile and nettle for your hair (it'll brighten the gold highlights) and the rosemary for the rest of you. Don't get it in your eyes, though, because I won't come rinse them out for you. I've had to do that for all three of my brothers, but I'm not about to baby anyone else, no matter how pitiful they are. There are combs and brushes on the shelf by the mirror along with a shaving knife and foam. Fresh towels are on the rack. Enjoy yourself." And again she swept out of the room, an amused smile on her face.

Éomer turned back to the bath. It was more amazing than the bedroom. Somehow, the Amrothian architects had found a way to bring water into the palace. He briefly wondered if Prince Imrahil would be willing to share the technology, but decided the water was too inviting for further thought.

A/N (again): look! i got the accents! hopefully it'll do ok...this is a very different sort of story from tmmdts. lothiriel's a bit more light-hearted, and eomer is more of an innocent. of course, this part takes place in 3017, almost two years before the war. btw, aldburg was the headquarters for the third marshal's eored, according to the book of lost tales.