The Steward, the King, and the Tent.

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: Because I am lazy I have chosen to write a short and boring disclaimer this time; I do not own Lord of the Rings. So there!

Note: The second scenario explaining why exactly Faramir is being chased by Eomer. This idea was submitted by soxtheringwraith. Thanks a lot!

Faramir stumbled past a long row of tents, looking for a particular one. Where was it? It had to be around here somewhere. Unless, of course, the large amounts of ale he had consumed had affected his sense of direction, which was perfectly possible. The ale was most certainly affecting his rationality.

This was not a good idea.

He couldn't even find the damn tent.

Faramir had started drinking with his men and his wife about three and a half hours ago. They were in a particularly merry mood lately and persuaded him to join their drink-fest. He was in a merry mood himself, due to the nature of their travel, so he and Eowyn had allowed themselves to be pulled into the drunken fray.

And the men had the right to be merry. The party in which they were traveling was a wedding party. The wedding party of Eomer and Lothiriel, to be exact.

In attendance at this camp right now were the Kings of both Rohan and Gondor and their parties, the Queen of Gondor and her maids and servants, the Soon-To-Be-Queen of Rohan and her ladies-in-waiting and several servants, several Rohirric nobles all with subjects, the Steward and Stewardess of Gondor and their party, the nobility of Dol Amroth, not to mention multiple Gondorian courtiers, foreign ambassadors (including a delegation from the Dwarves which consisted of a certain elf-hating member of the Fellowship, and a delegation from the Mirkwood elves which consisted of a dwarf-hating member of the Fellowship; both of whom were quite drunk at the moment despite the elf's resistance to ale) their parties and politicians, and several hundred soldiers of various nationality.

After all, the complete royalty of several countries were present.

The wedding was to take place at a pre-determined point along the Gondorian - Rohirric boarder. Eomer and Lothiriel had decided it was best to be wed in both countries at once.

So the wedding party had come to the boarder.

Tomorrow the King of Rohan and Princess of Gondor would wed, sealing the alliance between Gondor and Rohan with yet another marriage, and yet another love.

But where the hell was that damn tent! He'd never be able to find it, as intoxicated as he was.

But no! There it was. A large white tent; a green banner embroidered with a horse in front of it.

Eomer's tent.

Excellent.

Attempting to summon some of his ranger-like stealth, Faramir slowed and stood silently outside the side of the tent. He swayed slightly, but managed to maintain his balance. He peeked around the corner, noting that the guards in front had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, there was a moment of clarity as he sobered slightly.

This was not an intelligent plan. This would most certainly end up coming back to bite him in the ass.

Then the clarity was gone as the alcohol took over again.

He knelt down next to the tent, and started to whisper in a high pitch.

"Eomer. Eomer, my love. Wake up."

Inside the tent, Eomer predictably awoke.

"Lothiriel?" he asked groggily. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it is I."

Eomer stumbled out of his cot and over toward the tent wall her voice emanated from. "What are you doing there? And why did you not just come in?"

"My father would not approve of such a visit. . . but. . ."

"But-" he prompted.

"But I could not stay away. I had to be with you."

"Lothiriel, talking through a tent canvas does NOT qualify as 'with.'"

"I know, love," 'Lothiriel' said softly. "But I had hoped you could slip away to the river, and we could, perhaps, bathe."

Eomer gulped. "Bathe?"

"Bathe."

"I – er – I – I don't know what to say. That does not seem wise, my lady."

The sound of soft sobbing filtered through the canvas. "Do you not desire me?"

"No, I do," Eomer said hastily. "I desire you very much."

"You say that only to comfort me."

"I do not. Lothiriel, wait there. I will come out."

There was a soft, "Hmm."

Eomer exited the tent, opting to ignore the sleeping guard for now, and stepped around the side to where Lothiriel should have been.

Of course, in her stead stood a very drunk, very smug-looking, very UN-Lothiriel Steward of Gondor.

He was grinning stupidly and his arms were folded across his chest.

Eomer stared.

Faramir chuckled.

Eomer turned bright red.

Faramir started pointing as he laughed.

"Ah, Brother," he managed between bursts of laughter. "Your intentions seem pure enough, but my Uncle would perhaps not look kindly upon your fraternization."

Eomer said nothing for a while, but his embarrassment quickly turned to fury.

"I suggest," he finally said, slowly and dangerously, "that you begin running, Brother."

Faramir stopped laughing. There was silence, and then Faramir gulped, turned on his heel, and sprinted away.

Eomer paused only long enough to pull the sword from the sleeping guard before taking off after him.

"FIGHT ME, SON OF NUMENOR! WE WILL SEE WHO IS LAUGHING IN THE END, TRICKSTER!"

Again, any ideas for another chapter would be great. Thanks!