Author's Note: Back again! Thank you again for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites!

As to the two less-than-kind reviews who implied that my story is shallow and OOC for adding a bit of diversity to Tolkien's canon, to you I say: thank you for your critiques! There are countless stories on this site and others that will not offend you with their "political correctness", and I invite you to read them instead. I'll be continuing this story as I've always planned it. Any other comments like this can be directed to my personal cell phone number: 1-800-DID-IASK.

And now, forward! Here we have flirtation (at last), a cantankerous healer, and the reminder that life is still whirling madly on in the rest of Rohan.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The return journey to Edoras is a quiet one.

Even in the wake of Bledgifu's mostly sincere apologies, Lothiriel cannot forget the sting of the insult, nor the whispered murmurs that followed her footsteps during their last two days in Aldburg. Still, Edoras is more familiar, its people not associated with Aldburg's prickly housekeeper, and she finds herself nearly giddy as the roof of the Golden Hall rises into view.

"I have never seen it during the mid-morning before!" She yells to Eomer. "Edoras has truly earned its title, in this light!"

He offers her a wide grin and she ignores the sudden stutter of her heart at the sight. It must be her lingering embarrassment at seeing him so unclothed in the lake. Yes, that must be it.

But his and Eowyn's kindness in the wake of Bledgifu's vitriol has been a balm. A few of the other men have been walking on ice around her since her outburst, but Lothiriel is certain she is secure in her friends' affections, and is content to let all other opinions roll off her back, the way water does from a swan's wings.

Erchirion, too, seems to have finally shaken off his melancholy. Bledgifu's words had been just as insulting to him as they had been to Lothiriel, but his wound had seemed deeper, with some other underlying cause. It had left him irritable and moody during the remainder of their time in Rohan's original capital, and Lothiriel is relieved to see him smiling again in the fresh morning air.

The gates are open for them as they reach the city, its streets lined with inquisitive children and bemused craftsmen. And there, at the stairs leading to the Golden Hall, stands Wilfled, with one arm around her son, Eofor; both beam as they pick Eothain out of the crush of riders. Lisswyn, too, stands beside them, Darwyn balanced on her hip. Merthwyn stands ready to welcome Eomer King and his company back to the hall, but Lothiriel chooses to watch his captain instead; Eothain has scarcely dismounted before Wilfled has flung herself at him. He lifts her easily, pregnant belly and all, beaming up at her before bringing her face close to his for a searing kiss.

A swift bolt of envy runs through Lothiriel; how wonderful it would be, to be welcomed home thus, by someone who loves you best in all the world.

Expecting to find Lisswyn rolling her eyes at her brother and sister-in-law's antics, Lothiriel turns her face in her friend's direction, only to find Lisswyn staring rather fixedly at something else.

No, not something else. Someone else.

Lothiriel's breath catches in her throat as she follows Lisswyn's obviously hungry eyes, only to find her brother staring back, a similar longing in the brown eyes they share.

Oh, Lothiriel thinks. Oh.

Erchirion's sullenness, his powerful anger at Bledgifu's insult...it makes sense now.

He knows, surely, he must know, as well as Lothiriel does, that a match between himself and Lisswyn would be utterly impossible! No matter how well thought of Eothain is, or how kind and lovely Lisswyn may be, a match between a widowed mother and a prince of Dol Amroth could never be allowed to take place. Their family was already subjected to constant rumors of Harad blood in their veins, and sweet Elbereth, the scandal that had occurred when Elphir had announced his intention to marry Alycia! Only a few well placed rumors from Naneth and Faramir had saved them, allowing everyone to believe it had been for trade, for protection from Umbar's ships.

There could be no such rumors here, now, to shield this couple.

Lothiriel would have to interfere, assuming this was anything more than a flirtation.

But she knows Erchirion. She knows her brother's heart better than anyone's, save perhaps her own, and she knows there are no flights of fancy for him, no empty kisses behind a tavern or rolls in the hay. He is not Amrothos, nor any of their friends in Dol Amroth who delight in the chase. No, Erchirion is the sort of man who delights in the catch, and everything that comes after.

Lisswyn would be lucky, were he any other man. Were she childless, not a widow, or born slightly higher in Rohan's court.

Oh, Elbereth, Lothiriel thinks suddenly, praying to the goddess in a way she hasn't in years, let this end in happiness. Do not make me be the one to break my brother's heart.

"Erchirion," she murmurs, reaching for his sleeve.

But her brother is deaf to her, swinging down from his horse with a spring to his step. Before she can call his name again, a slight tug at her riding skirt draws her attention downwards. Eofor, Eothain's son, is beaming up at her. "Can you get down, my lady?"

Mischievous to the core, Lothiriel thinks, brightening. Truly his father's son.

And it is too late to catch up to Erchirion, who has already passed Lisswyn and entered the Hall. "I believe I can manage, Master Eofor," she says, dismounting with ease.

Though the boy is only seven, his head already clears her waist, and the red hair he has inherited from both of his parents stands in messy tufts.

"Fæder says you are a good horsewoman, my lady," he says, still smiling. "I didn't know Stoningland's people cared for such things."

"We know enough to get by," Lothiriel assures him, ruffling his already mussed hair. "Though there are not many Gondorians who could claim to be on the level of your country's magnificent riders."

"A truer statement has never been spoken," comes a familiar voice. Both Lothiriel and Eofor jump, neither having noticed how close Eomer had been standing.

"So the Mark is better?" Eofor asks.

Lothiriel resists the urge to flinch. Eofor could not have known how sore a subject he has just accidentally trod upon.

"No, Eofor," Eomer answers firmly, startling her into meeting his eyes. "The Mark has its virtues, but it does not lessen Gondor's. There is no better or worse, only differences. How else could we tell the two places apart?"

Eofor chews his lip, clearly thinking of an answer for his king. Suddenly, he brightens, saying, "Hair color! We've all got fair hair, and nobody here has hair like glómmung cwén!"

That name again, Lothiriel thinks, reaching up to touch her braid in a reflexive motion.

"Eofor, what does-"

But Eomer cuts across her before she can pose the question, swinging the boy up and over his shoulder as if he weighs as little as a sack of flour. "Hair color indeed! Is that all that separates us from our southern neighbors?"

Eofor's response is unintelligible through his laughter. Lothiriel cannot help but smile at the picture they make; she had not thought Eomer to be used to children, but his ease with Eofor is obvious.

What a father he will make! She thinks, and then flushes, strangely, at the idea.

"Do put my son down before you break him, Eomer King," Wilfled orders, her mild expression out of place with her tone. She and Eothain have emerged from their fierce embrace, the only signs of anything having occurred being the the splotches of pink on Wilfled's cheeks, and Eothain's rather smug grin as he keeps his arm around his wife's waist.

Again, Lothiriel is struck by a pang of longing; before today, she had not given much thought to marriage, what it would mean to be someone's wife. Suddenly, she finds that she does want it, and all it entails.

"He's a sturdy sort," Eomer insists, keeping Eofor slung over his shoulder, "and I, unlike some people, have never dropped him."

"Not this again," groans Eothain. "I was half asleep! I had just ridden all the way from the Eastmark-"

"-and were meant to relieve your poor, tired wife who had spent the past three weeks alone with your teething son," Wilfled interrupts. "And how does he repay me? By letting a squirming two year old wiggle out of his arms while snoring in my best chair."

Lothiriel laughs, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Eothain!"

"He turned out alright, did he not?" Eothain asks, reaching over to tickle Eofor's side. "What say you, Eofor? Does your head still feel scrambled from that fall?"

"No, Fæder!" Eofor laughs, trying to squirm away from Eothain's tickling hands.

Eothain turns to offer Wilfled a smug grin. "See? Right as rain, our lad."

"Let us hope this child turns out to be something other than you in miniature," Wilfled teases, resting her hands on her large belly. "And I should thank you for the salve, my lady, it has worked wonders on my feet."

Lothiriel beams, pleased. Before they had departed Edoras, Wilfled had mentioned that the skin of her feet had been cracking during her pregnancy. Luckily, Naneth had taught her the recipe for a moisturizing salve years ago, to help Aunt Ivriniel during the dry winters. It had been easy enough to reproduce it with the supplies in her trunk. "It works best when rubbed in thoroughly," Lothiriel says, flicking a teasing grin in Eothain's direction, "usually by someone else."

Eothain groans. "My lady, you are cruel!"

"Hah!" Eomer says. "As if it is not known throughout Edoras that there is precious little you would not do for your wife, Eothain."

"It is true," pipes in Eofor, "Módor crooks her finger and Fæder-"

Eothain plucks his son from Eomer's shoulder and settles him on one of his own, sighing. "May you be blessed with children considerably less troublesome than mine, my lady."

"I suspect that will depend greatly on who their father is," Wilfled says, eyes twinkling. "As you are the root of all of the mischief in our son, min lēof."

"I suspect my children will be troublesome regardless, as I have often been called so," Lothiriel laughs. "Wilfled, what is the Rohirric for 'troublesome'?"

"Hefigtyme," is the prompt response.

"Hefigtyme," Lothiriel repeats. At least that is not part of the name she's heard people calling her. Eothain's snort of laughter only confirms that her pronunciation is as terrible as ever. "You know, I think I will take you up on your offer to help me learn Rohirric, Eothain."

Eothain grins, looking dangerously happy, but Wilfled groans. "You will only learn curse words from him, my lady!"

"I agree," Eomer says with a frown. "Let me recommend a more appropriate tutor."

Lothiriel frowns; she does not like the sensation of being managed. "I am sure Eothain is appropriate enough-"

"My lady," Wilfled interrupts, smiling, "as his wife, I assure you that he is not."

"Such loyalty," Eothain complains, "must you two rob me of my fun? I was truly looking forward to teaching the princess what þyrnihtu means-"

"It means-" Eofor starts to say before his father jostles him into silence.

Lothiriel raises an eyebrow; yes, it is high time she begins to learn the phrases and words being bandied about her. "If not Eothain, then who?"

Eomer mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'anyone else' and receives an elbow to the side from his captain for his mumbling.

"Duilin would not be a bad choice," Wilfled offers.

"Módor, no!" Eofor protests. "Duilin will be rude to the princess!"

"Duilin," Lothiriel murmurs. "That is not a Rohirric name."

"Duilin is not an Eorlingas by birth," Eomer explains. "He is from Erech, originally."

A Gondorian who lives in Rohan! "And what does he do?"

"He is a healer, though most of his peers dislike him for his reliance on Gondorian craft instead of Rohirric," Wilfled explains. "But the midwives prefer him above any other, and so he has my confidence." She brushes her son's hair tenderly, as gentle as Lothiriel has ever seen her. "He even helped bring you into the world, swēte."

"Módor!" Eofor complains.

"I trust Wilfled's judgment," Lothiriel says. "When can I meet this Duilin?"

"Now, if you'd like," Eothain says. "Though it would be much more amusing to have Eomer introduce you."

Scowling, Eomer shoots his captain a look. "No, it would not."

Interest piqued, Lothiriel crosses her arms. "Am I not worthy of introducing?"

Eomer's jaw works as Eothain guffaws beside him. "That is not what I meant."

"Oh, good, so you will introduce me, then," she chirps.

Eomer's glare only intensifies; sweet Elbereth, how those eyes of his could burn! "I do have other things to attend to, Lothiriel."

All at once, her good humor drains out of her. He is the king, not some low-ranking lord who can waste the day away on a lark. She cannot presume to take up more of his time, not after he has been gone from the capital for nearly a week because of her silly whim to see a lake.

"Of course," she murmurs, aware of the heat in her cheeks. "I did not mean to imply otherwise."

Eomer looks rather stunned at her sudden change in demeanor. He steps forward and Lothiriel suddenly finds herself under the full weight of his stare, his dark eyes bearing into hers. "Lothiriel-"

"No, you are right, and I have wasted enough of your time already on our venture to Aldburg," she says, twisting her necklace nervously. By the Valar, what is it about this man that makes her mouth run away with her?

"I do not consider anytime spent with-spent showing more of our country to you a waste," he says firmly. "And if you do not mind waiting, I expect my councilors to release me by midafternoon. I know patience is not one of your-" at this, she quirks an eyebrow and he relents, smiling slightly, "either of our strong suits, but I will accompany you to Duilin's shop if that is what you wish."

"I do," she blurts, feeling hot and nearly itchy under his gaze. Elbereth, what color were his eyes? Dark, to be certain, but not the brown she's always thought them to be; there are a multitude of colors there, blending in shades of deep greens and golds. "And I can. Be patient, I mean."

"I am glad to hear it," Eomer says, clearly fighting back a smile. Lothiriel nearly jumps at the brush of his hand over hers, and then he is lifting it to his mouth, and pressing a gentle kiss to its back. "Until then."

He is gone before she can make any semblance of response-no, any semblance of speech, let alone a response-and Lothiriel finds herself staring at Eothain and Wilfled's frighteningly smug faces.

"I should find Eowyn for our lesson," she hears herself murmuring, turning towards the great hall as quickly as she can.

Her hand is still tingling as she walks away, ignoring Eothain's laughter.

Eomer feels a fool. He's not sure what possessed him to do such a thing-Eomer, son of Eomund, has never been one for courtly gestures-only that he did, and he cannot get the sensation of the softness of Lothiriel's hand out of his mind, nor forget the feeling of her pulse racing under the skin of her wrist.

The princess is a distraction, he tells himself. He is drawn to her because she has been a true friend to Eowyn, has shown sincere interest his country and his people, not to mention the warmth of her smile and the endearing way she cannot help but voice her true thoughts-no! No, it must be his lingering discomfort over Bledgifu's rudeness, and the admirable way she had conducted herself during the rest of their stay in Aldburg. Yes, that is.

Bríwþicce, that damnable voice in his head mutters, at least be truthful to yourself, if no one else.

Shaking his head to clear it, he pauses outside of the council chambers. He can already hear voices inside; likely the old bastards have been chomping at the bit during his trip to Aldburg, pacified only by the reports he'd sent in his absence.

The door opens and Gamling's familiar face emerges. He offers Eomer a less than comforting grimace. "You had better get in here, sire, or they'll start without you."

Groaning, he follows the other man inside.

"Eomer King!" Gamling cries, and the din of the room dies down.

There is a moment while they all settle into their seats, and Eomer receives sincere welcomes back to Medulsed.

And then, it begins.

The West-Mark reports more Dunlendings, massing along the river in small groups; there have yet to be any attacks, but villages have reported missing grain and animals.

The East-Mark was healing, but slowly. Many farms had been burnt, and their masters slaughtered by Orcs or valiantly perished on the fields of battle. Gondor's loan of grain was well appreciated, but lacking in hands to plant and nourish it.

The Wold, largely untouched by Orc or Dunlending, is nonetheless unable to provide for all of the refugees from other parts of the Mark that have come streaming into the region in search of shelter and food.

"Helm's Deep could be used again," one of the councilors suggests. "Caedda would welcome the help rebuilding the keep, and it would keep the women and children out of the chill when the seasons turn."

That, at least, is easily agreed upon.

The next topic is decidedly less pleasant.

"Eomer King, with your sister's marriage, there will be no lady to take over her duties at Medulsed," Baldred says, sounding much more like a scolding uncle than a councilor. Bema, how much Eomer wishes it was Theoden discussing this matter, and not his old master of grain. "The line of Eorl must be continued. You must take a wife!"

There are a number of grumbles and the slight banging of a few goblets in agreement.

"Settle down!" Gamling orders.

"My lord, Baldred speaks the truth," Dernhelm agrees. "The kingdom has suffered through enough turmoil already. The line of kings must be secured."

"And I suppose you would have him do so by marrying your daughter, Dernhelm?" Another councilor, Erkenbrand, one of Theoden's most trustworthy, snorts. "Your game is not subtle."

"Better Dernhelm's daughter than a maid plucked from the Eastfold!" A different voice-possibly Ordlac-chimes in. "Eomer King is of Aldburg, he should marry a lady of the West to better unite the kingdom!"

Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to remain calm. "My sister remains in Edoras until after Yule," he says, his voice carrying despite the noise in the rest of the chamber, "surely my...selection can wait until then."

There are more murmurs of dissension until Erkenbrand finally says, "Our greatest concern should be providing shelter and food for the Mark's people. It is to Eomer King's credit that he recognizes this and to your shame that you do not, my lords."

That stuns them all into silence, but no one dares contradict Erkenbrand.

Gamling steers the conversation back towards more pressing matters. Erkenbrand is right. Feeding and caring for the Eorlingas should be the entirety of the council's top priority at the moment, with autumn swiftly ending and Yule less than three months away.

Still, he feels weary and drained when the council finally ends their session. Erkenbrand claps a hand to his shoulder, "You're doing fine, my lad," he says in a low tone. "Just fine."

Eomer does not feel as though he is doing fine; he feels as if he is stretched thin. How can he feed his people, keep them warm in the winter months to come? So many men have died, so many crops ruined-even with the aid Gondor has already provided. The task seems insurmountable, and yet his lords badger him about marriage. A wife, a Queen, an heir. As if the thought of bringing a child into this world is in any way appealing, let alone tying a woman to a country and king on the brink of disaster-

"Bema's balls," a familiar voice drawls, "you look as gloomy as a storm-cloud. I thought kings were supposed to be the luckiest bastards in all the world, and here you stand, scowling away at an innocent column."

Groaning, Eomer lifts his head to meet the eyes of the Second Marshal of the Mark. "Who let you in here, old man?"

"Old as I am, I still have a way with the serving girls," Eothred chuckles from where he leans comfortably against the wall. "That and my sweet niece said you'd be in here, tearing all that pretty blonde hair of yours out."

Eomer stands, crossing the room to hug the other man. "Still attached, I'm afraid."

Eothred, son of Eodred, slaps his back, as hearty as ever. "Good. Should hate to see you do something to put the lasses off you before you manage to find yourself a queen."

"Eothred," Eomer growls, "not now."

"Why not now?" Eothred asks; he is shorter than his nephew, but there is no doubt that the male line of Eothain's family all possesses the same talent for mischief. "You could have your pick of any woman in the Mark-Hells, any woman in all of Middle Earth, if you really put your mind to it. Speaking of," at this, a look that Wilfled has often described as hefigtyme enters the marshal's eye, "on my trek through Medulsed, I saw a lovely dark filly who'd be enough to tempt any man, let alone Rohan's king-"

Dark filly? Eomer thinks and then-

"Helle," He hisses; he'd forgotten his promise to the princess to take her to Duilin's shop.

"Well, if you feel so strongly about it-" Eothred starts to say, eyes laughing. Eomer pushes by him, not comprehending until they're nearly halfway through the hall.

"If you would refrain from referring to the princess of Dol Amroth as any sort of horse in her presence, I would be greatly obliged," he growls at his marshal.

The older man holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Easy, Eomer King, I know when to not press my suit. Looks as if this mare is spoken for."

"That is not-" Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose again, feeling a headache swiftly arriving. "She is not of the Mark, Eothred, and will likely not appreciate being likened to a horse."

"She's got the mane for it," Eothred drawls, flinching back slightly at the look of sheer loathing Eomer gives him. "Understood, sire. No complimenting of the Gondorian princess."

"You are as bad as Eothain," Eomer grumbles.

"Hah! I taught that lad everything he knows," Eothred chortles, slapping Eomer on the back. "Now let's go see this lady who has my king so flustered-"

"I am not-" Eomer pauses, willing himself not to punch his marshal. Eothred is two decades older than him, as loyal as he is troublesome, and his sudden appearance would not stem solely from the desire to irritate his king into an early grave. "I trust you've come to Edoras for some other purpose than to drive me mad?"

The corners of Eothred's mouth turn down and he looks serious for the first time since his arrival. "Aye, I am afraid so, sire. But we can let that matter lie until the evening meal; you can't keep me from your fair filly forever."

Eothred has already turned the corner before Eomer can finish process his statement, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to to pluck the older man by his collar and wheel him bodily backwards. It is lucky that he refrained, for Eowyn, Lothiriel, and Wilfled are at a table now in view, and such a display of temper would have earned him rebukes from all three of them.

"Eothred!" Eowyn cries, rising from her seat with a cheerful smile. "No one mentioned your return!"

"You know me, lass," he chuckles, bowing over her hands before pressing a kiss to their backs. "I like to slip in with the wind."

"Yes, and with trouble also," Wilfled sighs. "A common trait of your house."

"Dearest Wilfled, as lovely as ever," Eothred says, pressing a hand to his heart. "How that scruffy-headed nephew of mine managed to win you, I will never understand."

"Sometimes I myself fail to comprehend," Wilfled says, expression deadpan.

Eomer cannot hold back a snort; the eyes of the women turn to him.

"Ah, Eomer King," Lothiriel says, leaning casually on her hand. Her eyes sparkle with unrestrained mischief; perhaps it had not been a wise decision to introduce her to Eothain and Wilfled after all. "So you did remember your promise."

He quirks an eyebrow at that; surely, she does not think him as callous as that, to offer to introduce her to a tutor and then not make good on his word?

"She has been pacing for nearly thirty minutes," Eowyn says in a loud, conspiratorial tone. "We only just got her to sit after I reminded her that wearing holes in the floor of Medulsed is certainly not something she wanted to teach me as the proper behavior of a Gondorian noblewoman."

Lothiriel flushes, flinging a napkin in Eowyn's direction. "Eowyn!"

Impatience, not impertinence, Eomer realizes, and relaxes. "I did recall our agreement, my lady, though you did not hold to yours."

"Excitement sometimes outstrips patience, I am afraid," she says with a shrug. "And I am very excited to meet this Master Duilin of yours."

"Duilin?" Eothred asks incredulously. "You would introduce this lovely lady to that crotchety old bastard before me?"

"Eothred," Eomer groans, not sure if his compliment to Lothiriel or rude language was worse.

"I am capable of managing my own introductions, my lord," Lothiriel interrupts, offering the marshal a sweet smile. "And I judge you to be Eothain's uncle, by hair and wit alone."

Eothred grins, striding over to her before lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss. "You are as observant as you are beautiful, my lady."

Eomer is vaguely aware of both Eowyn and Wilfled groaning at the older man's antics, but he is focused on the sudden flush of the princess's cheeks-the same expression she'd given him earlier in the day-and the hot bolt of anger that shoots through his stomach.

Ridiculous. He's being utterly ridiculous; Eothred is no threat. And he can hardly covet Lothiriel's blushes. He cannot want anything of her, he cannot want her-

Oh, but you do, that irritatingly familiar voice mutters.

"Come now, princess," he says, sharply, "Duilin will not wait forever."

Three pairs of shocked eyes turn on him, but Eothred-the bastard-looks merely amused.

"Until later then, Lord Eothred," Lothiriel says. She gives him a querulous look as she steps closer. Eomer keeps his face carefully blank. He doesn't blame her for the even more stunned look she gives him when he offers her his elbow, but she slips her arm through his nonetheless.

Eomer's strides are longer than hers, and his strange irritation makes them quicker than ever.

"Eomer, if you intend for me to be able to draw breath when we arrive, I would ask that you slow your pace," she manages to whisper, well aware of the curious looks they're receiving from every person they pass.

He slows and Lothiriel cannot help but bite back a smile at the sudden red splotches in his cheeks.

"I apologize," he murmurs. "I had forgotten-"

"My short stature?" She fills in for him, offering a wry smile. "The meaning of the word 'walk'?"

His scowl is familiar, if a little disheartening. She isn't sure what has put him in this changeable mood-perhaps his meeting with the council, perhaps Eothain's uncle's sudden appearance-but she has no desire to add to it by needling him. "I am sorry," she says, squeezing his arm gently and resolutely ignoring the obvious strength lurking beneath the fabric of his tunic, "I can see you are in no mood for teasing."

Eomer deflates a little at that, some of the tension easing out of him. "It seems if I must ask your forgiveness yet again, Lothiriel. I am out of sorts."

"Did the council meeting go as badly as all that?" She asks, and then winces. It is hardly her place to ask; this is not her country, nor her councilors. Rohan's business is its own. She is merely a visitor, no matter how at home she feels here. Bledgifu's comments have made that abundantly clear.

To her surprise, Eomer sighs before saying, "It was not all bad, but I fear these next few months will be far from easy for many of my people."

Lothiriel frowns. She knows from her most recent letters from Naneth and Elphir that Dol Amroth had fared decently well during the War, with only a few ships lost and the city itself receiving little attention from Sauron's troops. Minas Tirith, despite its heavy battering, had its surrounding lands to fall back on for food and supplies. Much of the outer regions of Gondor had been spared from everything more than heavy marching from enemy men and beasts. Rohan had not been so lucky.

"Can you not ask Aragorn for aid?" She asks.

Eomer's face darkens again, and she knows she has said the wrong thing. "You would have me beg him for assistance more than I already have? Have my country kneel to yours in supplication, like the children we must seem to your older, more civilized people?"

Lothiriel clenches her jaw to keep from speaking; he is worried, upset, but not with her, not truly. It would do little good to snap at him. A month ago she would not have hesitated to, but now...she finds that she cannot. "No, that is not what I meant at all," she says, fighting to keep her tone even. "Gondor owes you and your kin much, Eomer. Its people and its king-one of your dearest friends-will not soon forget that. It is not weak to ask for aid when you truly need it. Gondor did not hesitate to call on Rohan in one of our darkest hours. We can scarcely turn our backs on you and your people now. After everything you have done for us, how could we deny your people anything? Food, hands, timber; what is sharing such things amongst friends?"

They have stopped walking, and are receiving even more curious looks now then they had been when Eomer had been half dragging her through the streets of Edoras. Lothiriel meets Eomer's slack-jawed expression with something she hopes is composure; in truth, her heart is pounding in her chest. Her mother has always encouraged her wit, and her father has never forbidden her from expressing her opinion, but this feels...this is...different. This matters more than being taken seriously in a room full of Dol Amrothian nobles.

Still, she holds his gaze and hopes he cannot sense the sudden anxiety that has taken root in her stomach.

And then he chuckles, stunning her even further. "What was it you said to me once? 'Originality is-"

"Simply a pair of fresh eyes," she finishes, smiling tentatively. "A famous Dol Amrothian phrase."

"I am beginning to think there is much I could learn from Dol Amroth," Eomer murmurs, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. It is a lovely thing, his smile.

"Unfortunately for you, I am already engaged as a tutor for another member of the royal house of the Riddermark," Lothiriel sniffs, affecting her snobbiest, most courtly accent.

"A pity indeed," he agrees, his smile only growing.

She finds herself wanting to touch her fingertips to his mouth, to better feel where it is his happiness dwells. Her cheeks flush scarlet at the thought and she forces herself to keep her hands where they are; one at her side, the other curled around his arm. "Smiling suits you, Eomer King," Lothiriel says, unable to keep the words from passing her lips.

His grin becomes smug, and yet remains, against all odds, utterly endearing. "Does it, glómmung cwén?"

Before she can begin to open her mouth to ask what in the Valar's name that nickname means, the door to the nearest building opens over Eomer's shoulder.

"What fools linger outside my door, whispering sweet nothings to each other?" Comes an unfamiliar voice. Its owner is a slim, slight man, bald under his woolen hat, with shrewd brown eyes.

Eomer groans, turning to face him. "Do you greet everyone who stops near your door this way, Master Healer?"

The old man sniffs, looking utterly unfazed by his king's presence. "Only when they're impudent upstarts like yourself, boy."

Lothiriel feels her jaw drop open in astonishment. This cannot be-

"Lothiriel, may I present to you Master Duilin, chief healer of Edoras," Eomer says in a suspiciously dry tone.

The old man gives her a rather thorough looking over before meeting her stunned expression. "So you're the princess, eh? Into the shop with you, girl, so we can see if that brain of yours can pass muster."

She begins to suspect she may have been better off learning Rohirric from Eothain, after all.

Author's Note: Cue strains of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" going in the background. Looks like our two idiots-er, principle characters-are finally starting to admit things to themselves. And we've finally found out what's been bothering Erchirion: a who, not a what. This will likely (read, will) cause problems at a later date, as Lothiriel worries.

Eothred is Eothain and Lisswyn's uncle, and is also the Second Marshal of the Mark. Which means he's in charge of the men of the Westmark and ranks fairly highly as far as Rohan's military goes. He also looks very much like Jerome Flynn, of Game of Thrones/Ripper Street fame.

Duilin is Patrick Stewart, btw, which makes writing him even more enjoyable.

Terms for this chapter:

min lēof: my love

hefigtyme: troublesome

þyrnihtu: prickly

swēte: sweet one, sweetheart

bríwþicce: as thick as pottage; more literally, thick-headed