Author's Note: Hi guys! Apologies for my sudden absence; work has been a bit of a mess lately, and I had to do EXTENSIVE re-writes on this chapter, as it was giving me a bit of difficulty tone-wise.

Welcome to new followers and favorites, and thanks again to those of you who left reviews! A couple of y'all really lifted my spirits and I can't thank y'all enough for that. I will say this story has definitely a more movie-based focus, for those of you who were wondering about it, and I hope that'll help clear up any confusion in future chapters!

CHAPTER TWELVE

As the seasons begin to noticeably change, Lothiriel finds herself falling into a routine. As promised, she and Eowyn continue their lessons on "Gondorian womanhood"-Naneth has proven to be an invaluable resource, even from miles away in Dol Amroth, sending books and instructions on the most popular dances of the court. Lothiriel suspects her mother's advice is modified to best suit Eowyn's own predisposition towards horse-riding and activity. She certainly doesn't recall ever learning about the care of tapestries as a child, nor needing to know anything about the intricacies of breeding horses.

Perhaps it is possible, Lothiriel thinks one afternoon, listening to Eowyn recite the history of the line of Stewards, to keep something of your old home while learning to appreciate the new.

Duilin would certainly agree with her. Though Gondorian by birth, her tutor in the Rohirric language can ride a horse as well as any natural-born Eorlingas, and haggles better than any fishmonger she's ever seen. He had come to Edoras as apprentice to Morwen Queen's healer, and had simply never left when the older man and queen had returned to their homeland.

Nonetheless, his healing style is anything but Rohirric. Lothiriel recognizes a number of vials and herbs as the same items she's used in the Houses of Healing, as well as a few that Naneth has made in the past. Duilin dismisses her abilities as a healer as "mediocre at best", but agrees to teach her more of what he knows along with the language of the Mark.

"I have heard tale of your mother," Duilin tells her between lectures on the importance of yarrow and mugwort, "and if that princess of Dol Amroth is as wise and useful as it is rumored, so shall be glómmung cwén."

Cwén, Lothiriel now knows to mean 'lady'-or in some instances, princess-but no one will tell her the first part of the nickname that is now used by the majority of Edoras's populace.

Lisswyn merely smiles when she asks, Eothain and Eowyn chuckle, and Eomer often pretends she has not asked the question, though he is as guilty as the rest of leveling the moniker at her.

"You may assume it is better than what the people call me," Erchirion teases, in good spirits as he so often is now-days.

"Tch," Lothiriel tuts at him, bumping her shoulder against his. "ganet breguweard is hardly inaccurate."

"But highly unoriginal," Erchirion mockingly complains, "for there are three other swan princes to choose from."

"But none as well-liked by the Rohirrim," Eothain counters, grinning widely. "Believe me, you are to be much preferred to Amrothos, Erchirion."

Lothiriel wonders if Eothain would say such a thing if he knew about the looks so often exchanged between her brother and Lisswyn. She has no proof of anything else occurring, but in truth, she knows she is not looking very hard. The affection between them is palpable: not entirely unlike how Faramir and Eowyn had been in the Houses of Healing. Perhaps that is why it is so obvious to her, as she has seen its like before.

Erchirion has not said anything, nor has Lisswyn, but both are jumpy when alone with her, as if they expect to be confronted.

Privately, Lothiriel wishes they would not give her anything to confront them about; she loves them both too dearly to tell them that this infatuation is folly, that Ada and Naneth could not approve of such a match no matter how much they would like to. Her parents themselves were an unconventional match, but they had both been noble. Even Alycia's Umbarian blood had been overlooked by the majority of Gondor, as her father was a prince among their people. Noble marries noble, even if their skin colors cause tongues to wag, but Lisswyn was decidedly not noble, even by Rohan's standards, and Lothiriel cannot imagine any "proper" Gondorian household welcoming them as a married couple.

Alycia is the only one she has told of it, and her sister-in-law's understanding and advice is the only thing that keeps her silent. To confront them too soon would court denial and anger, to confront them too late risks heartbreak. Aly insists Lothiriel will know the right moment when it presents itself to her.

And it is not as if there are not other matters to keep her mind occupied: Wilfled and Eothain's child is due within the month, Darwyn has begun babble in nearly fluent sentences, and Eowyn has placed herself in charge of providing Lothiriel with an appropriate wardrobe for Rohan's winter.

"You could not have known you would be staying here this long when you came for my uncle's funeral," Eowyn says in the face of Lothiriel's protests. "And your gowns, while lovely, will not keep you warm when there is three feet of snow outside."

"Three feet?" Lothiriel repeats weakly. It rarely snowed in Dol Amroth, being so close to the sea, and her vague memories of winters in Minas Tirith always included sharing a woolen blanket with Faramir or wedging her icy toes under a protesting Boromir's thigh.

Lisswyn's soft laughter startles Lothiriel out of her shock. "You would have thought Eowyn just threatened you with Orcs, Lothiriel! There is no need to go as pale as all that."

"I knew you would dislike the idea of cold," Eowyn says smugly. "Mistress Théodburga will come tomorrow, to see you fitted."

And so the next morning, after a particularly grueling lesson with Duilin on all of the different names for stable-of which there are seven-Lothiriel finds herself in Eowyn's solar, trying to keep her expression pleasant as Mistress Théodburga takes the measurement of her waist, and then her legs from hip to ankle.

"You'll need sturdier dresses for certain, as well as something for Yule. And we will finally be able to get you a riding dress that isn't blue," Eowyn says, smiling in a way Lothiriel isn't sure she likes. "Poor Eothain can finally relax when it comes to keeping all of your suitors away from you."

Lothiriel can feel her cheeks flush crimson, as Naneth and Alycia had teased her for the same reason in their last respective letters. "I have no such suitors, Eowyn, as you well know."

"Would you not like a Rohirric suitor, glómmung cwén?" Wilfled asks from her seat by the fire. Her feet, swollen as they are, are propped up in a chair across from her, and yet she manages a look of pure mischief that could rival her husband.

Unbidden, Lothiriel's mind provides her with the image of Eomer's smile, the brush of his lips over the back of her hand, the powerful figure he had cut in the lake near Aldburg-

Shaking her head to clear it, she says, "Whether I would like one or not matters little, as there is no such man."

"Perhaps you have not given them the indication their suit would be welcome," comes Mistress Théodburga's voice. "Our customs may be less formal than Gondor's, my lady, but men are blockheaded no matter what country they're from."

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel keeps her eyes fixed on the tapestry above the fireplace.

"But subtle they are not," Lisswyn intones, the smile plain in her voice. "If a man of Rohan wishes to pay court to you, Lothiriel, you will know it."

Lothiriel is not sure whether that comment is supposed to excite or frighten her, but finds her heart beating faster all the same.

It takes more than two weeks to finally convince the council to grant the Second Marshal a meeting. Eothred is known throughout the Mark for both his hot-temper and penchant for mischief, making the councilors more unwilling than they likely ought to be, considering his position as a marshal. But it comes to light very quickly that Eothred's sudden arrival to Edoras had not been without cause. Though the reports they had received from the West Mark were accurate, there had been an even more startling development: a tribe of Dunlendings has sent a representative, to ask for aid.

This, of course, sends the council into a complete uproar.

"How dare they ask for our help, after what they have done to the Mark!"

"Let them starve; they are little more than animals, living in the hills off rocks. Let the world be rid of them."

"Should we not use this to our advantage? If we can work out a trade agreement and come to a peaceable-" This gentler statement by one of the younger councilmembers-Haleth, Hama's son-is quickly drowned out by scoffs and jeers from his elder peers.

"It could be a trap," Baldred says. "To lure our kinsmen away from the towns and into their territory-"

"They have offered to meet on neutral ground, unarmed," Eothred interjects, glaring at the older man. "And these are not the Dunlendings who laid waste to the Westfold and Eastemmet. These are their widows, their children, whose bones stick out from their crumbling clothing."

Eomer raises an eyebrow at his marshal's defensive tone. Eothred has had no qualms cutting down raiding Dunlendings in the past, but now seems to have had a change of heart. These people must truly be in dire need, to have affected the man so.

"We can scarcely feed our own people, Eothred Marshal," Dernhelm retorts, crossing his arms. "Would you have us feed these...these savages before them?"

"I would remind you where it is the majority of our food is coming from this winter," Eothred growls. "And that this argument has likely taken place in Gondor's council hall as well."

That rather inelegant statement causes another outcry, and it takes Gamling yelling for peace for minutes before the council can calm itself again.

"What say you, Eomer King?" Erkenbrand asks. "Do we treat with those who have been our enemies? Can we leave women and children to starve for the sins of their men-folk?"

The wording of Erkenbrand's question makes obvious what his opinion on the matter is: Dunlendings or not, these are innocent people, guilty only of being born on the wrong side of the Isen. But many of his other councilors are unlikely to share his opinion. Many an Eorlingas has lost friend, family, or livestock in a Dunlending raid, and the animosity between their peoples runs deep and bitter. Eomer himself has no great love for the Dunlendings. They are a cruel, savage people, their language even fiercer than that of the Mark, and their buildings so rudimentary that they were often more tent than hut.

But the thought of the afflicted being women and children gives him pause. Children, regardless of heritage, were innocents, and to take the life of a woman in the Mark was the highest evil, the greatest æwisc.

Abruptly, Eomer wishes Lothiriel were here, to provide another perspective. She has never dealt with the Dunlendings and therefore has no bias to influence her one way or another in her thoughts on the matter. But he cannot imagine her agreeing with the starvation of children, under any circumstances. He finds he cannot either.

"I will meet with their representative," he says decisively. "If their situation is truly as dire as they have led us to believe, we will provide them aid in return for furs and a vow that the raids on the border farms will stop."

"But sire, they are Dunlendings-"

"They are weak, Baldred, and likely used as ill by Saurman as our own people," Eomer interrupts, conviction growing. "I will not begin my rule with the murder of women and children, Dunlending or not."

There are a few more grumbles, but Erkenbrand's powerful glare is enough to keep the more mutinous in check.

Eomer will have to leave Edoras again-because as much as he trusts Eothred and his other marshals, he must see the truth of this matter himself-little as he wants to. The councilors will plot and meddle in his absence. Eowyn will leave a few months after Yule, and every day brings closer the hour that she will no longer be of the Mark, no longer be just his sister, but a wife. The prince and princess of Dol Amroth will return to their country as well, and the thought pains him. Erchirion would have made an admirable horse-lord in another life and Lothiriel-

It is an infatuation, he tells himself. Nothing more.

"Eothred," he calls, forcing his thoughts away from long dark hair and gentle curves hidden beneath green velvet, "how many men will this venture require?"

"At least an eored, my lord," is the prompt response.

I will have to ask Eothain, Eomer realizes, frown only deepening. Wilfled is nearly at the end of her time and the far reaches of the West-mark were at least a week's ride away. It would be better to ask another captain, but Gamling was still not yet fully-healed from the wounds he'd suffered at the Black Gate. And there is no man Eomer trusts more than Eothain, in both his capacity as a captain and as a friend.

"Eowyn will hold the throne in my absence," he declares-this, at least, is met with little resistance, as every man here knows how capable his sister is as a leader. "We will depart for the West-mark in two days."

As the council dissolves into low murmurs around him, Eomer can only hope he has made the right choice. The lives of many would depend upon it.

Lothiriel's lesson on blood-thinning herbs is interrupted the next morning by a furious-looking Wilfled and a stone-faced Eowyn. Duilin takes one look at them, standing shoulder to shoulder in the door of his shop and groans, all but kicking Lothiriel off of her stool.

"You three take your ladies' troubles elsewhere," he says, shaking a finger at them. "I shall have no tears in this shop that are not pain-induced, nor bloodshed either."

"Duilin!" Lothiriel scolds, though she should not be surprised; no matter the rank to whom the elder healer speaks, the measure of respect remains the same: entirely absent.

"Be gone with you, girl," Duilin insists. "Princess or not, I have little desire to be made into mince meat for some other fool man's actions."

Sighing, but smiling a little despite the nervousness she feels at her friends' rather ominous expressions, she gives his gnarled hand a squeeze. "As you wish, Master Healer. But I will return to finish my lesson."

He snorts at her, but Lothiriel sees the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hefigytme mægþ."

"Stearcmód láréow," she retorts, before finally taking her leave.

Wilfled and Eowyn say nothing as she joins them, though the latter lets her take her hand and give it a familiar squeeze. "What is it?"

"Not here," Wilfled hisses, "I do not wish to lose my temper in public."

So they wait until they reach Eowyn's rooms, though the wide berth everyone they pass gives them indicates that Wilfled and Eowyn's anger looks as palpable as it feels. Lothiriel has scarcely closed the door behind them when Eowyn gives an exasperated curse, plucking the nearest blanket from her chair and flinging it on the floor. Wilfled sinks into the now vacant chair, lip quivering.

"I do not think it was a woolen blanket that has upset you two so," Lothiriel says slowly. She has never seen either of them like this. True, Wilfled has one of the shortest tempers she's ever seen, and Eowyn could be more than a little frightening when truly worked up, but this is beyond a spousal spat or irritation with needlepoint.

"Eomer," Eowyn spits, with as much venom Lothiriel has ever heard her direct in anyone's direction, let alone her beloved brother's, "has chosen to ride for the West-mark on the morrow. To treat with Dunlendings."

Lothiriel's eyes widen. The Dunlendings and Rohan have been each other's enemy for generations. Treating with them would likely not be seen favorably by the majority of the Rohirrim. For Eomer to consider doing so meant something truly dire has occurred and a tendril of worry curls under her breastbone.

"And he has asked Eothain to accompany him," Wilfled spits. "What's worse is that the idiot has agreed to it!"

That surprises Lothiriel. Wilfled is nearly at the end of her time, and Eothain has been devoted to the point of hovering of late, causing chuckles from the men and rolling eyes from the women.

But how could Eomer go into a possibly life-threatening situation without Eothain? His strongest captain and most loyal friend? Ada would not have treated with any Umbar prince or Harad merchant without Elphir present, even when Alycia had been pregnant with Alphros. The two situations are not so different. But that logic will not soothe her friends here and now. Lothiriel can sense the hurt under Wilfled's ire, the worry behind Eowyn's fury. She must tread lightly, to try to make them understand what she suspects is happening: that Eomer is doing this for his country's good.

"Surely he has good cause for such an extreme measure," she says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. She has taken to wearing it down as often as she wears it up, now days, and is suddenly glad for the camouflage it offers her highly readable face.

"Eothred, damn the man, claims the Dunlendings want to trade with us. Pelts for food, as if we have food to spare," Eowyn hisses.

"What do we owe the Dunlendings, besides recompense for the damage they have caused, the lives they have taken?" Wilfled asks, hands moving anxiously over her swollen stomach. "Are their lives worth more than the life of my husband? Of his men?"

"Of course not," Lothiriel assures her. She pauses for a moment, thinking of the few Harad merchants and traders who lived in Pelargir, who had been thought uncivilized and dangerous until they'd been allowed to move into the city. True, there were stark contrasts in their cultures, but they were people, with families and hopes and fears, just like their Gondorian counterparts. Were the Dunlendings so different? "But they are not worth less, either."

Wilfled's eyes are slits as she raises her gaze from her stomach. "What do you mean, Lothiriel?"

Heat floods her face. "I only...Eothred mentioned they were women and children. The Dunlendings, I mean, and that they are starving and sick. They pose little threat to either Rohan or Eomer and Eothain...to ignore this cry for aid would be wrong, especially if a small show of friendship here could begin the ending of the strife between your two peoples."

Her heart feels as if it is throbbing in her chest, anxiety creeping up behind her breastbone. Wilfled's expression is shifting from suspicion to disdain, while Eowyn simply looks stunned.

"You think the offering of food would be enough to end the Dunlendings' hatred of us?" Wilfled asks. "That by aiding these sad, weakened people, when their tribes are whole and hale again, they will spare our young and sick?"

"I-I do not know," Lothiriel stammers, wishing for Erchirion, for Naneth, for Faramir, for someone else who was not of the Mark to understand her thoughts, her horror at the thought of children like Eofor and Alphros and Darwyn shivering and starving when aid could be given to them. "I know I do not understand what the Dunlendings have done to Rohan-"

"No, you do not," Wilfled spits. "You could not possibly understand-"

"We may not like what she is saying, Wilfled," Eowyn interrupts, looking somewhere between thoughtful and annoyed, "but I suspect she understands my brother's motives better than either of us at the moment."

"I do not care for Eomer's motives!" Wilfled cries, shooting to her feet. "I do not care for those starving children, or their mothers, or their fathers who murdered our people! I care for my husband, my son, my unborn child-what will become of us, if Eothain is killed, Lothiriel? Have you thought of that? Have you thought of how many nights I have laid awake these past months, not knowing whether he lived or died? And now that I have him back, you would have him ride off to aid people who have slaughtered our kin for generations?"

"Wilfled-" Lothiriel stutters, shame choking her-of course she hadn't, how could she? She had only been thinking of the larger picture, of what such a truce would mean for Rohan-

"No, of course not," Wilfled continues on, blue eyes flashing fire, "how could you grasp how I have felt, how I feel now? You are no wife, no mother! Your fears are your own, limited to yourself and your concern that you are too foreign to belong-"

"Wilfled!" Eowyn cuts across, voice sharp. "That is enough!"

Lothiriel feels tears stinging behind her eyes and turns her face away; it hurts, not only because Wilfled has laid her worst fears bare, but because it is true, every bit of it. She cannot know, cannot begin to fathom the depth of Wilfled's fears. What does she know of love, of motherhood?

"It is not enough!" Wilfled roars back. "Neither of you can know, can understand, can-"

And then, suddenly, she is crying, her words completely incomprehensible between gasps and sobs. Lothiriel flinches, stopping herself from reaching out to her. She doubts Wilfled wants her comfort at the moment, at odds as they are. It is Eowyn who steps forward to embrace the sobbing woman, letting Wilfled tuck her face away against her neck.

"Wilfled, you are not yourself," Eowyn says, stroking her hair. "Tell us what truly troubles you."

Wilfled's tears do not abate for a few moments. Finally, she lifts her head, eyes red. "I am frightened," she murmurs. "I am scared down to the marrow of my bones, and it is a fear that nothing besides Eothain riding home again, safe and sound, can abate."

"And you think we cannot understand that fear?" Eowyn asks. "Both Lothiriel and I have sent men we love to battle, to certain death."

"But not your husbands," Wilfled spits, a bit of the earlier bite reentering her voice, "not the fathers of your children. The love I bear him...it is more than I can express. If something were to happen to him, the pain of it would consume everything within me until there is nothing left. What then, would become of Eofor? Of this babe?"

"You are not my mother," Eowyn says, voice brittle. "Your love for Eothain is strong, but you would never leave your children to be orphans."

Lothiriel blinks, stunned; she has heard much of Theodwyn in her time in Edoras, but nothing of the manner of her death.

"I fear that I would, and this fear makes me like a feral creature," at this she turns red eyes on Lothiriel, "who strikes at those who do not deserve it."

"But you were right," Lothiriel mumbles, twisting her necklace round and round, "I cannot understand-"

"But I have not said things with such venom," Wilfled says, voice sounding stronger. "You were seeing things through eyes that I also do not understand. Please, Lothiriel. I was wrong to speak so harshly."

She stretches out a slender, trembling arm in Lothiriel's direction. Eowyn opens her arms as well, and they collapse in on each other, faces pressed closely together.

"A mess, we three," Eowyn finally says. "Duilin was right to send us from his shop."

Wilfled groans. "Do not give that smug bastard the satisfaction of knowing such a thing. We shall never hear the end of."

Lothiriel chuckles slightly. "That is for certain. He still has not let me forget the time I mixed up the Rohirric words for 'barn' and 'ale house'."

"Those two words are scarcely similar-"

"Ah," Lothiriel says, feeling comforted enough to tease by Wilfled's soft smile and Eowyn's hand between her shoulder blades, "but both things are known to contain egþwirf."

The two women stare at her in shock before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, your first joke in Rohirric!" Eowyn laughs. "Eothain will be ecstatic."

"I suppose Duilin has taught you some unladylike words after all," Wilfled sighs, smiling despite herself.

"Someone ought to," Lothiriel counters. "Though still no one will tell me what glómmung means…"

"And you shall not hear it from us," Wilfled says. "And I think I need to rest now if," and here she pauses, looking shamefaced, "if we…if you can forgive me, Lothiriel."

Lothiriel will not forget the sting of her friend's words, but her fear-the fear of losing her husband, her fear for her children...she can well understand where the poisonous words had come from. "You have my full and free forgiveness, Wilfled. I am sorry I was insensitive."

Wilfled squeezes her hand before settling back into the chair. "Not insensitive, glómmung cwén. Perhaps naive."

Lothiriel has always thought that calling someone 'naive' was often used as a way to easily dismiss their opinion without challenging one's own, but she does not with to quarrel with Wilfled again so soon, and lets the matter rest.

She finds herself wandering down to the stables later, apple in hand. Supper had been a subdued meal, with everyone clearly absorbed in their own thoughts and worries. Wilfled had thankfully been more composed than earlier in the afternoon, though her body remained angled away from Eothain much of the time they had sat together during the meal.

Eowyn, though, was a little warmer, sitting in her usual place by Eomer's side and conversing quietly with her brother.

Erchirion had been strangely silent until Lothiriel had prodded him for the reason behind it: he has not been asked to accompany the eored to the West-mark.

"And this offends you?" Lothiriel asks, surprised at her usually sensible brother's rancor.

"Not offends," he sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I understand that as a foreign prince, I am a liability. But it feels wrong, to be unable aid our friends when they need it."

"Well, I am glad I shall have one less person to worry over," she murmurs, bumping her shoulder with his. "And I suspect Lisswyn will be also."

Erchirion's eyes go soft, tender. "That does give me some comfort."

And Lothiriel could have chosen to broach the matter then, to push to know what exactly her idiot brother thought he was doing, but she is too weary from the day's events for that particular conversation. So she chooses instead to excuse herself, intent on brushing Niphredil's mane, an action that has always helped calm her in the past.

The stables, though, are full of activity. Riders hurry to and fro, preparing their horses and saddles for the journey ahead. One of the stable lads spots her and helpfully shows her to Niphredil's stall.

Her horse nickers gently at her as she approaches. Lothiriel cannot help but smile. "Wes þū hāl, swēte," she says, stroking the mare's nose.

"Your accent is much improved," a familiar voice says, making her jump.

Niphredil neighs her displeasure, but Lothiriel cannot help but smile over her shoulder at him. "When one begins at the bottom, the only way to go is up," she says.

"Another Dol Amrothian phrase?" Eomer asks, stepping closer.

"That bit of wisdom is from Pelargir, I'm afraid," she answers, unable to keep what is surely a foolish smile from her face. She cannot help herself. Ever since their return from Aldburg, it is as if an army of butterflies take flight in her stomach whenever she so much as looks at him. Logic tries to weigh them down with thoughts of his impending departure and how short a time she's truly known the man, and yet the tumble persists.

"Another place in Gondor I could apparently learn much from," he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Lothiriel is glad her fingers are already buried in Niprhedil's mane, so she cannot give in to the traitorous impulse to feel his smile under her hands. "I think we Gondorians have a lot to learn from Rohan," she says instead.

The grin fades a little. "Such as?"

Lothiriel meets his eyes, forcing herself not to marvel overlong at their color. "Eomer, what you are doing for the Dunlendings-"

"Ah," he interrupts, frowning. "That."

"Yes, that," Lothiriel continues on, trying to follow his sudden shift in mood. "I think it is one of the most noble things I have ever heard of."

"I have not agreed to help them yet, Lothiriel," Eomer says, sounding weary. "This could be a scheme, or a trick-"

"I know," she says, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how. "But it is noble, nonetheless."

They are both silent for a moment, Lothiriel turning her attention back to Niphredil's already immaculately combed mane and resolutely ignoring the heavy weight of Eomer's stare.

"I did not want to help them," he says suddenly, unbidden. "When Eothred first mentioned it, I had every intention of refusing them aid on principle."

That startles her into facing him. "What changed your mind?"

She almost jumps out of her skin when his hand brushes hers, hidden away against Niprehdil's neck. "A pair of fresh eyes."

The butterflies tumble about her stomach and heat blooms in her cheeks. He cannot mean-!

"I-Eomer, if you have done this for me," she stutters, feeling as if her heart is near to beating out of her ribs.

"Not for you," he says, meeting her eyes. "Because of you. There is a difference."

His hand slides to clasp around her elbow, loosely, and Lothiriel can feel herself tremble. "Then I must do something in return."

He stiffens when she gently pulls her arm away from him, but watches her closely as she reaches behind the loose mass of her hair to unclasp her necklace. "Naneth-my mother-gave this to me before we parted ways in Minas Tirith. It is a scallop shell, which among my people is supposed to signify protection for long journeys. My brothers each had one before they left to fight in the War. My mother thought it only fitting that I be just as well protected as them, no matter how safe my destination."

Eomer is still staring at her, confusion creeping into his expression. "What would you have me do with this necklace of yours?"

"Wear it," Lothiriel manages to say, pressing it into his open hand. "Take its luck with you. I am no warrior, and your armor will offer far better protection than a silly trinket can provide, but…"

Eomer's hand closes over hers, the still-warm metal of her necklace only separating their palms. Though they are touching nowhere else, she is certain he can feel her trembling.

"I know," she starts, willing herself to sound calmer than she feels, "I cannot ask you to promise to return, but...please, Eomer, be careful."

"You say that as if you are asking me to do something difficult," he says, frowning slightly.

Smiling in spite of herself, Lothiriel answers, "Forgive me for saying so, Eomer King, but I have heard enough tales from my brothers and your sister to know you often put the safety of others ahead of your own. A noble quality, if not a very smart one."

The corners of Eomer's mouth twitch, his fingers moving slightly over hers. "Byrnihtu cwén."

Lothiriel blinks at the new nickname, processing. The meaning dawns on her, and she finds herself swatting him with one hand, trying to pull the other from his grasp in the same moment, "I am not prickly!"

Eomer chuckles again, sounding far too unfazed by her outrage. His gaze slides over her and for the first time, Lothiriel acknowledges the heat in it. Her skin seems to tingle, despite her displeasure. "Not in body, perhaps…

"Insufferable man!" She cries, pushing down the torrent of butterflies again.

Eomer's laugh is louder this time and a few heads turn in their direction. Abruptly, Lothiriel recalls they are in a crowded stable, after all, shielded from view only by Niprhredil's large body.

She takes a quick step back from him, to a more proper distance. Their hands, however, stay clasped between them around her necklace. Suddenly he is lifting her hand to his mouth again, the way he had weeks before, and presses another kiss to its back. The heat of this one Lothiriel feels all the way down to her toes and she cannot help her sudden intake of breath.

"I swear on my honor as a king that I shall do my best to repress my more reckless tendencies," he murmurs, every word bringing another brush of his lips over the back of her hand. Lothiriel finds herself shivering, despite the nearness of Niprhedil's warm body.

"I am sure Eothain will tell me the truth of it, when you return," her voice sounding miraculously more steady than she feels.

Eomer groans, letting their hands lower. "Of course he will, the traitor."

"You have no one to blame but yourself for our friendship," Lothiriel counters, feeling a little less likely to waver on her feet. "Well, perhaps Rohan's traditions regarding blue dresses-"

He groans again, a more serious expression on his face. "Bema áhilpe mec. That is something you can promise me in our absence: do not encourage my riders to court you."

"I have it on very good authority that if a Rider of Rohan wants to court me, I will know it," she says, thinking of Lisswyn's teasing. "So far, I do not think there are any interested parties."

Something in Eomer's expression shifts then, relaxes, almost, but is quickly replaced by a smirk. "Subtle, we Eorlingas are not."

"That we can agree on," Lothiriel says. Giving Eomer's fingers one last squeeze, she extracts her hand. "May the Valar protect and guide you, Eomer King."

"I thought that was what your necklace was for," he murmurs, earning a thorough swat with Niprehdil's brush. "Farewell, glómmung cwén."

Lothiriel waits until his footsteps have been swallowed up in the general commotion of the stables to press her face against Niprehdil's neck. "Sweet Elbereth," she mutters.

Niprehdil's snort seems almost amused.

Author's Note: So, as many of you are very detail oriented, you'll notice that I've made another small adjustment (or addendum, if you will) to canon. Yes, in the novels, the Dunlendings formed an alliance with Gondor, which made them allies with Rohan via that way. But for argument's sake, let's assume not all of the tribes had healthy enough representatives to send or didn't want to risk travelling the distance required to reach Minas Tirith to appeal to Aragorn. Thus, the idea of at least one group of Dunlendings deciding to reach out to a much closer monarch. We'll meet these particular Dunlendings in the next chapter, and I hope you'll give this plot a chance before imagining Tolkien rolling in his grave.

On the romance front, I have no comments other than this: writing these two flirt is so much fun, and I hope it's just as enjoyable reading it for y'all.

Terms:

ganet breguweard: swan prince

æwisc: shame, disgrace

hefigytme mægþ: troublesome girl

stearcmód láréow: stubborn teacher

egþwirf: asses (donkeys, but the joke remains)

wes þū hāl, swēte: hello, sweet

Bema áhilpe mec: Bema help me