Author's note: Back again, y'all! So glad you're all enjoying the story and willing to put up with the definitely slow, slow-burn status of things.

This chapter's a bit long, and choc full of meddling ;)

CHAPTER 8

If Ada had taken her dress and hair well, Erchirion takes it even better.

"Sweet Elbereth, Lothiriel," he says, voice warm with amusement, "I do not think Ada and I will be enough of a threat to keep every man in the hall from asking you to dance tonight."

She shoves his shoulder, blushing. "You are ridiculous."

"That is more Amrothos's realm of expertise than mine," he insists, squeezing her hand. "Truly, the style suits you, Thiri."

"Here, here," choruses Gimli.

"Eowyn deserves some credit," Lothiriel says, hoping to turn a little bit of the table's attention away from her. "I am merely the product of her handiwork."

Eowyn scoffs. "Your beauty is certainly something I had little hand in. You must thank your parents for that."

"Thank you, Ada," Lothiriel chirps, grinning when her father groans.

"Such cheek! And here I was thinking you had truly become a lady," he teases.

"Lady or not, Naneth has always told me to hold tight to my wit."

"A wise woman, your mother," says Aragorn.

"I have always thought so," Ada says, pride and love plain in his voice.

There's a sudden cheer from the rest of the hall; the hobbits have launched into another dance atop the tables, spinning each other 'round and 'round and sloshing ale everywhere.

"A dance!" Someone cries. "Let us dance!"

The musicians must have been prepared for this, because the drum heavy music of the Mark starts up not minutes afterwards. The floor is quickly cleared, couples partnering off, and unpaired people trying to make eye-contact with the partner of their choice. Aragorn, surprisingly, offers his hand to Eowyn. She shares a look with the queen-who looks utterly amused by the development-before accepting.

"Would you care to dance, my lady?" Legolas's voice startles her and Lothiriel turns to offer him a small smile.

"I am afraid I am very untrained in any Rohirric dances," she admits. "I would not want to crush your poor toes."

"Nonsense, his toes have had far worse than a lovely lass treading on them," Gimli chuckles. "Dance, my lady, for you are young and this night is for youth!"

Lothiriel wants to point out that Legolas himself is far from being considered "youthful", but keeps her tongue in check. She accepts her friend's hand and allows him to lead her to the center of the hall, where they fall into step beside Eowyn and Aragorn.

"I am going to make a fool of myself," she mutters.

"You have an Elf as your dance partner," Eowyn says, pinching her side. "I doubt Legolas knows how to look like a fool, much less dance with one."

Legolas smiles at her as the dance begins; it is very unlike any of the dances she knows, and even unlike the few dances Naneth has taught her from Pelargir. But Legolas is an excellent partner, indicating which way to step with the gentlest press of his hand, the slight twist of his shoulders. He does catch her by surprise when he lifts her, but the rest of the men are doing the same to their partners, and Lothiriel assumes it is part of the dance.

She's breathless with laughter by the time they finish, and Legolas bows over her hand.

"Your heritage reveals itself most when you dance, mellon," he says. "My toes were quite safe."

Shaking her head at him, she turns to return to the table, only to find her path blocked by a number of smiling men. She recognizes a few of them as patients of hers from the Houses, and offers her greeting.

"You dance well, my lady!" Leofa, bless him, says, with a beaming smile.

"Aye!" Is the chorused agreement.

"You are all too kind," she tells them. She is not accustomed to so much male attention; in Dol Amroth, she has known most of the lords from childhood, many of them good friends with her brothers, therefore putting her strictly off-limits, while in Minas Tirith, most men tend to act as if she blends in with the walls, for all that her complexion makes her stand out so drastically against them.

"Would you like to dance again?" One of the men-Dunstan, if she's remembering correctly, who she'd helped patch up a small wound on his shoulder in the Houses-asks.

"I-"

"Dunstan, you know as well as we do that you've got two left feet. Dance with Folcred, my lady, if you want an attentive partner."

"No, choose me, milady, these louts haven't got any idea how to handle a princess-"

She is not, however, so innocent in the ways of men that she does not understand the innuendos being flung around in front of her. She has three brothers, after all, and despite Ada's attempts to keep her from their more...romantic exploits, she knows the way of things. Wishing for Erchirion, she attempts to make her excuses. The men do not press, but none step aside, clearly waiting for her to change her mind.

At least, that is how it feels, until-

"You are crowding her," comes a familiar voice. "Give the princess some space."

Relief washes through her as Eomer appears. While it irritates her that the men respect his wishes and not hers, she cannot truly fault any of them. After all, he is their king, and she merely the princess of a foreign country. These are good men, and none of them meant any harm; just a mild flirtation.

"I could do with some ale," she admits.

He offers his elbow without comment and his men wisely part for them.

"Thank you," she says in a low tone. "I did not want to disappoint them, but I am sure with any partner less graceful than Legolas, I would have done myself or someone else harm."

"They could do with some disappointment," he grumbles. "Any fool could see that you were uncomfortable."

"It was not that, I am just not…" She pauses, wondering if she should reveal such a private thing to him. He is a king and brother to her dear friend or no, he surely has little time for the insecurities of princesses.

Eomer stops and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her face; unlike the wall of attention he had just rescued her from, his focus is not uncomfortable. And he had spoken to her of Theodred, and she would like to believe them friends, or near enough to it…

"I am not accustomed to so much male attention," she admits, shrugging.

His brow furrows at that, as if she has said something confusing. "Surely, you jest."

Now it is her turn to feel confused. "Not in the slightest."

He laughs slightly. "Dol Amroth must be a very different sort of place. Or your brothers must be especially vigilant."

"Both things are true," Lothiriel says slowly, still feeling perplexed.

They have reached the casks of ale now, and Merthwyn, the lead housekeeper, is there. She greets Eomer with a warm smile, though the expression dims a little when she turns to offer Lothiriel a mug.

"So this is the Gondorian princess," she says, her voice thick with the Rohirric accent.

"Well met, Lady Merthwyn," Lothiriel acknowledges, feeling as if she is being put to the test. "It is an honor to meet the woman who keeps Meduseld so well run."

At that, the housekeeper's full smile returns. "Pretty and diplomatic. I knew there was a reason they are so fond of you."

They? Lothiriel wonders. But then she is aware of Eowyn's smile from across the hall, and Eothain's sudden wink in her direction. Eomer looks distinctly embarrassed, for some reason, which she elects to ignore. "I am equally fond of them, my lady."

"Bah, the only lady here is you, min déore. But I thank you for the kindness all the same."

Lothiriel smiles at the woman's tone; she is not unlike Aunt Ivriniel. A spine of steel, but a warm heart. Eomer leads her away once she has her mug filled, and she hears the old housekeeper call something out to him in Rohirric that makes him flinch before shooting her a stern look.

"What did Merthwyn say?" She asks.

Eomer starts, nearly sloshing ale onto her borrowed gown. Wincing, Lothiriel pulls her arm from his to inspect the sleeve; it is dry but for a few drops, and she takes a calming breath.

"Ale would not have ruined the gown, my lady," he says, ignoring her previous question.

"I would not want to get even the smallest of stains on this," she says, feeling suddenly shy. "Eowyn loaned it to me."

"It must be an old one of hers, by the cut and length," he murmurs, fingering the damp spot on the sleeve almost absentmindedly. "She has not been your height since she was scarcely more than a girl."

"It is not Eowyn's," Lothiriel starts to say, feeling heat creep up her neck. She does not know why it is so important that he know the truth-that he knows how honored and utterly, utterly undeserving she feels to wear something of such value to her friends-only that it is.

She thinks she sees realization dawn on his face, but Pippin is suddenly there, with Merry as well, pulling her hands from Eomer's and bemoaning how little they've seen of her tonight, that if she would dance with Legolas, that she must dance with them again.

Lothiriel allows herself to be led away, but she cannot shake the weight of Eomer's stare, even when he is swallowed up by the crowd.

"It is not Eowyn's," she had said. Four words, meaningless out of context, but this, this…

There is only one other woman he can think of that had been remotely near the princess's size. Only one woman whose gowns Eowyn would have kept, and loaned to someone he knows she already considers kin.

Lothiriel is wearing his mother's gown.

Were it any other woman-a different Gondorian noble maid, prissy and proper and courtly, or even another of his countrywomen, the women his advisors keep suggesting at every Council meeting, blonde and true and honest-he doubts he would feel anything other than anger.

But this is not anger.

This is...something else entirely.

Bema, he scarcely knows the woman! She is vexing and kind in equal measure, with a temper at least as hot as his, and as obstinate as mule when she digs her heels in. But she has been a great friend to Eowyn, and the affection she shows her family is genuine, true. She collects champions as easily as the sun shines, and Vana, that smile-

But she is Imrahil's daughter. A princess, Gondorian, and despite Dol Amroth's more relaxed culture, the Mark would certainly lose its charm for her after a time. Grandmother Morwen had certainly tired of it-

"Eomer King," comes Arwen's musical voice. "Are you well?"

Eomer blinks, coming back to himself. "Yes, my lady."

"Hm," she hums, sounding so like Aragorn in that moment that he nearly flinches. "I suppose I will choose to believe you."

She slips her arm through his, gently leading him back towards the head table.

"My husband and Mithrandir wish to speak to you," she says by way of explanation. "I hope I did not interrupt anything?"

His eyes flick to hers, suddenly wary. Lady Galadriel was rumored to be able to hear a man's thoughts, and he wonders if her granddaughter possesses a similar gift.

"No," he says instead. "Nothing of consequence."

She hums again. They reach the table and Aragorn pats the space beside him, Gandalf puffing cheerfully on his pipe.

"Oh, Eomer," comes Arwen's voice again. "A word of advice?"

"Yes?"

"There is an old saying amongst my people: but he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose."

He blinks at her, utterly perplexed. "I am sorry, my lady, I do not understand."

She smiles, a warm light in her blue eyes. "In time, gwedeir. In time."

With that rather baffling piece of advice, he allows himself to be drawn into conversation with his friends, resolving not to think about queens or princesses for the rest of the night.

Lothiriel is exhausted and feeling a little bit more than tipsy-Merry and Pippin had not let her mug remain less than halfway full the entirety of the time she'd danced with them-and she finally makes her way back to the high table, sinking onto the bench with a sigh.

Ada has long since departed, either for bed or to smoke another pipe outside with Mithrandir. Erchirion is deep in conversation with Lisswyn at the end of the table. Now, that was an interesting development. Lisswyn is far from Erchirion's usual taste in women: red-haired, shy, and soft-spoken. But somehow, they suit. Not that anything can truly come of it; for all of Dol Amroth's support of love matches, the couple must be from equal rank in society.

And our family is considered odd enough as it is, Lothiriel thinks with a scowl.

"Careful, or your face may get stuck like that," Eowyn teases, dropping down beside her with a silly grin.

Lothiriel brightens at her friend's arrival. She shoves Eowyn's elbow, and they fall together in an ungraceful heap, giggling madly.

"Drunkards!" Eothain teases, leaning on the table across from them.

"As if you can talk," his wife, Wilfled, retorts, poking her husband in the stomach. "How many mugs of ale have you had tonight, déore?"

"Enough," he admits. "But not as many as our king last night!"

Wilfled hushes him, clearly embarrassed, but Eomer merely shrugs from his place beside Aragorn. "He is right. And I certainly don't envy the way his head will feel tomorrow."

"Bah, hangovers are for green boys," Eothain slurs, waving a hand at his king. "I am beyond such suffering now."

Wilfled rolls her eyes and hefts her husband to his feet. Despite their difference in stature-and her very apparent pregnancy-she moves him with ease. "You are not beyond risking your wife's displeasure when she has to deal with said hangover on the morrow. Up, husband, I am ready for bed."

Eothain waggles his eyebrows at that, earning a pinch from his wife, but she smiles all the same. Their departure prompts another round of stragglers to follow them. Lothiriel yawns; she had not realized how tired she was until just this moment. She stands, ready to make her farewells, when she brushes her hand against the small bundle tied inside her sleeve.

"Oh!" She says softly, remembering why she'd put it there in the first place.

Steadying herself on the closest chair, she manages to make a decently dignified walk over to the end of the table, where Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Eomer still sit.

"Have you come to bid us goodnight, mellon?" Legolas asks.

"No," she says and then pauses. "Well, yes, but not only that."

If she had been slightly more sober, she might have noticed Aragorn's near face-splitting grin, and Gimli's badly muffled laughter. As it is, she notices neither, focusing all of her limited awareness on Eomer instead.

"Here," she says, offering him the pouch.

He hesitates, dark eyes bearing into hers. A sudden shiver snakes up her spine, though it is far from cold.

"What is it?"

"Tumeric," Lothiriel answers, her tongue feeling strangely unwieldy in her mouth. "It helps lessen inflammation and can lower pain levels if eaten."

This time, she does hear Gimli's laugh and offers him a fierce scowl before turning her attention back to the king.

"I do not think I am going to be the one in need of this in the morning," he says gently. He has a nice voice, Rohan's king, when he isn't brooding. He should be less broody, Lothiriel decides.

The meaning of his words trickle slowly through the pleasant fuzziness in her brain, and Lothiriel frowns. "It's not for that," she assures him pushing the pouch back in his direction. "I do not know much about king's marks, my lord, but I imagine having one's skin poked and dyed is far from comfortable, even hours after the fact."

There is a sudden snort from Aragorn's direction, but when she turns to look at Gondor's king, his face is smooth.

Eomer, meanwhile, is staring at her like she's grown a second head. Flushing, she plucks at her sleeve. A thought dawns and she can feel her face-already pink-likely turning red. "Unless the pain is part of the ceremony, I did not mean any offense-"

And then his hand is over hers, covering it and the pouch. Sweet Elbereth, but his hand was large and warm and-

"Thank you," he says, cutting across her increasingly fuzzy thoughts.

She can only smile at him, helplessly, feeling unsure over which part of her body was more likely to catch fire: her face, from her embarrassment, or her hand, held in his.

Erchirion clears his throat from somewhere far away and Lothiriel nearly jumps, startled. She presses the pouch more firmly into his hand before pulling hers away. "Good night, my lords," Lothiriel murmurs.

They chorus their response and suddenly Eowyn is by her side, linking her arm through hers. "I had forgotten how our ale may affect those not used to it."

Lothiriel frowns; she has had wine before, and mead! Surely, Rohirric ale was not all that different!

"I am fine," she insists. "Just tired."

Eowyn snorts, patting her arm. "If you say so, Lothiriel."

The headache that greets her in the morning, however, soon proves her wrong.

Missives and letters, it seems, wait for no man, not even the King of Rohan.

The desk in his uncle's study-his now, like so many other things-is nearly covered in unread reports, tedious legal documents, and Bema knows what else. He almost wishes he had overindulged in the ale last night, if only so the resulting headache would have staved off dealing with the dull tasks that now await him.

But being a king is more than leading men into battle or continuing the line of Eorl; he must govern as well.

So. Paperwork.

He's perhaps four missives in-one report detail Snowbourne's losses, two letters concerning the slowly dwindling grain supplies in the East-mark, and another from the West-mark, with warnings of Dunlendings moving along the border-when there's a knock at the door.

"Come in," Eomer says, perhaps a bit more brusquely than necessary. He's already frightened one page nearly to death from barking at him-but Eomer, Eomund's son, has never been a morning person, a fact unlikely to change with his newly acquired title.

Thankfully, it's only his sister, who enters the room with a roll of her eyes. "Honestly, Eomer, you need to learn how to at least fake a cheerful mood."

"A king may do as he pleases," he grumbles, leaning back in his chair to rub his eyes.

"A king may, but he shouldn't," she argues, flicking his shoulder.

He flinches away from her-Eowyn's thumps are legendary, and his shoulder is more than little tender, despite the princess's helpful powder; tumeric, she'd called it, and it had helped, despite its spicy taste.

"Still sore?" Eowyn asks. "I would have thought Lothiriel's thoughtful recommendation would have helped with that." She pauses, frowning. "Unless you were too stubborn to listen to her-"

"Peace, Eowyn," he interrupts. "I have no fault with the princess's suggestion. It was very useful."

"She'll be pleased to hear it," Eowyn says, a catlike smile on her face. "Well, she will be after her headache wears off."

Eomer snorts; he knows all too well what too much Rohirric ale can do to a person. The princess is considerably smaller than the majority of his warriors, though, and shorter of stature than most of the Rohirric women that he knows...frowning, he opens his mouth to ask Eowyn if perhaps the princess would have more use of the herb than he would.

"She has more than enough supplies in the chest Lady Dejah sent with her to tend to her own pains, if that's what worries you," his sister says, grin only growing.

Blinking at her, his frown deepens. "How could you have known-"

"You have your fretting face on," she says, reaching out to press a finger between his eyebrows. "I have seen it leveled at me enough to know what it means."

He swats her hand away, displeased at having been read so easily. "I assume you came here with some other purpose than to irritate me, Eowyn."

His sister deflates a little, the teasing sparkle vanishing from her eyes. "Well, of course, Eomer. I did not mean to interrupt-"

Feeling even more like an ass, he sighs, running a hand through his hair before standing. Taking Eowyn's hands in his own, he gives them a gentle squeeze, guilt lessening when she offers up a smile. "Peace, sweostor. My ear is always yours."

She brightens a little at that. "Good. I have somewhat of an...unorthodox request."

Unorthodox and Eowyn tend to go hand and hand, and Eomer cannot say he is surprised by his sister's words. "How unusual," he says drolly, earning a punch to his shoulder for his cheek.

"Beast," she grumbles. "But Eomer, truly, it is odd. And I know it is, but I do not see another course of action, and the situation is very precarious...and precious to me-"

Ice-cold fear suddenly slides into his stomach. Surely, she hadn't-the Steward, her Steward, Faramir would not have-

"Eowyn," he interrupts, trying to keep his voice level, "speak plainly."

"I would ask your permission to invite Lothiriel to stay with us, when Aragorn and the rest return to Gondor," she says, brow furrowed. "What did you think I was asking?"

Letting out a loud sigh of relief, Eomer smiles, just slightly. "Certainly not that."

Eowyn's eyebrow only raises-Bema, curse him and his assumptions-and he knows he will have to tell her, much to her displeasure. "I feared...I thought there might be cause to move your wedding date closer."

Eowyn stares at him for a moment before he is subjected to another one of her hearty punches. "You absolute brute! Do men think of nothing else?"

"It would not be unusual in the Mark…" He defends weakly, earning another swat.

"Faramir is not of the Mark," Eowyn hisses, "and I am going to be considered outsider enough without a bastard child in my belly!"

He frowns again; he had not considered Eowyn's own worries in the face of her coming marriage. Brave, headstrong Eowyn, who could yell down the most grizzled soldier and had slayed the Witch King...nervous?

"What part does the princess play in all of this?" He asks, in an attempt to distract her, but also to answer his own curiosity.

"She is a high-born lady of Gondor," Eowyn says, as if explaining the concept to a small child, "and despite her dislike of the more stuffy traditions, she knows them, and knows how to manage a Gondorian household. And I...do not."

A shieldmaiden was more at home on a battlefield than a Gondorian court, and Eomer can see why she worries. But the princess...Bema, if there was any other lady less suited to Minas Tirith's court than Eowyn herself, it was Imrahil's youngest! The elder princess of Dol Amroth, the Lady Dejah, would have been an apt choice, but he could not ask Imrahil to call upon his wife so soon after the birth of their grandchild.

"I am not sure it is a wise idea," he says, slowly, "the princess is a dear friend to you, I know, but surely the queen would be a better source for...womanly decorum."

"Arwen is an Elf," Eowyn snaps. "And far less stern than you believe."

That is something Eomer can agree upon, remembering her strange riddle from the night before. "Still, Eowyn, it has been months since Lothiriel has seen her home, and she herself admits to being far from the Gondorian standard for ladies. We could send for a tutor, perhaps-"

"I do not want a tutor, or some mindless doll to tell me how to act in front of the king-who has saved my life and that of my beloved's-or how to best please my husband by never speaking my mind," Eomer's quite certain she has just stamped her foot, a display of temper he hasn't seen from Eowyn since they were both scarcely knee-high. "I ask for Lothiriel to stay and teach me because I think her capable, and know for a fact she will not, she could not-"

Her sudden tears startle him; Eowyn has cried in his presence only a handful of times, and most of those had been around the same time as the deaths of their parents, years ago now.

"Sweostor," he says softly, pulling her into an embrace. "Please, do not-"

"I do not know when I started being like this," she mutters. "I am a Shieldmaiden of Rohan-we do not cry-"

"Tears are not always an evil," Eomer interrupts. "I feel as though I have missed something vital. Why is it so important that it is the princess and no one else?"

Eowyn sighs, some of the tension leaving her. "Lothiriel is my friend. I know her, I trust her...she will not mock my worries, nor think less of me for not understanding Gondorian ways. Can you say that about any other Gondorian noblewoman we have encountered?"

No is the immediate, honest answer. There had been a number of decent ladies within the Courts, but none who had warmed to Eowyn the way the princess had, and certainly none who would ride to Rohan to assuage her fears. He cannot blame Eowyn for wanting someone she trusts and likes for this; were he in a similar position, he would want the same. In fact, he had relied on Aragorn enough these past few months to understand Eowyn's apprehension more than she likely knows. Had any other man been the King of Gondor, Eomer would have bristled under his advice, but wisdom from Aragorn-his friend, his brother-in-arms-rarely goes amiss.

"You are right," he finally answers. "But she is not my subject, Eowyn. I can hardly command her to stay."

Eowyn rolls her eyes, gently disengaging herself from his hug. "I would like to see you try! Ask her father what he thinks of the idea. Aragorn too, since he is her sovereign."

Groaning-he can imagine how that conversation will go-he pinches the bridge of his nose. "And here I thought there could be nothing as troublesome as paperwork."

Eowyn all but shoves him into his chair, patting the top of his head with a bit more force than necessary. "Yes, well, being a king isn't all fun and games. I'll tell Aragorn and Imrahil you want to speak to them."

Feeling more than slightly manhandled, Eomer resigns himself to his sister's plans.

"Ah, she lives!" Erchirion cries upon noticing her.

Wincing, Lothiriel eases herself onto the bench beside her brother. "You sounded disturbingly like Amrothos then, 'Chirion. Please stop."

"You drank disturbingly like Amrothos last night, little flower," he teases, poking her side. "Does the ale not agree with you?"

"The ale was fine," she grumbles. "It is its after-effects I am less fond of."

"You and many others," her brother says sagely.

Erchirion is chipper this morning, Lothiriel thinks, nearly giddy. He is not prone to Amrothos's flights of fancy, nor Elphir's occasional deep, booming laughs. His amusement is typically more inward, his joy quiet.

"Did you have much ale last night, 'Chirion?" She asks suspiciously.

"Hardly any at all," is the prompt response.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she leans closer. "Have you had some this morning?"

He chuckles at that, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Can a man not be happy on a beautiful morning in a beautiful place, with his beautiful sister by his side, without being suspected of drunkenness?"

Feeling suddenly foolish, she leans her head on his shoulder. Erchirion has a poet's heart underneath his Swan livery, and this War has been harder on him than most. She should not begrudge him his good mood, no matter the mysteriousness of its cause.

"I am sorry," she says, "my headache must be affecting me more than I thought."

"Here, then," comes Eothain's deep voice, "I have something that should cure what ails you, my lady."

Eothain had drank at least double of what Lothiriel had consumed last night, and yet here he stands, smiling and obviously pain free.

"Please," Lothiriel begs, "I think I would drink ditch-water if it would get rid of this infernal pounding."

"Your wish is my command," he says, with a grand bow. "Though you may be wishing for ditch-water after a swig of morgendrenc, my lady."

"Morgendrenc?" She asks, stumbling over the word. Rohirric is much harsher than Westron, and doubly as hard to pronounce than even the most obscure Sindarin.

"It translates to 'morning drink'," comes Lisswyn's gentle voice. "And it is the best cure for overindulgence, no matter how bad it smells."

"And tastes," Eothain adds. "Best to do it all in one sip."

Lothiriel peers at the cup Lisswyn has passed her; it looks innocent enough, mostly clear, with little bits of ground herbs swirling around the outer rim, but by the Valar, the smell!

"Well," she says, trying to force the ridiculous wobble out of her voice, "cheers, I suppose."

And with that, she gulps down the drink as quickly as she can. It is possibly the most vile thing she's ever tasted, and that includes Amrothos's solitary attempt at brewing mead in one of the flowerpots as an adolescent. Lisswyn pats her back when she begins to cough and Erchirion mutters something in Sindarin to help soothe her. Miraculously, she keeps it down. Even more amazing, her head begins to lessen its pounding not moments after. There's an appreciative murmur from around the hall. Apparently, she'd had more of an audience than she'd realized.

"I am afraid you've just won yourself a few more suitors, glómmung cwén," Lisswyn murmurs. "That was impressive, especially for someone not of the Mark."

Groaning, Lothiriel hides her face against Erchirion's shoulder. "I should have stayed in Gondor," she grumbles.

"And missed the opportunity to be admired for your drinking skills?" He whispers back, earning a pinch.

Favorite brother or not, Lothiriel is eagerly looking forward to the day someone has to force morgendrenc down Erchirion's throat.

"...and so Eowyn has asked if the princess might remain when your parties return to Gondor," Eomer finishes.

Imrahil looks strangely serene in the face of this odd request, and Aragorn...there is more than the hint of a smile upon his friend's face, and the sight unsettles him.

"I would have to ask Lothiriel's opinion on the matter," Imrahil finally says, stroking his chin in thought. "Though I doubt she will raise any objections."

That surprises Eomer; he would have thought the princess would be eager to return to Dol Amroth, to reunite with her mother and other family.

Imrahil smiles when he says as much. "She has always been a bit of an adventurer, our Thiri. I think more time in Rohan will do her some good; idleness is something she cannot abide, and I do not foresee her becoming so here, especially in your sister's company."

"I cannot disagree with that," Eomer admits. "But she will not grow weary of our...less formal ways?"

"Does my daughter strike you as someone who puts much stock in formality?" Imrahil asks with an arched brow.

Aragorn is shooting him a similar look over the older man's shoulder. Eomer sighs-Bema spare him from meddling Gondorians! "Not particularly, Imrahil."

"I certainly have no objections," Aragorn chimes in, still smiling. "It strikes me as singularly fitting."

"How so?" Imrahil asks.

Eomer does not trust-nor particularly like-the mischievous look on his fellow king's face.

"Well, to begin with, Eowyn shall soon be a lady of Gondor, and you shall find your hall utterly depleted of highborn ladies, brother. It only seems right that we loan you one of our best and brightest for a time."

"She is that," Imrahil says proudly.

"Not to mention the other coincidence that has been brought to my attention," Aragorn continues.

Something in his tone makes Eomer's palms sweat. "That being?"

"My dear wife," and Eomer groans, knowing this can only bode ill, but Aragorn continues on as if he hasn't heard him, "made mention to me something I had long forgotten."

"Aragorn," Eomer grumbles.

"The races of Arda have long been referred to by the Elves under various names. Men of Gondor have been known as Numenoreans, but the Men of Rohan have long been known as the Men of Twilight. How fitting that Lady Twilight should find a sort of home here."

Eomer spits out the small sip of water he'd chosen the wrong moment to drink. Aragorn was not known for subtlety but, Bema saying such a thing in front of Imrahil-!

"I have often thought my daughter not entirely suited for the life that would have been expected of her in Gondor," Imrahil murmurs, serene. "I am glad to know I am not alone in my opinion."

Eomer is still struggling to regain his breath-damn meddling Gondorians and well-wishing friends-but Imrahil is not finished.

"I think Lothiriel will be more than happy to stay, as long as you do not mind Erchirion's presence as well, Eomer," his friend says. "I do not think her mother would forgive me if I left her without a suitable companion, but neither would she condone my staying here until after Yule."

"I would not either," Aragorn says lightly, still smiling in an utterly infuriating fashion. "And as your king, I do have some say."

Feeling as though he has just walked into a very obvious trap, Eomer gulps down the rest of his water without further comment.

Eowyn owes me for this, he thinks.

Author's note: My, my, is that flirtation I see? And yes, the meddling on all fronts is a little heavy-handed, but what else are friends and family for? So now Lothiriel is looking at an extended trip to Rohan, and Eomer's official reign will begin.

Not so many terms as last chapter, but for clarification:

mellon: Sindarian for friend

min déore: my dear

But he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose: One of my favorite quotes from Anne Bronte's The Narrow Way, but it seems suitably Elvish enough for Arwen to lay claim to it

gwedeir: Sindarian for brother

morgendrenc: morning drink, which I've interpreted to be the Rohirric equivalent of a hangover cure. Imagine it as you will.

glómmung cwén: twilight lady (we'll be seeing this very, very often in coming chapters)