Author's Note: Y'all, thanks again for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites! I know I repeat myself, but it really does make sharing this story with y'all such a joy :)
We get a few more examples of culture clashes and a bit of a wider view of Rohan! Oh, and Eomer and Lothiriel have a somewhat revealing conversation, though not in the way you think ;) Enjoy!
CHAPTER NINE
In the weeks after her father's departure, Lothiriel knows she has made the right choice.
Oh, bidding Ada good-bye had been hard; bidding good-bye to him is always a trial, but this time she is sending him home, to Naneth and safety and Dol Amroth, and that sweetens the sorrow of their parting.
For she cannot leave Eowyn to her worries, her doubts. She has become too dear for her to that. Naneth would understand, as Aunt Ivriniel had offered her council after she had married Ada, so long ago now. Gondor's court is tricky to navigate even at the best of times, and Lothiriel is loathe to leave Eowyn unprepared for the challenge.
But part of her wants to stay for her own, selfish reasons.
The War is over. Naneth has taken up her rightful mantle as princess of Dol Amroth. Alycia will begin to take on more responsibilities, once Nemiriel is old enough. Between the two of them, there will be little left for Lothiriel to do in her city. Oh, she has learned enough of healing in the Houses and at Naneth's side, been privy to war council meetings thanks to Elphir and Ada, and learned about the lands to the South from Alycia. But the men have returned, now, and she would not be expected to sit in on council meetings any more, or to be asked for her opinion on the swiftness of the fleet, or how to feed the common people in the face of a severe storm.
She would be welcome at home, this Lothiriel knows, both by her family and by her people. And yet...she would feel useless, reverted once more to the girl she had been before the War, high-born and hot-tempered and childish. Here, at least, she can offer some kind of service, even if it is teaching one of her dearest friends about something she likes the least.
"Lothiriel, are you listening to me?"
Jumping, and flushing guiltily, Lothiriel offers Lisswyn a helpless smile. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
The older woman shakes her head, hoisting little Darwyn more securely on her hip. "Not in the slightest, glómmung cwén."
"I am sorry," Lothiriel murmurs, cursing her too-open face once more. "I will be more attentive, I promise."
Lisswyn looks amused at that. "I was merely asking if you would like to join your brother and mine on a ride, but if you would rather stay here and sew-"
Lothiriel is out of her seat before Lisswyn can finish the sentence, causing the other woman to laugh and startles a surprised giggle out of Darwyn's mouth.
Ada had been generous enough to leave Niphredil behind in Edoras, and though she'd been down to the impressive stables more than a few times to tend to her mare, it feels like an age since she's been able to ride her properly.
"I thought that might be the case," Lisswyn laughs. "Shall I tell them to wait for you while you change?"
Lothiriel pauses, offering her friend a confused look. "Change?"
Her dress is a familiar one from home, light blue and light weight, and perfectly suitable for the late summer heat. It's even long enough to cover her legs should she choose to ride side-saddle.
"Surely you don't intend to ride in that dress," Lisswyn says, looking as confused as Lothiriel feels.
"What else would I ride in?"
She has riding gowns, to be sure, but they are tedious to get into without help, and she would not want to bother any of the serving girls in the middle of the day to lace her into one.
"It is blue!" Lisswyn cries, as if the source of her concern is obvious.
"Many of my dresses are blue, Lisswyn," Lothiriel laughs, running a hand over the soft fabric. "It is one of Dol Amroth's principle colors."
Lisswyn looks stunned. "And all ladies wear blue?"
Quirking an eyebrow, and feeling very much like she's missing something, Lothiriel nods. "Well, yes, of course. The shades vary, of course, but we are a seafaring town, and like to be reminded of it."
Lisswyn's look of alarm has faded, if only just. "So the color...it has no deeper meaning?"
"No, I do not believe so," Lothiriel answers, brow wrinkled. "Why?"
"In the Mark, an unmarried woman only wears blue if she has interested in being courted," Lisswyn explains. "The dye to make such a color is rare, and to wear a dress on a ride with an unmarried man is considered the first step towards a betrothal."
"Oh!" Lothiriel cries, suddenly understanding. Now that she thinks about it, she has seen scarcely any blue dresses amongst the Rohirric women, and certainly none on any of the women she has seen a-horse. "I do not want to waste Eothain or Erchirion's time by changing into another dress," she says slowly, twisting her necklace nervously. "Would...would it be so bad if I wore blue with them? Would I cause any offense?"
"No, not at all," is her friend's response. There is a look of mischief on her face, however, that belies her innocent tone. "Well, at least not in this case."
"Meaning?" Lothiriel asks. While she likes and trusts both Lisswyn and Eothain, the siblings have a knack for trickery that rivals even Amrothos.
"Eothain is wed and Erchirion is your brother," Lisswyn explains. "You wearing blue while riding in their presence is highly unlikely to indicate your encouragement of their courtship of you."
That startles a shocked laugh out of Lothiriel; in Gondor, it would be the cut of the dress that indicates courting, not color.
"Yes, we wouldn't want that," she agrees. Pausing, she twists her lips in thought. "It wouldn't be seen as improper, since Eothain is married?"
"Everyone in Edoras knows how well my brother loves Wilfled," Lisswyn assures her. "And everyone also knows what she would do to him should he ever stray."
Lothiriel smiles at that. Willowy and fine-boned as Wilfled is, there is no denying that Eothain's wife could be positively terrifying when truly upset.
"If you are certain," she says again, just to be sure.
Lisswyn shoos her, smiling. "Away with you, my lady, they won't wait forever."
Erchirion beams at her when she arrives outside, but Eothain's eyebrows jump to his hairline when he takes in her attire. "Blue, my lady?"
"Lisswyn explained," she murmurs. "If anything, you can blame it on my Gondorian strangeness and I'll make my apologies to Wilfled."
Eothain shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse in Rohirric before offering here a wry smile. "It's not Wilfled I'm worried about, glómmung cwén. Erchirion," at this, he turns to face her brother with a serious expression, "you ride on the lady's right and I will take the left."
Erchirion arches an eyebrow. "If you are worried about my sister's riding abilities, you should not be."
"I do not doubt Lothiriel at all," Eothain grumbles. "It is the bastards who will see the color of her gown as an invitation that I worry about."
"What?"
Quickly, Lothiriel explains. The look of utter amusement on Erchirion's face is not what she would have expected, but her brother has been in a strangely good mood of late.
"Perhaps we will find you a horse-lord after all, Thiri," he teases.
Shoving him, and ignoring Eothain's guffaw of laughter, Lothiriel swings herself up into Niprhedil's saddle. Her horse wickers gently at her and Lothiriel rubs the soft skin of her mare's neck. "Suilannad, meldis," she whispers.
Nipredhil nickers and Eothain eyes her. "Speaking in that fancy Elf language to your horse, my lady?"
"I can hardly speak to her in Rohirric," Lothiriel counters with a smile.
"Wouldn't be a bad thing to learn," Eothain says, smiling. "Since you're to stay in the Mark until after Yule."
Privately, Lothiriel considers the idea. It would be easier if she could speak the language of the Mark. While most people in Edoras spoke Westron, a few of the serving girls were from the outer reaches of the country, and she only managed to embarrass herself in front of them without Eowyn or Lisswyn's help. The horses, too, tended to respond better to Rohirric commands, and while she never intends to give up Niphredil, it would be enjoyable to be able to ride another horse, should she so choose.
Lost in her thoughts, it takes Erchirion calling her name half a dozen times before she realizes her companions have mounted their own horses and have moved ahead a few paces without her.
She nudges Niphredil and takes her place between her "protectors". Eothain's sunny grin and Erchirion's warm smile are enough to keep her from being irritated by the rather limited space she can ride in. Many of the people wave at them as they pass-familiar greetings are shouted at Eothain, a few girls giggle at Erchirion as he passes, and a number of Lothiriel's former patients yell to her as well.
"Where are you off to, my lady?" Leofa calls.
"To see more of your beautiful country!" She yells back.
A murmur of approval follows them; apparently, she's said just the right thing.
"Bema, my lady," Eothain snickers, "I am beginning to think you do want a Rohirric swain."
And Lothiriel does something she certainly never could have done in Gondor: she sticks her tongue out at a Captain of Rohan, and grins when he laughs.
The light from the window has gradually faded, forcing Eomer to light a number of candles. His page had been in earlier to stoke the fire and offer him a meal; both things helping slightly to break up the monotony of the day.
There's a knock at the door and he gratefully puts down the latest missive-reports on grain collection from the East-Mark-with a sigh. "Enter," he calls, trying his best to sound pleasant.
"Bema, you sound like you've been skewered by a wild boar," Eothain says, opening the door with his usual tact. "Being cooped up all day not suiting you, sire?"
"Not in the slightest," Eomer grumbles. "Have I missed much?"
"No, my lord. The people are happy, the hall is running smoothly, Eowyn is busy attempting to learn how to sew-"
Eomer snorts; his little sister has always struggled with the domestic arts, and he does not envy the princess for being the one to teach her about needlework.
"-you did miss a most interesting ride, however," Eothain finishes.
Groaning, Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose. "What fool of a stable boy tried to ride Firefoot?"
"Oh, none of them are as stupid as that, Eomer, give them some credit," his captain says, flopping down into a chair. "No, I was referring to a different ride."
"Is this about the Gondorian princess riding about in a blue dress?" Asks Gamling from the doorway. "My Cwenhild said all the lads were talking about it, and that Merthwyn had to box some of the ears of the lasses for chattering on so."
Eomer's eyes widen. The princess couldn't have known what that would have meant-at a more formal occasion, no one would have batted an eye at her choosing to ride in the colors of her city, and Bema knows it was standard enough in Gondor, but for an unwed woman to wear blue, riding unaccompanied, on a nondescript day-
Or, perhaps, she had not been unaccompanied?
"What bastard took advantage of her ignorance of our customs?" He growls, mood swiftly darkening. "Any man who presumes to begin courting her without her express permission shall answer not only to me, but to Aragorn-"
"Peace, Eomer King," Gamling interrupts. "She was well guarded, by her own brother and your lounging captain there."
Eothain offers him a cheeky grin. "We kept her between us the whole ride, my lord. No pesky stallions came about to inspect the new filly with me and the prince around."
"She is a princess, Eothain, not a brood mare," Eomer grumbles, "and you should speak of her with more respect."
"I will remind you, sire, that you once spent the entirety of a dinner in Minas Tirith referring to her as þyrnihtu cwén loud enough that Eowyn had to stomp on your foot before someone asked what it meant."
Scowl deepening, Eomer turns a fierce look on his friend. "That is entirely different."
"Of course it is," Eothain says, sounding decidedly smug. "You hadn't realized you'd like to be one of the stallions chasing after that fair filly yet."
"I want no such thing," Eomer hisses, face heating in spite of himself. "She is my guest, under my protection, and any ruination that comes to her reputation while within this country's borders will reflect directly on me."
Turning back to his desk, Eomer resolves to ignore his irritating-and much mistaken-captain.
"Directly on you, eh?" Eothain asks, clearly not taking the hint. "You're certain about not wanting to be one of those stallions, sire?"
Later, Eowyn will tell him she could his cursing and Eothain's laughter all the way on the other side of the hall.
Dinner has become a much more relaxed affair now that the hall is devoid of kings and visiting war heroes. Much as he misses the light-hearted chatter of the hobbits and Aragorn's wise council, Eomer cannot help but enjoy the simplicity of a meal that he is not required to dress up for.
Eowyn motions for him to sit beside her; the princess and her brother sit across from her, their backs to the fire.
"Done with kinging for the day, Eomer?" His sister asks.
"Mercifully, yes," he answers. "How have your forays into needlework been, sweostor?"
Eowyn scowls. "Why a high-born lady must be forced to sew is beyond me. I have not the fingers for it, I think."
"You will not have to sew much, as the Lady of Emyn Arnen," the princess says comfortingly, reaching across the table to grasp one of Eowyn's hands. "Just enough to mend a shirt or two of Faramir's, or to close up the hole in a more casual dress."
"I fear even that is out of my reach," Eowyn grumbles. "I poked my fingers more than the cloth today, I think."
Frowning, the princess turns Eowyn's hand over in hers; even Eomer can spot the small pricks of dried blood on the tips of his sister's fingers.
"Why did you not say anything?" She fusses. "Naneth sent some excellent bandages, and I have some salve that will help heal that right up-"
Eowyn chuckles, squeezing her friend's hand. "A needle prick is exactly that, Lothiriel. It scarcely bothers me at all. I am a shieldmaiden, and my hands are ungentle."
"They are gentle enough to bleed," Lothiriel grumbles.
"Best to let her tend to you," Erchirion says, smiling fondly. "She'll be in a terrible mood if she's denied her fretting."
"Erchirion!"
She blushes in the face of their laughter and Eomer feels a twinge of guilt, despite his amusement. It seems they are always laughing at her, teasing her...and while he does not doubt she can handle it, knowing what he does of her youngest brother, he does not want her to be uncomfortable again, the way she had been during the journey with his uncle's funeral bier.
"I heard you were given a tour of the land outside our gates today, my lady," he interjects.
The sunny smile he receives at the change of subject tells him he's made the right choice. "I was, my lord."
"And how do you find the Folde?"
There's a pause while the princess thinks, and the pause is long enough for Eomer to worry. Worry, because Rohan is a young country, wild and green and uncultivated, especially when compared to Gondor. Worry, because in spite of this, he's proud of his country, his people, his home, and if the princess were to disparage any part of that-
"-so beautiful it nearly took my breath away!"
Her voice interrupts his rather dark train of thought and it's only when Eowyn elbows him, sharply, that he fully returns to himself.
"What?" He asks.
"Lothiriel was just saying how beautiful she found the Folde," Eowyn says, in a distinctly amused voice.
"I did not know a place could be so green," the princess continues on, unfazed. "We have grass and trees in Dol Amroth, of course, but different kinds. And Eothain tells me the mountains are beautiful as well, and the streams in springtime, when the melts help fill them again...and lakes! We have the sea in Dol Amroth, but no lakes."
"A grave loss," Erchirion intones.
The princess elbows her brother. "As if you aren't intrigued by the sound of a lake, 'Chirion. Imagine, sailing on something that has a definitive beginning and end!"
"Lakes aren't used for sailing in the Mark," Eowyn says. "Fishing, perhaps, but we haven't the boats for sailing."
"Oh," the princess says, looking disheartened. She brightens not long after, saying, "Perhaps we can persuade Ada to send the materials to build one."
"We have taken too much from Gondor already, my lady," Eomer says.
"It would be a gift!" She argues, frowning. "Payment, for allowing Erchirion and I to intrude on your hospitality for so long."
"As if it is some burden, for the two of you to stay," Eowyn scoffs.
And a gift of that magnitude would not be seen as a mere token of friendship, or of gratitude, Eomer thinks. A sailboat-frivolous and foreign as it may be-is too large to be written off as a simple trade. It was too like the forgifung; a gift that signified the groom or bride's intentions, of bringing a bit of their old home to the new. People would talk, thinking that Erchirion perhaps intended to make himself a rival of Faramir for Eowyn's affections, or that the princess-
Eomer chokes that particular thought off before he can finish it.
"It is a kind thought," he says, keeping his tone gentle. "But I am afraid no one in the Mark would know what to do with a sailboat, my lady."
"Oh," she says again, brown eyes downcast. "I suppose that is just as well; I would not know how to sail it on a lake, either."
Absurdly, he feels guilty for disappointing her. But it is the truth; boats in the Mark are used for practical purposes, like moving grain down the rivers or catching the creatures that can be found in a lake's depths.
"There is a beautiful lake near our parents' home in Aldburg," Eowyn says. "It is not a far ride from here, Lothiriel, perhaps half a day at most."
Eomer feels the familiar itch of irritation, long honed by years of his sister's less than delicate meddling. Eowyn is up to something, but what, he hasn't quite worked out yet.
"Truly?"
"And there is just enough time before the harvest begins to make a journey," Eowyn says. "If my brother has no objections."
Oh, helle. She knows how busy he is, how much pressure he is under from the council. Even with Gondor's added support, it would be a lean season for the Mark. "Eowyn, I can scarcely leave the capitol-"
"Aldburg is hardly far," she interrupts, looking irritatingly innocent. "And do you truly think Bledgifu would forgive you if you did not come home for a visit before Yule?"
Bledgifu, Aldburg's housekeeper, had been something of a mother to them after their own mother's passing, before Theoden had claimed them for his household. She was an old battleaxe; stubborn, strong, and brave. Both he and Eowyn adored her, in spite of her admittedly dragon-like temper.
And she would not be pleased if he did not visit before Yule, something Eowyn knows all too well. And Aldburg had send him a missive about the training of the younger lads to replace their injured or dead fathers in the fields with the coming of the harvest...
"A few days at most is all I can spare," he grudgingly agrees.
"Must you come?" The princess asks.
He stares at her, taken aback. Surely, she was not implying she didn't want him there-
"Lothiriel, you can hardly forbid the man from visiting his own home," Erchirion says in a low tone.
The princess's eyes widen and a blush once again enters her cheeks. However irritated he is with her, he cannot deny that it is a lovely sight she makes, pink-cheeked and bathed in the firelight's glow.
"That is not what I meant," she spits, scowling at her brother. She turns back to face Eomer, a slightly softer expression on her face. "I...I do not want to be responsible from keeping you from your duties, Eomer King. My whims to see a lake are not as important as preparing your people for winter."
Her eyes are bright with understanding, with compassion. She understands, perhaps better than any other woman he knows save Eowyn, what it means to lead, to be a beacon for her people in both times of peace and upheaval. She knows it would be far more logical for him to remain, to settle more firmly into the role of kingship before he visits his familial home. The princess would not begrudge him for it, and yet…
Eomer finds that he wants to go. Oh, to see Aldburg again would be sweet, to be scolded by Bledgifu and forced to eat his weight in apple pastries would be comforting...but those are hardly the only reasons he wants to go along.
"It is not a far ride," he assures her. "And I suspect my pages will not be sad to see the back of me for a few days."
Eowyn snorts at that, Erchirion looks confused, but Lothiriel grins, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That famous temper making an appearance again?"
"As if you have any room to lecture someone about their temper," Erchirion teases, nudging his shoulder against the princess's.
"Nor do you!" She laughs. Leaning towards Eowyn, she says in a conspiratorial tone, "Do not be deceived by Erchirion's quiet demeanor; once, as children, he dunked poor Amrothos in the fountain, just for leaving ink stains on his book-"
"-which he thoroughly deserved, the little imp," Erchirion grumbles. "How do you even know that story, Thiri? You could not have been more than two summers-"
"I cannot have you knowing all my secrets, 'Chirion," she teases, patting her brother's hand.
Now, that's a thought, a voice in Eomer's head whispers, knowing this woman's secrets.
Shaking his head to clear it-and hoping Eowyn blames his suddenly red face on the ale-Eomer settles his attention on the much safer option of his plate.
There is something to be said for riding a horse-especially one as fine as her own-through the Rohirric countryside.
She does not think she could ever tire of how green this place is. Oh, the sea has its own kind of beauty, one she loves dearly and finds herself missing, but Rohan is lovely too, with its rolling plains and grassy knolls.
Their party is small enough not to cause much fuss in the villages they pass; the king's banner has been stowed for the time being, in tune with the nature of their informal (and a little unnecessary, though Lothiriel would not dare say so to Eowyn) venture. The king's usual guard is with them, including Eothain, who has taken up his usual mantle of entertainer with grace. She cannot make out what he is saying to Eowyn and Erchirion over the pounding of the horses' hooves, but judging by their expressions, it's something typically bawdy.
Not for the first time, she wonders idly if Rohan's former prince had been more like the boisterous captain or more like his cousin, the king. Boromir had always spoken so fondly of him. Theodred, with his easy smiles and serious eyes, with all of the grace of his Numenorean grandmother paired with the valor of the Rohirrim.
"Something troubles you," a familiar voice interrupts her thoughts.
Turning to offer him a sheepish smile, Lothiriel can only shrug. "I suppose my face really must be as open as they say, if you can see my disquiet in the middle of a gallop."
Eomer snorts. "I do not think you have a talent for lying, my lady, nor for hiding what you truly feel."
"I am afraid you are right," she agrees. "It has been the bane of my existence since childhood. Amrothos could lie better than any fisherman, and Erchirion and Elphir have long since mastered their inscrutable, princely expressions. But Naneth always knew when I'd misbehaved. Her 'glass faced girl' I have always been."
Lothiriel is rambling, embarrassed to have been so obvious and not wanting to share her train of thought. She knows from Eowyn that Eomer and Theodred were closer than brothers, the best of friends, but she does not know...she should not be the one-
"You told me once that a pain shared was a pain halved," he says, gently interrupting her thoughts. "So far I have found that to be true."
Sighing, Lothiriel nods. "I can hardly fight my own advice. I was thinking of my cousin, my lord, and yours."
One of his eyebrows raises in an incredulous expression. "An odd thing to think about, my lady."
"I was wondering if Theodred was more like Eothain or more like you," she tries to explain, well aware of the bright flush of her cheeks. "Boromir...he told us such stories of him, his princely friend from the North, and I admit, being here makes me wonder."
His silence plainly says wonder what, and she answers the unspoken question. "What if. Mayhaps. Almost."
There is a swift wave of grief behind his eyes before it is suppressed, pushed down, and Lothiriel feels guilt swoop hotly in the pit of her stomach. "I am sorry, I did not mean-"
"Do not apologize," Eomer interrupts. "I have often wondered the same thing."
"Do you…" Lothiriel pauses, wondering if the question is appropriate, but this man will soon be kin, has shown himself to considerate and understanding, and she cannot think of a reason to stop herself now. And somehow, between their less-than-pleasant first meeting and now, she's come to think of Eomer as a friend. "Do you ever forget? Or think it all a bad dream, and that they will come riding in from some adventure, hale and hearty?"
His laugh is far from a happy sound. "I have wished that nearly every day since he fell."
"I have, too," she murmurs. "Faramir...Faramir was always my favorite cousin. We were closer in age, more similar in our interests...but Boromir was like a storybook prince come to life. Bold and brave and noble...he never scolded me for demanding to be carried around on his shoulders, never mocked my interest in herbs and horses, and his laugh carried down every hallway I can remember. To think him gone...cold...I…"
She has been denying herself this, Lothiriel realizes. Since that first, horrible night that she'd spent comforting Faramir, she has not allowed herself the luxury of thinking of her other cousin, of what his death truly meant to her.
"I am sorry," she manages to say, trying to hold back tears and feeling utterly, utterly foolish. "I mean to ask you of happy memories of your cousin and here I am, crying like a child-"
The sudden press of his hand on hers startles her into silence. "Your grief is not childish. If you loved your cousin half as well as I loved mine, I am amazed you have been able to keep it at bay for so long."
She squeezes his fingers, too grateful for the comfort to worry about the likely imperiousness of her actions.
His hands are not unlike Boromir's, Lothiriel thinks. Strong and gentle, all at once.
After a long pause-during which Lothiriel releases his hand before Eowyn, or worse, Erchirion, notices-she offers him a small smile, despite the likely noticeable tear-tracks on her cheeks. "Tell me of Theodred?" She asks.
"Only if you tell me more of mighty Boromir," Eomer agrees. "For I must admit, your description of storybook prince does not match well what what Theodred told me of him, my lady."
Laughing, Lothiriel concedes, "I admit that might be due to some hero worship on my part." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "And I do have one more unorthodox request."
She is rewarded with another arched eyebrow, clearly indicating for her to proceed.
"I have never been one for titles, especially not with friends," Lothiriel admits, "and if it is not too much to ask, perhaps you could call me by name and I can call you by yours? Eowyn and I have not used each other's titles since the second time we met, after all."
There is a sudden silence and Lothiriel worries that she's offended him; he is a king and perhaps his title has more importance here than it would in Gondor. A quick look to her left reveals his almost slack-jawed stare, something hot in his eyes that she does not recognize. It makes her throat dry, though she could not say why.
"If you are certain," he pauses, seeming to steel himself a little, "Lothiriel."
"I am most certain, Eomer," she says, keeping her tone light despite the sudden-and irrational-pounding of her heart.
Mercifully, Gamling appears before she can think too hard about what has her so flustered, and any discussion of their respective cousins is tabled for another time. Aldburg lies less than a mile ahead of them.
Aldburg is smaller than Edoras, but older, more imposing.
"It means 'old fortress'," Eothain explains. "Not too terribly creative, was Eorl the Young."
"Minas Tirith means 'tower of guard'," Lothiriel counters, "we were hardly original either."
Erchirion rolls his eyes, reaching up to help Lothiriel down from Niphredil's back. "Your loyalty towards our people astounds me, little flower."
"I am only being honest!" She protests, pinching her brother's arm. Erchirion has been out of sorts since they set off from Edoras this morning, and she cannot fathom why. Usually her brother leaps at the chance for a long ride. Perhaps it is the weather; September in Rohan is far from true cold, but it lacks the warmth of a sea breeze the way they are accustomed to in Dol Amroth.
"Honesty will take you far in the Mark," Eowyn murmurs, coming to loop her arm through Lothiriel's. "And even further with Bledgifu."
Lothiriel has heard tale of Aldburg's formidable housekeeper-where Merthwyn had been all bluster and no bite, Bledgifu will be harder to win over, if Eothain and Lisswyn are to be believed.
Meanwhile, their party has acquired a rather large and curious audience. A passel of children-blonde-haired and freckled to the last-cluster near boldest of the bunch, a girl that scarcely clears the the captain's waist, tugs on his arm. Pointing at Erchirion and then Lothiriel, she asks a question, but the Rohirric is so accented that Lothiriel cannot begin to puzzle it out.
"Aye, lýtling," is Eothain's response, "sé ganet breguweard ac glómmung cwén."
Lothiriel quirks an eyebrow at this; that is the third time Eothain's leveled such a name at her, but she is no closer to understanding it now than she had been before they'd left Edoras. Her train of thought is interrupted as the children-girls mostly, peppered through with a few small boys-approach her, shyly offering her flowers and bits of string.
"Oh, thank you," she says, kneeling to receive their presents. Her tone is clear enough, but she would like to say it in their own tongue. "Eowyn, how do I-"
"Ic þancie þē," Eowyn murmurs, smiling as she accepts her own flowers and twine.
Lothiriel mimics her, as best she can, but a few of the giggles the children give indicates her likely horrid pronunciation. Eothain's following wince more than gives it away. "You'll need a bit of practice before you're fit for anyone other than the little one's ears, my lady."
"We can find a tutor for you when we return to Edoras," Eowyn promises. "It would be useful, for you to be able to communicate with everyone without Lisswyn or I as a translator."
"I would like that," Lothiriel agrees. "But do not think that this little vacation means we can slack on your lessons in Gondorian womanhood, Eowyn."
Grinning, Eowyn pinches her side. "I had no such thoughts."
Rolling her eyes at her friend, Lothiriel allows herself to be led from where a small army of grooms and stable boys are tending to the horses to the steps leading into the main house. It is exactly as Eowyn has described it, down to the last wooden post and the intricate carvings of horses along the front columns. Someone-Gamling, Lothiriel supposes-gives a great call from his horn, and the door to the house swings open. The lady who emerges can only be Bledgifu-her hair is still auburn, her figure sturdy and thick, and her face is composed in the warm afternoon sunlight.
"Westu hal, Eomer Cynnig," she says, offering the traditional mead and bread to her king. Eomer strides forward, serious looking until the mead has been drank and the bread eaten. Then, he sweeps the older woman into a hug while the surrounding crowd laughs. Eowyn drops Lothiriel's arm with a gentle squeeze before joining her brother and housekeeper in an exuberant embrace.
Eothain is summoned next, with Gamling hot on his heels, and Lothiriel can hear the older woman teasingly scolding them for how skinny they are, for the scruffiness of their beards.
"And who else lingers at the door?" The housekeeper finally asks, peering around Eothain to eye Lothiriel and Erchirion.
"Prince Erchirion and Princess Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth," Eomer says. "They are Eowyn and I's guests."
"Both are cousin to my intended," Eowyn explains, "and I consider them dear friends."
The housekeeper's eyes are shrewd as she looks them over; Lothiriel does not feel particularly welcomed, in spite of the mead and bread offered to her.
"You had not mentioned your intended was of Gondor, Eowyn," Bledgifu says, a reproach in her tone. "Is Stoningland to rob us of another one of our treasures?"
Lothiriel can feel Erchirion's arm tighten under her own and she wills what she hopes is a passably pleasant expression on her face. The wry look Eomer levels in her direction likely means she has failed.
"I go freely and happily to Gondor, Bledgifu," Eowyn answers, anger evident in her own response. "My intended is the best of men, and his kin no less wonderful."
"Surely you do not think I could have been persuaded to part with her for less," Eomer says.
"I do not question your judgment, my king," is the woman's formal response. "Inside, the lot of you. Esrun will show you all to your rooms."
Lothiriel can feel the older woman's eyes following her as the group moves inside, and wonders if it may not have been best to stay in Edoras after all.
Author's Note: Aaaaand scene change! We'll be seeing a little bit more of Aldburg (which is the traditional royal seat of Rohan) in the coming chapter. And much as I'd love to have Lothiriel have a smooth trip, with everyone in Rohan liking her, it's frankly unrealistic. Rohan and Gondor have been at odds-well, if not at odds, at least not friendly-with each other for generations, and I imagine a number of Rohirric people aren't too keen about Eowyn marrying into their very-recent ally's nobility, nor about two members of the royal house of Dol Amroth spending such a long time in the country.
Also, the dress color thing is historically accurate. Light blue dresses indicated a "young marriageable woman" in some places, while darker blues were worn by lovers to indicate fidelity. The meanings varied across the medieval period and into the Renaissance, but I've decided to work both implications into this story, for reasons ;) We'll cycle back to other color meanings in later chapters as well.
On a more romance-related note: we're getting there, my pretties, slowly but surely.
Terms for this chapter:
Suilannad, meldis: Sindarian for 'hello, dear one'
þyrnihtu cwén: prickly princess
forgifung: nuptial gift; a gift that was given before a wedding
Aye, lýtling, sé ganet breguweard ac glómmung cwén: Yes, little one, this is the Swan Prince and Lady Twilight
Ic þancie þē: I thank you