Chapter 6

Lady Lothíriel was avoiding him.

Éomer first suspected this at dinner after the hunt, when Amrothos wondered out loud why his sister had not joined them for the meal. He did not raise his head when he heard his friend complaining, but certainly, his mind was busy at work as he recalled the conversation in the woods and the way she had taken her leave of him. Something he had said had hit a nerve with her, and now she did not wish to be in his presence again.

It was a disheartening thought, but he tried to dismiss it right away. That she missed one dinner with her family did not necessarily mean anything and he was grossly flattering himself by assuming he was such an impactful figure in her life. Still, he was not yet entirely reassured. The confrontation did not sit well with him. It was as though a bad after-taste that lingered for a long time.

The next day his suspicion only grew. Lady Lothíriel was nowhere to be seen at breakfast, which perhaps was not a sign of anything yet, but neither did she join them when her brothers took Éomer to sailing. At this point, Erchirion was commenting on her absence, and that he had surely thought she would join them for the occasion.

"She complains so often we don't get to go sailing together these days, and yet she is refusing this very good opportunity for it!" Erchirion was saying to Elphir as they worked the ropes of their boat. Éomer overheard this but said nothing. He merely gritted his teeth.

He went over their conversation many times, trying to understand what he had said to disturb her in this way. Every time, he came to the same standstill: her manner had changed when he had asked her about the night after the Battle of Pelennor fields. However, he couldn't come up with an explanation for it, unless the memory was somehow evil to her. And this troubled him greatly. Perhaps it was foolish of him, but it bothered him intensely to think that she regretted the encounter which had been so comforting to him.

Thanks to his distraction, he didn't feel as anxious in a boat as he would have expected. However, his friends appeared to notice his mind was somewhere else, though they said nothing about it. Yet even with his preoccupation, Éomer did not miss the look Elphir and Erchirion exchanged between themselves. As for Amrothos, either he was oblivious to the matter, or thought their Rohirric friend was just mildly seasick.

It was already late afternoon when they got back. The three brothers had not spared Éomer, and so his clothes and hair were damp with sea-spray. The smell of salt clung even to his beard. Erchirion had told him to go and get a wash and a change of clothes. Seawater would not be pleasant once it dried.

However, he was far too anxious. He needed to speak to the lady, and the longer he went without seeing her, the more he burned to find her.

So, when he and Imrahil's sons had reached the castle again, Éomer pulled Amrothos aside for a private word. He felt that the youngest of three brothers was least likely to get suspicious or question his motives. While Amrothos could get insufferably curious when his interest was piqued, Éomer did not think this was that kind of an issue; most of the time, he seemed to be exasperated with his sister and her unusual manner.

"What is it, then?" Amrothos asked, brushing his damp hair back in a way that was probably meant to give off a roguish air to any lady who might be watching.

Éomer cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He didn't want to come across as too impatient – even Amrothos was bound to notice that.

"Could you tell me where one might find your sister at this time of day? I need to speak to her. I think something I said upset her yesterday, and I'd like to make it right", he explained in a lowered voice.

Amrothos looked at him curiously.

"What could you say to upset her? For all your bold ways, I don't think you would intentionally upset anybody in our family, and Lothíriel is not easily dismayed", he noted, raising an eyebrow.

Éomer frowned. How could he answer this question? He didn't want to lie, and yet the complete answer would require explanations he was not willing to give.

"That is what I wish to find out", he said lamely. It wasn't untrue, but he did not feel completely sincere, either. And that was a sensation he resented. Yet, at the same time, he felt strangely protective of her. The lady and the moments he had shared with her, however brief, were a matter so private that it felt wrong to reveal it even to her brother.

Amrothos grimaced, which at first took Éomer aback, but the young lord's next words had him relaxing again.

"You know, the way you insist on being so revoltingly gallant makes it so much more difficult for the rest of us", Amrothos said and punched his shoulder.

"It's not my fault you were raised by trolls. Or that you are too lazy to make effort", Éomer replied and smiled slightly.

"Hmph. You sound like Aunt Ivriniel", Amrothos grumbled and shook his head.

All the same, he did tell where the young king might discover the elusive lady. At this hour of day, she was likely to be found in her workshop. It was located near the kitchens in the north wing. Éomer headed straight that way, striding quickly and impatiently. Twice on the way he had to stop a servant to ask for directions, but eventually he found the spiral staircase Amrothos had said would lead down to the workshop. Speedily he descended it.

There was a wide, unusual chamber below. It was a little bit under the ground level, but thanks to many windows in the form of semicircles at the back wall, it was rather light even despite the veritable forest of all manner of herbs hanging from hooks and poles fastened to the ceiling. The herbs were tied in neat little bunches and at closer inspection, he noted they were all in various states of the drying process. On right hand side from the entrance, there was a hearth, about half a fathom broad, in which a merry little fire was burning. A small iron pot was bubbling away and in a pile near the hearth there were more pots of various sizes, neatly stacked inside each other where it was possible.

A large, white-scrubbed working table ruled the centre of the chamber. On it there were objects of so many kinds that he could hardly make sense of even half it. Scales and weights made from polished brass, a small tripod, a stand containing various empty vials, a stone mortar, a set of strange-looking glass containers, thongs of different sizes, spoons and ladles and other devices meant for uses he could only imagine, knives and scissors, a pile of fresh parchment and a writing easel, quills stored in a small jug, and too many pots, vats and vessels for him to count... one wall was covered by tall shelves and cupboards. Their surfaces contained even more of these manifold objects. There were a few books there and a pile of scrolls, certain small knick-knacks that looked to be personal treasures, a few unusual rocks and seashells, and a countless sealed glass jars, bottles and vials, all labelled and ordered. Few were made clear glass – most seemed to have a dark tint that masked the innards of these mysterious containers.

Éomer had never seen such a place. When he had heard of her workshop, the most he had imagined was some kind of a study full of books and scrolls, but not such a cave of wonders. With wide eyes he gazed around himself, taking it all in the best he could.

In the middle of it all she stood. She was dressed in a grey working dress and an old, stained apron. Her hair was in a neat, thick braid, wrapped around her head like a circlet. What an image she made! The daughter of one of the highest lords in the land, dressed as drably as any commoner and surrounded by things one might expect to find in a wizard's study! However, he only felt a fierce pride for her. It must take courage to pursue this occupation that many would deem unfit for a lady. In his eyes, it did not shame her: she still held herself with all the calm and dignity of a high lady of the House of Dol Amroth.

Lady Lothíriel was eyeing him warily. She stood still, hands resting on the table, and spoke no word. But her grey eyes were alive with a strange glimmer.

"My lady", he greeted her and bowed, suddenly feeling overly conscious of himself; he was probably even more shaggy than usual with the salt-water still clinging to his hair and clothes, his hands felt too big and clumsy, and his voice sounded rough and unlovely. It was quite absurd. He would be perfectly at ease with the finest ladies of Gondor, draped in silks and jewels, but this maiden in an old spotted apron made him feel like he had never spoken to a woman before.

He cleared his throat and continued to speak, "Forgive me for interrupting you without a warning. I did not know how else to reach you."

"My lord, how may I help you?" she asked him at length in a soft voice.

"By giving me a little of your time, perhaps", Éomer began and tried to smile. Why was this so difficult all of a sudden? He continued, "I wanted to talk to you, my lady. Make sure that everything is fine between us. This day, I couldn't help but feel that you were avoiding me. Have I offended you somehow?"

Why did he care so much? He barely knew her and he would hardly go pestering other women like this, even if he had time to notice they were avoiding him. Still, there was that night and the sense of companionship. It had to mean something.

Lady Lothíriel lowered her eyes and stared at the great worktable. While it seemed to be covered in all kinds of objects, it didn't seem cluttered.

"My lord, please do not think I'm avoiding you because of some kind of a transgression. You could never offend me, I think", she replied slowly, almost reluctantly.

"Then what is the matter? Did I think wrongly when I suggested we might be friends?" he wanted to know.

She still stared down.

"Why do you think my friendship is worth your while?" she asked.

Éomer frowned. Often this woman confounded him: in some ways, she was still yet as mysterious as when he had not known her name. What could he say to her to make her believe that she could trust him?

"Why wouldn't it be?" he asked back and decided maybe a different kind of tactic was in order. So he began to move again and so approached her. At last she lifted her eyes, and he thought she almost looked terrified. But he picked up her hands as gently as he could with his own rough and large ones; he noted her fingers were stained purple, probably by some leaf or herb she had been preparing. What a singular woman. Was there any like her among the noble maidens of the South?

"Lady, what troubles you so?" he asked her in soft tones. He searched her eyes, hoping to find some clue in them as to what she was thinking. She stared straight back, wide and shocked and somehow lost. And then she looked down at their joined hands. Did he just imagine it, or was there wonder on her features?

"Your hands... they feel like..." she uttered softly, but suddenly fell silent and shook her head. She withdrew her fingers from his grasp and turned away. Without looking at him, she spoke quietly, "I wish I could explain, but I don't know if you would understand. It is too difficult."

"I can understand quite a bit", Éomer said, unfazed by her strange reactions. His resolution to get to the core of this thing was not yet shaken. "My lady, if I have not offended you, then why can't I seek your company? I don't believe you truly wish to avoid me. Maybe, if you explained what this all is about, we could figure it out together."

She glanced at him over her shoulder and he thought her eyes looked damp and wild. It made him so anxious, he felt like his skin was crawling.

"Please, Sire. You must believe me", she said in a strangled voice.

But Éomer pressed on. He narrowed his eyes as he realised that it was not some insult or anger or genuine dislike for him, but fear that directed her in this moment. It surprised him to say the least and he burned more than ever for a straight answer.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked her insistently.

She was silent for a long moment, face downcast, hands fidgeting restlessly before her, and once more he wanted to reach for her in some sort of a consolation. But she was troubled enough as it was, and he wasn't certain his touch wouldn't make it worse.

When she spoke, her voice as pained and final.

"Of you."

His hands fell to his sides. The words hit him as though she had slapped him across the face and shock spread like ice, smothering his earnest desire to understand what disturbed her so.

"I... I never thought..." he stammered in astonishment and dismay; he could not have guessed how deeply it would dishearten him to hear that she was scared of him. Something savage turned and shifted rapidly in his chest, so violent as though it was meaning to tear him open.

Momentarily he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Disappointment was an actual bitter taste in his mouth when he struggled to speak, "I apologise. It was not my intention to oppress you in any way. I shall take my leave, and not bother you again. Please forgive me."

And with that he turned around, and he walked as fast as his feet would carry him. Something like rage and grief beat against his skull, for it felt like with those two words, she had taken back everything, those strange words that had puzzled and still encouraged him, and even the comfort she had offered to him in that grim, lightless day when Théoden had died.


What Éomer felt in those moments immediately after the ill-fated confrontation could not be easily described. There was simply too much. The inside of his skull seemed to hold a storm in it, bitter and furious and explosive. Had any man stopped him then, he might have struck that bugger down without a single word.

He did the only thing he could, that still made any sense to him: strode straight to the stables and began to saddle his horse. His movements were sharp and speedy. His body followed reflexes etched deep into his muscles by years and years of practice and habit. No thought yet entered his burning mind, except for how truly, cuttingly disappointed he was.

Firefoot sensed his mood and moved anxiously, stomping his feet and tossing his great head. His fierce snorting had the other steeds shifting in their stables, too, and the Amrothian stable-hands tried to calm them while throwing astonished glances at the Rohirric king. But Éomer swung himself in the saddle in one quick motion, and he rode straight out, never minding the alarmed Éothain who ran next to the stallion and demanded him to slow down and wait until his guards could prepare their own horses. He fell quickly behind, shouting obscenities in Rohirric after his king as he rode out of the castle like on the wings of a storm.

But Éomer did not care. What villain could catch him now, and what arrow might find him when Firefoot flew like the wind, bearing him far from the site of his disappointment and humiliation? Yet, as Imrahil's home fell further and further behind, emotions finally began to take form and name.

She was afraid of him. The thought was appalling, not just because the only people he wanted to scare were the enemies of Rohan, but also because it hinted something quite alarming about how poorly he knew himself. Was he truly so out of touch with reality? Was he actually the kind of hideous brute that even such a woman of solid character would shun him in dread? Who was he, then, if not the man he had always thought himself?

Éomer had at times taken pride in his ability to rightfully judge people and their characters, even if they tried to hide the truth. Yet, if he had judged himself so ill, how could he possibly think he knew any better when it came to others?

Wind whipped against his face, harsh and moist; there was rain in it, rolling from the deeps of the sea. He would have welcomed it even now. It made his eyes water and he brushed the back of his hand against his face. For the first time he actually looked around to see where he was. Somehow he wasn't even surprised to see those cliffs again, rising before him – changeless against the push and pull of the tide.

Only a few days ago he had seen her standing there, looking at him as though she had been waiting for his arrival... Éomer shook his head. What did he know about her, or about anything? He recalled how happy he had been to finally discover her again, and how he had thought he might finally be starting to understand the mystery of this woman.

Turned out there was no mystery. There was just one blind, stupid man who had let himself expect too much.

It was there at the cliffs Éothain caught up with him.

"Éomer!" he bellowed out as he raced after his king. He had not saddled his horse, which explained why he had got here so quickly. The captain's face was as stormy as the dark clouds over the horizon. "What the damn hell are you doing? How many times do I have to explain you can't just go riding into the blue when you feel like it?"

"Quit it, Éothain. I'm not in the mood", Éomer growled, turning Firefoot around. The stallion was still restless and he danced under his Rider, but the young king hardly noticed it.

"And I'm not in the mood to go chasing after you without any warning, so I guess neither of us are going to get what we want", Éothain snapped back. No matter how black Éomer's mood got, Éothain was one man he had never been able to intimidate.

The captain's tone was full of challenge and his steed pranced around Firefoot, as though to emphasise Éothain's point. The two stallions snapped at one another before their Riders checked them again. But Éomer felt abruptly weary. One confrontation a day was quite enough for him, and so he did not answer his friend with equal ire and temper. He just groaned and rubbed his face.

"What's the matter? Has something happened?" Éothain asked at length. His tone was less furious and his steed was calming down, too.

There was no sense in trying to keep it from Éothain. The captain would get the truth one way or the other. So the young king let out a sigh and with as few words as he was able, he explained the sorry affair with the lady, although he made no mention of the meeting in the Houses of Healing. A violent shiver went down his spine. He couldn't think of her name without feeling wretched.

The captain and his horse were both still. At first his blue eyes were wide and wondering, but gradually they narrowed, and Éomer could practically see the wheels turning inside the man's head. And naturally, he would focus on the absolutely wrong thing.

"Éomer", said the captain in a soft, even voice, "Have you considered you're feeling this way and racing your horse on the shore like a madman because you're falling in love with that girl?"

The younger of the two Rohirrim grimaced.

"And have you considered you're full of horseshit?" he asked back, but almost immediately he felt guilty for being so snide. Was he speaking so because he didn't want to admit Éothain was on to something, or because he was simply exhausted with everybody obsessing over his love-life? The latter option was surely the safer one, because otherwise, he would have to examine certain feelings that would surely turn out quite painful, now that she had made her stance clear.

And yet... if he didn't go down that path, then he truly was as clueless and dishonest as he had felt while riding down here.

Éothain scoffed, but without contempt. He was much too used to the flares of his liege-lord's temper to be dismayed or disheartened.

"Do you think I'm blind? You're not as subtle as you think. From the moment that lady joined the party, you've seen nothing but her. Lad, I've known you almost as long as you've been alive, and in all that time you've never looked at anybody the way you look at her", he stated calmly as he lead his horse next to Firefoot.

Éomer was frowning and staring at the sea. The clouds were rolling as a wide, black front towards the land. Soon they would veil the sun and then rain would fall, covering the land in soft, grey mist. But he could hardly see any of this, or the sunlight still glittering on the waves near the shore, or the gulls riding the wind towards inland. He knew it was useless to try and argue with his captain. The man had seen what he had seen.

"It doesn't matter how I might feel", he spoke at last, eyes still fixed on the waves. "If I scare her, then that's the end of it."

He made the mistake of looking at his friend and saw a strange, heated expression on the bearded face of Éothain.

"But what if it's not you she's scared of, but what you make her feel?" he asked.

"That's absurd", Éomer muttered. A lot of things were as of late, as it seemed. He scowled at his friend, "What do you know about these Gondorian women?"

"More than you, as always", Éothain replied and reached to pat his arm. "Let's get back. It's going to rain soon, and Imrahil is probably already thinking you rode into the sea in a fit of madness."

The young king grunted something in response and followed his friend back towards the city. Somehow, as he ever did, Éothain had managed to cheer him up a little bit and ease off the worst of his black mood. Whether the man was also right about her – that it was her own feelings she feared rather than him – Éomer dared not guess.

Even so, he would be lying if he tried to claim that the idea didn't cause a sudden, hopeful glimmer ignite where previously only anger and grief had raged.

Reluctantly, he had to admit Éothain could be on to something. Of all the young women Éomer had met since the Ring War, Lady Lothíriel was indeed the first who might have his heart.


Night came but Éomer could not sleep.

It was still raining. It had rolled over the land like a heavy, dim curtain. The bright green of early summer lost its richness under the grey clouds hanging low. The sea looked even more restless, and more dangerous. At times, the wind howled from the sea. Then the patter of rain against the windows of his bedchamber became like a drum-beat – a savage sound that made him feel like the fragile glass was moments away from breaking.

But he was not kept awake merely by the weather, for the events of the day kept on marching in circles inside his head. Over and over he returned to her workshop in his memory, went over the words that had so shocked him, and then recalled the sharp, painful emotions he had felt upon thinking she was scared of him. It was some time since he had last lost himself in such an overwhelming way.

It would have been one thing, hadn't Éothain come after him on the shore, opening his eyes to something new and alarming. From the moment that lady joined the party, you've seen nothing but her.

With a sigh he turned on his back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. No matter how he turned the matter over and again in his mind, he could not come up with a better explanation. She had haunted his every waking moment ever since he had discovered her on the cliffs. And even before: this past year, no other woman had occupied his mind as often as her. That was without knowing her name.

Oh, Béma. What is happening to me?

Unable to lay still any longer, he got up in a swift motion and began to look for his clothes in the dark room. If he stayed in this dim quiet any longer, he would lose it. Perhaps some fresh air might help.

His guards were surprised to see him up and about. It felt unnecessary to have them watching his door here in Dol Amroth, but some things could be helped. Éomer reassured them he was only going to take a short walk, perhaps make a turn in the garden, and that he would be quite all right by himself. The pair exchanged a look but they did not try to follow him.

The halls of Imrahil's castle were quiet at this hour. Here and there a torch or a candle was burning, but mostly it was dark, and in this downcast night the place felt vast and ancient and full of shadows. It was not the kind of dimness that would fill Meduseld's halls at night-time. This was cool and foreign and Éomer felt unpleasantly like invisible eyes were watching him.

The uneasy feeling passed when he finally reached the door he had been looking for. Thankfully at this point he had a slightly better idea of where he was going and so he did not spend too much time wandering the maze-like corridors. With a breath he stepped outside.

The wind had settled and the rain had turned into a gentle drizzle. The air was like a cool balm and he felt like he could smell every green blade of grass in it, washed clean by the storm. He sensed the morning would be fairest yet he had seen on these shores.

He didn't mind the gentle rainfall that fell on his head. It was not as cold or savage as rain could be in the Mark, and the wrath of the storm had passed for the most part. Éomer lifted his face to upwards and felt already lighter.

If the castle had been quiet, the gardens were even more so. A sheen of rain-water covered every leaf and branch. Most flowers had hidden themselves from the rain and the night, but at one corner he saw strange white flowers that bloomed despite the time and weather. Perhaps one wise lady might know what flower would behave so strangely, he thought to himself, before he recalled she might not be willing to tell him even that much.

He walked on. It was not long that he came to a round, vaulted pavilion that stood in the crossroads of four paths. There under its domed cover he saw a figure standing, so still that at first he thought it was a statue. But then the shape moved, perhaps hearing the gravel crackling under his boots as he walked.

It was her. Of course it was her. If Éomer had discovered any other southern lady here at this hour, he would have wondered. But Lady Lothíriel lived indeed by her own schedule, following convictions unknown to him.

There was not much light but he could tell she had turned to look at him. For a moment he stood still. Should he turn back and leave? Was his presence unwanted? But even as he was still thinking of this, she moved again and came to stand at the pavilion's entrance that directly faced him.

"Aren't you cold in the rain, Sire?" she asked him softly, as though no ill words had ever been exchanged between them.

"Not really. It's a gentle sort of rain", he replied warily. Béma, would he ever make any sense of this woman? Did he even want to?

She tilted her head and looked at him as though she too was trying to figure him out. But whether she had any better luck at it than him, he couldn't say.

"May I speak to you, my lord? I understand if you do not wish to hear anything I have to say, but I must at least ask", she spoke suddenly.

"What would you speak of, lady?" he asked back.

"Of remorse", she said in a tone uncommonly harsh for her. She looked down as she continued, "And how horrible I feel for the way I insulted you."

Éomer blinked. Here they were again at the starting line, and he understood her as little as he ever had. Yet his curiosity burned stronger than ever and so after only a moment's hesitation he began to approach her.

She moved back so that he could enter the pavilion as well. It was a pretty little structure, made entirely of white stone. Between every entrance, of which there were four, were long stone benches. In the middle there was a basin filled with clear water, in which flowers and petals of different sorts were gently floating. He could easily imagine generations of Ladies of Dol Amroth sitting here in the shade, living charmed lives far away from the wars of North and East.

"Speak, then", he commanded, crossing his arms across his chest. He became suddenly aware of the fact he had only donned on a soft white shirt and the rain had mostly glued it against his skin. He was far from being decently attired, but the lady didn't seem to realise it.

"I wanted to say I am sorry", she began, looking up at him with wide, unhappy eyes. Before herself she was fidgeting her hands. With effort, she continued to talk, "It was never my desire to cause you pain. I have wished you happiness from the moment we first met. But you ask so many questions that I can't answer, and I suppose I felt cornered... so I said something that I knew you would not understand. Or, you would take it as a sign that I was no good. You would go your way, like you should, my lord."

He listened to her every word keenly. He felt there was honesty behind each word, and yet he did not understand what she meant. There was so much that confused him. Why did it sound like she had purposefully tried to drive him off, even though it seemed to cause her pain even now?

For pain there was in her tone and in what little he could see of her face. It rested on her slender shoulders like a heavy burden. Why would she choose it instead of his friendship?

"But the way you looked at me when I said it... it was like I had driven a dagger through your heart right there. I could not stand it, Sire. So I needed to talk to you and let you know that I'm the one who did wrong and it was not because I was afraid of you", she went on and quickly glanced at him face, as if to check whether he was still watching her. Then she lowered her eyes again and fixed them at his feet.

"Then what does scare you so that you would act this way?" Éomer asked. He wasn't certain what to think and what to feel, except profound wonder and confusion.

She seemed to take a deep breath before she answered.

"Many things may scare me, Sire, but not you. Never you. It wasn't to say that I don't trust you, or that I think you are a perilous man for a woman to be friends with. I am afraid because you make me lose my caution, and because I am not as sensible as I should be in your presence. I am afraid of the power you hold over me", she explained, and at the end of it, her voice was little more than a whisper. Her head was hanging down in shame and regret.

His mood softened. It was like some lingering sheen of ice thawed at last, for he was not a cruel man who refused to forgive when apologies were so sincerely offered. Ever so gently, he reached his hand to her and lifted her chin so that he could meet her eyes. But her skin was like warm porcelain against his rough warrior's fingers, and once again he felt that strange tremor passing through his very sinews.

"Thank you for your words, lady. Please know I'm not angry anymore – you are forgiven", he spoke and was surprised to hear his voice was so collected. "I admit I was disturbed to think that I scared you. But please, my lady, you must know that you don't need to perform or check your true nature before me. I told you that I feel like we might be friends, and I still believe so. There is no reason why friends should feel like they ought to be cautious between one another."

"You are kind", she said softly and studied his face intently. "And one thing that I said before is true: the gift of your friendship is an honour indeed. Yet, I wonder... is it truly just my friendship that you desire?"

The question was pointed indeed, and it was then Éomer felt like he actually saw her. Until now, it was as though wariness and doubt had veiled his eyes. But with her question he took notice of her long, dark hair spilling down her back like rivers of finest silk. Her robe was white, but it glimmered faintly whenever light hit it, and it left her shoulders bare. Her neck was delicate but proud, her collarbones so finely sculpted that he ached to trace that line with his fingers, and he could not help it when the gentle swell of her breasts drew his eye. How soft and inviting her skin looked! But quickly he sought her face again, even though he found no refuge there. For her eyes were bright and piercing, and her mouth, so sweet and full, was no less captivating.

She was fair. More so, in fact, than he had dared to admit before now, and he was a damn fool for even thinking his feelings for her were not growing.

He swallowed hard before he answered.

"Maybe. Or maybe not", Éomer whispered. And she was staring straight at him those blasted, knowing eyes, and he couldn't stand it any longer. So he reached his hand to her again, brushing dark hair behind her ear... he settled his fingers there only a second before he bent down his head to kiss her.

Lady Lothíriel was soft, and warm, and she trembled against him, but did not push him away. So many times until now he had felt like she was a puzzle he couldn't even begin to solve, that behind every mystery lay another. But in the kiss, everything else melted away and she was just a young woman, bright and fair and surprised to have a man kiss her so. She tasted like night-dew and honey and the smell of her skin, sweet and spicy, made his head spin with want. How he burned to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless and dizzy!

Béma, he was falling indeed.

And for one brief, blissful moment she responded. Still trembling, the lady added pressure on his lips, and her hand brushed against his cheek like a bird's wing. The other took support of his chest, trembling against the wet shirt – she had to feel the heat glowing through to greet her, just as he felt the gentle pressure of her fingers. But when his self-control began to waver and he added a hint of a tongue into the kiss, she seemed to snap out of it. She let out a small cry, looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes and took a graceless step back.

"F-forgive me", she stammered, turned, and then fled the pavilion as swift as a shadow before moonlight.

Éomer followed her as far as the entrance and stood there, leaning against the stone archway and watching her run. She flew like some spirit of the night, swift and soundless upon the wet grass. His heart was still a frenzied drum-beat in his chest and it showed no signs of slowing down. A smile, broad and fierce, began to tug at the corners of his mouth.

Then he leapt down on the grass, and he laughed out loud. It grew, until he was almost howling with such a joy as he had not felt in many, many months.

And even if half the castle had woken up to see him dancing in the rain, he would not have cared for a single second.

To be continued.


A/N: And here is a new chapter! I did not think I would be publishing this at this time, but turns out you got time for such things while physical distancing. I hope you guys are safe and healthy while this unfortunate situation goes on. If you want to chat or send questions, you can do so here at or at tumblr. You can find me at tumblr under the same username as here.

I very much enjoyed writing this chapter, especially the part with Lothíriel's workshop and the scene at the end. I hope you enjoyed it as well! Éomer is very much smitten with this girl, indeed. ;)

Thank you for reading and reviewing. Please let me know what you think. Your comments are more valuable than you know.


xXMizz Alec VolturiXx - I think Amrothos has this case of where he has found a new cool friend (Éomer) and his younger sibling is being unnecessarily embarrassing!

sploosh93 - He has realised it indeed! ;)

Catspector - I think he's admitting it now! And she may not be so indifferent to it anymore!

Jo - Indeed - hearing that conversation can't be heartening. But they have not realised how Lothíriel might react to Éomer!

EStrunk - You are quite right - a story must have its obstacles to be interesting. Meanwhile, Éothain may not have such a job before him as one might ahve expected...

rossui - That is good! A writer in me is glad that you are wondering. ;) I'm glad you liked it!

Megingjoro - Thank you! It is something I've taken particular care this time, and I find it is very rewarding for myself as well!

Boramir - Interesting insights! I wish I could comment on them more, but I don't want to spoil anything. So I'll just thank you for your comment. :)

sai19 - I hope you had a wonderful birthday, and hopefully you will continue to enjoy this story!

blasttyrant - Thank you! It has been a pleasure being inside his head!

Serni - Thank you for your comments! I'm glad to hear you like this story so much. :)