Author's Note: Guys, thanks again for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites! It really means so much to me :)
Also, you'll notice a slight divergence in canon in this chapter: according to the timeline, Eowyn and Faramir were married at an "unspecified date" (oh, JRR, you have dates for literally everything else, but not the marriage of two of your best characters?) after Theoden's burial, and I've just stretched it out a bit longer. Theoden is buried in July of 3019, and Faramir and Eowyn will be married in the spring of 3020, because frankly, I can't imagine Eowyn being ok with sending Eomer back to Rohan without him being fully settled into the role of king.
Alright, onward to the story! We're making the move back to Rohan in this one, and Lothiriel and Eomer have a discussion of cousins.
CHAPTER SIX
In great contrast to the celebratory mood of the coronation and Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, the march to Rohan is somber, subdued.
The past few months have been celebration of what the end of the war has meant for Gondor: a new King, the end of the Shadow, a promise of new lives to come.
But now, it is time to reflect on what the end of the war has brought to Rohan.
A new king, to be certain, but also the death of the old one, along with numerous countrymen and horses. On top of the deaths at Helm's Deep and the general slaughter enacted by Saruman's Orcs and the Dunlendings, the death toll was enormous. Not to mention the butchering of livestock and the ruination of fields…
For this reason, it is decided that Theoden King's funeral procession will be a smaller event, a private one, at least as far as the lords of Gondor are concerned. There is, at first, much bickering about this. Many a Gondorian noble is curious about the Mark, even more concerned with keeping their eligible daughters close to the new king.
But in the end, the combined influence of Aragorn, Faramir, and Imrahil is enough to convince them that now is not the time for such a visit. Meduseld could not support so many nobles at once, they insisted, on so short a notice. And the people of Rohan deserved to grieve their losses on their own, in their own ways, without curious Gondorian interlopers.
That is not to say that no Gondorians will attend. The king and queen themselves will go, as will Ada.
"I had hoped for us all to go," he admits the night before the large company is due to depart. "But with the birth of Elphir and Alycia's second child, I am afraid that is not possible."
Yes, Ada and Naneth have become grandparents a second time over, and Erchirion, Amrothos, and Lothiriel are the proud uncles and aunt to a new little girl that her parents have chosen to call Nemiriel.
"So what shall we do, Ada?" Lothiriel asks. Secretly, she hopes to make the journey to Rohan. She worries for Eowyn, who has withdrawn again the prospect of burying her uncle, and for Eomer, who is short-tempered and melancholy in equal turns.
He squeezes her hand; her poor Ada, so long removed from their city. "I cannot miss Theoden King's burial. Eomer has been too good a friend to me, and our debt to him and his kin is great."
"But neither can we both remain away from Dol Amroth," Naneth sighs, resting her head on Ada's shoulder. "We have both been too away long from the city. Elphir will not say so, of course, but he is stretched thin. Alycia needs more help with Alphros and Nemiriel than he can provide while attempting to lead the city. So I shall return home and meet our grandchild, and lift some of the burden from their shoulders."
"Do send him and Aly our love," Lothiriel insists. She misses her sister-in-law dearly; even with Eowyn's friendship, it is often lonely in the court of Minas Tirith, where she feels so ill-liked.
"So the rest of us are away to Rohan?" Amrothos asks, excitement bleeding through. "I have always wanted to see the Riddermark-"
"No, my son," interrupts Ada, smiling fondly. "Erchirion, Lothiriel, and myself are to go to Rohan. You are to remain to Dol Amroth with your mother."
Amrothos's face falls. "But-Ada! I do not understand-Thiri is younger, surely she should remain-"
"Lothiriel is the Lady Eowyn's closest companion in the city," Ada cuts across, frowning slightly. "And as Faramir cannot make the journey himself, I would like her to offer the lady comfort, if she can."
Lothiriel blinks, surprised. She had not known Faramir would not be going! Though, thinking on it, it makes sense; both Steward and King cannot leave Minas Tirith unattended, and Aragorn would not miss Theoden King's burial.
"Of course, Ada," she murmurs, "I would not see Eowyn suffer, especially in Faramir's absence."
"But surely Erchirion should return home instead!" Amrothos nearly yells, irritation plain in the stiffness of his shoulders. "He is the second son-"
"And the best horseman among my children," Ada interrupts again. "Amrothos, this is not a slight to you. You will protect your mother on the journey home, and when you arrive in Dol Amroth, I have made the arrangements with Elphir to you take up the leadership of the fleet."
That shuts her brother up and he gawks at Ada for a moment, not looking wholly unlike a codfish.
"The fleet?" He asks, voice high. "Me?"
Erchirion's eyebrows have shot up into his hairline, but wisely he chooses not to comment. Lothiriel can guess what he is thinking. Amrothos is an expert sailor, it's true, better than perhaps anyone in the family and certainly the majority of the other Dol Amroth nobles, but he is young-just five and twenty-and still impetuous. Rash, their youngest brother is, and mischievous. Not qualities generally sought out in fleet captains.
Still, Ada must have his reasons, else he would not decide such a thing.
"Well, Amrothos," Naneth says, breaking the silence. "Aren't you going to thank your father?"
"T-thank you, Ada," he manages to stutter. "This-it's-an honor, truly."
"Yes, it is," their father agrees. "Make me proud, my son."
But that was days ago, now.
Lothiriel misses Naneth already. It has been years since they've gone longer than three days in each other's presence, and despite Arwen and Eowyn travelling with them, she feels very alone and very, very female.
Thankfully, the hobbits have come along too, and are the few people who manage to remain cheery despite the overall sober mood of the party.
"I can scarcely complain," Merry admits during their luncheon break, "for the last time I made this journey, we were speeding across the country, and I had not the time to appreciate its beauty."
And beautiful the Anorian region is; the land is flatter here, easy to travel upon, even with the bier of Theoden King and the few carts carrying the few men who have not fully recovered-or those who can no longer ride.
Some of these men had been her patients in the Houses, and so Lothiriel takes time to greet them, to inquire after their health.
"I'll be alright once I get used to having just the one arm, milady," one of the men-Fastred, is his name, and she knows he has a wife and two small children waiting on him in the Mark-says. They're remarkably resilient, these men of Rohan, and Lothiriel cannot help but admire them.
She tells Ada as much, and it makes him smile. "Perhaps you will find yourself a husband among the horse-lords, little flower," he chuckles. "I must admit, I think you much more suited to a man of the Mark than any Gondorian nobleman I can think of."
"Ada!" She cries, mortified.
"I agree, Thiri," Erchirion says, a worrisome twinkle in his eye. "And besides, the men are already half in love with you as it is."
"They are only kind because I fuss over them," she insists, trying to hide her flushed cheeks behind her cup.
"Oh, my daughter," Ada says. "If only that were true."
Eomer is in a mood.
Understandably, as they are carrying Theoden King back to be buried and it is the first time the real weight of his new kingship has fully settled on his shoulders; in Gondor, he was a visiting King, and it was acceptable that he was less vital and important than Aragorn, less experienced than Imrahil, less even-keel than Faramir.
But now, on the road, heading towards his own country and his own people, all he can think of is his ineptitude, his failings. He was raised to be a marshal. A commander of men, a leader in battle...but not a diplomat, not a peacemaker. He has not the temperament to be king, nor the knowledge of the land and its lords. He is only Eomer, Eomund's son, and for so long it had been Theodred who would be king. Theodred, who would wear the crown well with all its trappings and titles-
"Eomer, if you stare any harder at that rock, I think it may be persuaded to catch fire," comes Aragorn's soothing voice.
Giving his friend a dark glare, he answers, "I am not in the mood for quips, Aragorn."
"You haven't been in the mood for much of anything," Gimli says, appearing on his left. "Hence the glaring at poor innocent rocks."
"Would you rather I glare at you instead?"
"I think I am a tad bit sturdier than those rocks, horse master," the Dwarf responds, unfazed. "Glare all you like."
Groaning, Eomer pulls at his hair. "I do not like to feel...useless."
"You are carrying the body of your beloved uncle and king home, to the people that loved and respected him," Legolas says wisely. "That would hardly be considered a useless pursuit."
They do not understand, cannot understand. Aragorn, even with his years in the wilderness, had been born to be a king. Legolas is a prince, Gimli is a venerated warrior amongst his own people-there is no uncertainty there, for any of them.
"Of all the many things that you are, Eomer King, useless is not one of them," Legolas offers again. With his youthful looks, it is easy to think the Elf young. But he has walked Middle Earth for countless lives of Men, and his council is often wise. "I have seen many kinds of kings, and many different kinds of men. Some make good men and terrible kings; some make good kings and terrible men. You shall be the rare kind who is good at both."
Feeling slightly comforted, Eomer accepts the water-jug from Aragorn's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Legolas."
The Elf merely shrugs. "It is no great thing to tell the truth."
The companions sit in comfortable silence for a while, the crackle of the fire filling the empty air. There is the murmur of the other people in their caravan around them, but no one dares disturb their circle, filled at is it is with kings and great heroes of the war.
"Where is the White Lady?" Gimli asks, suddenly. "I had thought to find her here with you, Eomer, and beg some soup from her."
That can only be a lie, for his sister is skilled at many things, but cooking is not one of them. It does make him think; where is Eowyn?
They have both been absorbed in their own grief the past few days, both grieving Theoden and their lost kinsman. But his grief is angrier than hers, more raw, where Eowyn's has taken an inward bend the further they get from Minas Tirith. She has left her heart behind with the Steward, that he well knows, and parting from him had pained her. But there is much to do before she can return to Emyn Arnen for her wedding in the spring. Eomer, and Rohan itself, will require much of her. And he has been only thinking of himself and the trials he will face-nothing of Eowyn, and how returning to Edoras may stir up less than happy memories.
Curse Wormtongue to the deepest hell, he thinks darkly, I should have torn him to pieces when I had the chance.
Cursing his own selfish melancholy, he starts to rise to look for her, only to be caught in a firm grip from Aragorn.
"Peace, brother," his fellow king says, "she is well attended."
He nods towards the group's right. There is another fire there, in front of the king and queen of Gondor's tents. Eowyn is there, sitting on the ground, with the queen beside her. Behind his sister sits the Lady Lothiriel, calmly brushing her fair hair as if it was the most normal occupation in the world.
The queen says something and the sorrow is somewhat lifted from Eowyn's face; she smiles, looking over her shoulder at her friend.
The Gondorian princess abruptly stops her brushing, suddenly brandishing the thing like a weapon in Eowyn's direction. All three ladies burst into laughter, and the sound echoes around the camp, drawing the attention of every man in the vicinity.
"I wonder what they speak of," Aragorn muses, eyes clearly locked on his lady-love.
"You may sit here and wonder, if that is your wish," Gimli says, standing, "but I intend to go find out."
"Dwarves," Eomer mutters, but without any fire behind it.
"I suspect he has the right of it," Aragorn says, ignoring him. He stands as well before offering Eomer a hand. "Besides, Arwen has something that may help cheer you."
"Tea?"
"Elvish mead."
"Your wife is an interesting woman, Aragorn."
Aragorn grins. "Ah, if you only knew the half of it."
Lothiriel is still tempted to swat Eowyn with the brush for her last comment-Rohirric sweetheart indeed, as if she had been alone with any man during their time travelling to form such an attachment-but that would likely mean swatting her queen as well. As comfortable as she has become with Arwen Undomiel, hitting the highest ranking lady in all of Gondor, even in jest, is something not even her supposed Harad blood could explain. Not to mention the headache it would likely give poor Ada.
But mostly she is too glad to see real happiness on her friend's face once more to feel any true irritation. Poor Eowyn, so torn between mourning her uncle and missing her beloved. Lothiriel does not mind bearing the brunt of a harmless joke if it can make the White Lady of Rohan smile.
"You are simply horrid," she tells Eowyn, who is still slumped against her shoulder, shaking in helpless laughter. "And you, my lady! I would have expected better from you, then to tease me so."
"Elves are permitted a sense of humor as well," Arwen answers regally, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Legolas is considered quite funny amongst our kinsman."
Lothiriel cannot help but pull a face at that and the queen's musical laugh joins Eowyn's again.
"You three have been hoarding all of the mirth around your fire," comes Gimli's voice, rich with teasing. "It's quite unkind of you."
"Then join us, and be merry," the queen graciously offers, patting a spot beside her on the ground.
Gimli eagerly complies. "Now, dear ladies, I must know what was so amusing just now. Your laughter could have woken the dead!"
There's a sudden pause as the Dwarf seems to realize what he's said, and where he's said it. Beneath his bushy beard, Lothiriel can see his cheeks flush. Of course, the kings of Gondor and Rohan have chosen the worst possible moment to arrive; Eomer fixes Gimli with a glare so strong that a lesser man-or Dwarf-would have certainly feared for their life.
Eowyn stands suddenly, startling them all by giving her brother's stomach a strong thump. Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at the sudden disgruntled expression that crosses the young king's face. Aragorn chuckles as well, settling down on the other side of his queen with ease.
"It is a common expression, Eomer," Eowyn hisses, shaking a finger in his face. "Now, sit and be pleasant, or take your foul temper elsewhere."
"No respect for your king," he grumbles, but his earlier fury has vanished. Eowyn rolls her eyes and returns to her previous seat. Eomer drops down beside her and accepts a glass of mead from Arwen.
"What were you discussing that caused such mirth?" Aragorn asks, returning to Gimli's original question.
"It was nothing of consequence, my lord," Lothiriel says, hoping that Eowyn and Arwen will support her.
Her hopes are in vain, for Arwen smiles again. "I would not call a Rohirric suitor 'nothing of consequence', Lothiriel."
There is a sudden splutter; someone has just spit out their mead! She scarcely has a chance to wonder who it was before Gimli is badgering her for an explanation and Eowyn is laughing herself senseless in Lothiriel's ear.
"My queen is teasing me," Lothiriel assures the Dwarf, "there is no suitor."
"I do not think Leofa would agree with you, min drút," smirks Eowyn.
"Leofa does mean 'beloved' in the language of the Mark," Aragorn says knowledgeably, eyes twinkling in a way that most certainly bodes ill. "Perhaps his name has predicted his fate?"
Lothiriel can only gape at her king in horror. Gimli joins in, adding, "Is there something about this rider that has set you off of him? Has he pressed his suit too ardently? I would be happy to knock some sense into the lad-"
"Surely that would be my role, as his king," interjects Eomer, voice low. "If a rider of mine has made you uncomfortable, my lady, I would have you say so."
Eowyn has slumped over again, laughing so hard her entire body shakes. Arwen, while more composed, looks as amused as her husband. Lothiriel wants to tear at her hair: miscommunication was about to cost poor Leofa his life!
"No, my lords, Leofa has done nothing-he is not my suitor, nor will he ever be," she manages to say, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"So you have set your heart on another?" Asks Aragorn, sounding far too innocent.
Lothiriel groans. "No, my lord. But Leofa would not be an acceptable choice for me in any case."
"Why not?" Gimli asks.
"Because he is-or rather was-my patient in the Houses," she finally says. "And on top of that, he is but five and ten."
There's a moment while everyone digests this-Eowyn's laughter has not abated, and Lothiriel wonders what her brother's reaction would be if she were to strangle her-and then the rest of the circle joins her, dissolving into mirth.
"Well played, Lady Arwen, well played," Gimli is chortling.
"I could not agree more," Aragorn laughs, settling an arm around his wife's waist.
Lothiriel feels stung, all of a sudden. It was a harmless joke, made in jest with the intention of cheering Eowyn, but it...hurts suddenly, that the thought of someone paying suit to her is such a laughable idea. She knows very well of her faults, and that it will take a man of exceptional character to love her for them, not despite them. Sometimes it feels as if there is no such man, and nor will there ever be. She will remain Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, sharp of tongue and quick of wit, aunt to all and mother to none.
Eowyn senses the change in her posture and her laughter dies away. Lothiriel resists the urge snatch her hand back from her friend's questioning one; she is tired, and in a foreign place, and her sillier emotions are getting the best of her.
"I think we have had enough mirth at the lady's expense," comes Eomer's voice. "Let us speak of other things."
Lifting her eyes, she finds Eomer looking at her, understanding in his expression. She mouths a quiet 'thank you', to which he nods. The hobbits soon join them, claiming the group's attention. The rest of the night is much more pleasant, though the sudden hurt at her friends' laughter does not fade completely, lingering around Lothiriel's heart like a bruise.
The plains of the Riddermark are as beautiful as he remembers them. He is not sure why he expected that to change, along with everything else, but they have not. They are as green as they were in his youth, when he had just learned to ride a horse and Theodred was still teaching him to fight with a wooden sword.
More brother than cousin, had Theodred of Rohan been, and Eomer misses him.
"Shall we continue on?" Asks one of his guard. "Sire?"
"Yes," he says, voice gruff. "Move out."
The guard-Cadda, of Snowbourne-nods and passes along the message. The journey has been slow going, with the excess of people and Theoden King's bier, but now they have passed into the Mark. It seems easier to breathe, now that he has seen that the country still stands. Logically, he knew it would be, but in the face of Pelennor, Morannon...any evil seemed possible.
There is the sudden thunder of hooves as someone approaches; he expects Aragorn, perhaps even Eowyn, but instead he hears a greeting in the princess's slightly accented Westron. His guards allow her to pass and she brings her gelding up beside Firefoot.
Usually, his horse does not tolerate strangers-neither human nor horses-well, but Nipredhil is a beautiful mare, which is enough to stay Firefoot's temper. The princess rides well, from obvious practice. She even rides in the standard style, not attempting that side-saddle nonsense that so many Gondorian ladies seemed to favor, despite her skirts.
"Eomer King," she says, "may I say something?"
Preparing for a lecture on his brooding, or perhaps some inane commentary on the beauty of the country, he grudgingly nods.
"Thank you," is what he gets instead. "Last night, I-I do not know how you knew that I was uncomfortable, but you spared me from having to embarrassing my queen by letting her know that she was part of the cause."
Eomer barely resists twisting in his saddle to look at her; she could not have surprised him more than if she had hit him over the head with a skillet.
"They should not have let the joke go on that long," he says. "It was unkind."
"But not, I think, intentional," the girl defends. "Arwen is not human, and is unaccustomed to human hurts."
A fair assessment and a likely one; the Lady Arwen is kind, and wise, but has not been a young woman in many years, despite her looks.
"I did only what I would have done for Eowyn, had she been in the same predicament," Eomer says. "A brother knows enough about what may hurt a young woman's heart."
They ride in silence for a time, and for a moment, he wonders if he has embarrassed her. It is true, he guessed what ailed her based off of Eowyn's behavior at that age. Laughing when discussing a girl's suitors would be unpleasant for any woman, especially as one as proud as Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. But that had not been why he spoke up. Her face had been so sad, so devoid of its usual fire and challenge...the words had been out of his mouth before he had been able to stop them.
"And what of your heart, my lord?" She asks suddenly, startling him. Firefoot whinnies his displeasure at the sudden clench of his thighs.
His heart? Currently, beating a bit faster because of the fright she'd given him. But he knows that is not what she meant.
"Meaning?" Eomer asks.
"I have come to know you well enough to know that something is weighing on you, my lord," is her direct response. "And perhaps I am not the person you would choose to reveal your heart's hurts to, but my mother has always said that pain shared is pain halved, not doubled."
Imrahil had said something similar to him at the beginning of their trek to the Mark, and he wonders if Lady Dejah had put him up to it, or if the long-married couple were so in sync that they followed similar thought patterns without being aware of it. The thought makes him strangely happy and sad; happy, that his friend has been blessed with such a marriage, and sad that his own parents never got to live long enough to fall into such patterns.
"Your mother is a wise woman, my lady."
"She is," and there's a note of wistfulness there. "I miss her already, though it's scarcely been a week since I've seen her. Is that not strange?"
"I wouldn't know," it comes out gruffer than he means for it to, but it has been a long year-a long life-and he has never been good at being soft. "My mother has been dead for years."
The princess's face is stricken at that and abruptly, he feels guilty. She is trying to be kind to him, trying to offer whatever help she can, and here he is, spitting venom at her.
"I am sorry-" She starts to say but he stops her.
"No, I am sorry. I do not...there have not been many people I could truly trust in the past year, and I find it...difficult, to express things I would rather not discuss."
Surprisingly, she nods at that. "I know a little of what that feels like, my lord. To be in a position of power is to be strong, or to at least seem to be strong, no matter what is going on inside your own head."
She does not understand, not fully, but it is enough to draw the words from him. "I miss my cousin. He was born for this role, trained for it...I worry that I will not do his memory justice."
"You speak of Prince Theodred," the princess says. "Eowyn has told me a little of him, but most of what I know of him comes from my cousin."
"Faramir?" He did not think the two men had met, though they were certainly closer in age than he and Theodred had been.
"No," and the wistful tone is back, "my other cousin. Boromir."
Now there was a great leader of Men. Eomer had met the man a few times, years before, when relations between Rohan and Gondor were not so strained. He was of an age with Theodred, and just as broad and strong as any Rohir. He had been very popular with the lasses, for the little it had mattered, and a more stout-hearted friend one could not have asked for.
"I recall them getting along very well," he says, "though my own interaction with your cousin was fairly brief."
"He was very fond of Theodred," she confirms. "I think they saw something of themselves in one another."
He wonders, suddenly, how much she knows of Boromir and Theodred's relationship. The princess is younger than he is, and there had been a good number of years between himself and his cousin...but it would not be unreasonable for her to know the truth. Faramir likely did, and Faramir is as close to her as a brother...
"He did not want to be steward," the princess says suddenly, unbidden. "Always, he thought Faramir was the more natural choice, the brother better suited to the role."
"Faramir will be a wonderful steward," he says tentatively, not sure where this vein of conversation is heading.
She turns her head towards him, eyes holding his. "Faramir was no more born to be steward than you were to be king, my lord. And yet you think him able to the task."
"I-"
"You are being too harsh on yourself," she interrupts, and there is the prickly princess, hidden beneath her layers of concern, "much as Faramir is, and I think neither Boromir nor Theodred would thank either of you for it."
He is torn between outrage and the sinking feeling that she is right. Theodred would not appreciate, nor approve of, the doubts he has let rattle his confidence so.
"At the very least," ah, she isn't finished, "everything I know about your cousin and your uncle tells me they would not have left the fate of the country they loved so well in the hands of someone who they did not trust. And I cannot think of a higher recommendation than that."
Bema above, she could argue even his worst councilors into the dirt! Briefly, he toys with the idea of letting her have a go at old Torfrith, the worst of the lot, before brushing it aside. It was unlikely she would ever see the bad side of the old badger, being a visiting princess of generally good manners and no small supply of beauty.
Even if he does not feel ready to the task, Theoden King thought him so, and Theodred would have supported him through Mordor itself, if the need had arisen. The princess has a point.
"It seems I should be the one thanking you, my lady," he murmurs. "I had not thought of it that way."
"Originality is simply a pair of fresh eyes," she says, a tiny bit of mischief in her tone.
"Your mother, again?" He guesses.
"Merely an old Dol Amrothian phrase," is the response, laughter clear in her voice now, "but Naneth will be pleased you thought she came up with it."
She drops back to where her father and brother are riding a few moments later, still smiling.
His homeland is before him, his friends behind him, and the sun still shines. Eomer suddenly finds it very hard to be anything other than content.
Author's note: Look at them, getting along! Definitely not so prickly now ;)
Up next is Theoden's burial, Eomer's coronation, and an introduction of various aspects of Rohan's culture (which will be explained in depth in the next chapter)
min drút: friend, beloved one