Author's Note: Oh gosh, you guys, I'm so sorry for the delay! Thank you for the sweet messages from those of you worrying about me. Work has been crazy busy lately, I've recently signed a rental contract to share a house with some friends (real adulting, whoo!), and I snuck a couple of vacation days in there. In other words: not much time for writing. (Plus, this chapter would just NOT cooperate and required at least 3 different rewrites.)

I hope this chapter is worth the wait; it may be my favorite to date, in all honesty, and I can't thank y'all enough for the continued support of this story :)

And now, onward! (Oh, and since I know a lot of people don't like graphic scenes, I'll go ahead and tell you there is NOT one in this chapter. I've never given birth and didn't want to try my hand at writing it. So you're all good to read on!)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lothiriel talks herself nearly hoarse, telling Wilfled stories of Amrothos's mischief. Even when the labor pains begin to come closer together, and more intensely, she keeps going, speaking of her brother's ill-advised sailing trips and flirtations with anything wearing a skirt. And it works, for a time, keeping Wilfled laughing between the waves of pain when she squeezes Lothiriel's hand hard enough to bruise.

But eventually, even stories of Amrothos's antics cannot distract Wilfled any longer. Yet Eothain has still not arrived. The rider that had been sent has not returned, either, which Lothiriel hopes to mean that he has found the eored.

After a particularly strong wave of pain-and hand-squeeze-Lothiriel finds herself slightly out of breath, and utterly depleted of stories about her silly brother. "Oh, Wilfled," she says, stroking her friend's sweat-drenched hair back from her face, "I am afraid I have no more funny stories to tell."

"That is very well, for I doubt I could manage a laugh now," she pants, managing a small smile despite her statement. "But keep talking, Lothiriel, it helps."

Helpless to deny her, but equally helpless to think of a suitably distracting subject, Lothiriel fidgets for a moment, biting her lip.

Duilin gives her a very unimpressed look. "I have never known you to struggle for words, girl, so do not start now."

She scowls at him for a moment, ignoring the other midwives' muffled laughter. Turning her attention back to Wilfled, she lays a cool rag on her forehead, trying to gather her thoughts. "Vana," she says, suddenly, "why do you pray to her, during childbirth?"

"She's the goddess of living things, of youth and rebirth," Mistress Déorwyn answers. "Surely you pray to her as well, in Gondor?"

"No, we pray to Varda-Elbereth, in Sindarin," Lothiriel admits. "She's the Queen of the Stars, regarded as the most beautiful and kind among the Valar, and any child born with her blessing is said to be guaranteed a long and happy life."

"It is the same, with Vana," Wilfled manages, "but she is the Queen of the Flowers."

"Queen of Flowers," Lothiriel murmurs, "how strange."

"What do you mean?" Mistress Déorwyn asks, sharply. "Are flowers any less dear than stars?"

Duilin lifts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Do not be offended on Vana's behalf, Déorwyn. I think Lothiriel has just realized there is a particular irony in her serving as a mǣg on behalf of the goddess."

"Meaning?"

"My name," she says. "In Sindarin, it translates to 'flower-garlanded maiden'."

There's a nearly deafening silence as the room processes this. Lothiriel feels abruptly foolish-her parents could not have known when they named her that something like this would come to pass, that she would serve as a stand in for the very goddess of living things. To be named in reference to flowers was a common enough thing, in Gondor. It likely means nothing. Mercifully, the sudden clench of Wilfled's hand in hers distracts her. She croons an old Dol Amrothian lullaby, one Ada used to sing to her on nights that Naneth had been busy at the Houses or lingering in the kitchens after a feast. When Wilfled's breathing has returned to normal, she blinks up at Lothiriel, their hands still clasped.

"I think you were meant to be here, glómmung cwén," she pants, smiling a little.

Lothiriel's mouth falls open in surprise. "It is mere coincidence, Wilfled!"

"But a happy one," Mistress Déorwyn interrupts, passing Lothiriel a fresh rag. "Surely you have learned by now the importance we Eorlingas put on names, my lady?"

Lothiriel can only gape at them. Her name was as un-Rohirric as possible, and Vana did not feature in any Gondorian prayers. It was a curious synchronicity-flower-maiden and Queen of Flowers-to be sure, but hardly significant! Not..destined, or indicating any sort of higher plan-

But perhaps it is, a little voice whispers, sounding suspiciously like Naneth, perhaps you are precisely where you're meant to be.

"Even if I was named after a...a...weed, I would still be here with you, Wilfled," Lothiriel says.

"Weeds are still plants, glómmung cwén," chimes in Duilin. "No doubt Vana would be pleased by that as well."

Wilfled huffs a laugh, briefly, before her hand clenches around Lothiriel's again, her face contorting in pain. There is a bustle of activity: Lothiriel angles herself closer to Wilfled's shoulders as the midwives pull back her shift. They murmur to each other low enough that she cannot make out what they're saying, but their voices are merely serious, not anxious or frightened. There is blood now, a bright red spot striking against the whiteness of Wilfled's shift, but Lothiriel has seen more in operating rooms and even in bandages of minor cuts. Neither Duilin nor Mistress Déorwyn look alarmed, so she forces herself not to be either, choosing instead to hum more of the lullabye into her now gasping friend's ear.

"Enough talk of names," Mistress Déorwyn orders, teasing tone gone, "this little one is nearly here."

As if on cue, there is the distant call of a horn from outside.

"The eored," Lothiriel whispers, gripping Wilfled's hand all the tighter. "They're close."

Eomer is thankful that it is past dusk by the time Edoras's gates rise into view. It means there will be fewer people milling about the city's roads, lessening the chances that Eothain might run one of them down in his haste. His captain is riding like a man possessed, though frankly, Eomer cannot blame him.

If it were his wife, his child-

Bema, but he's getting ahead of himself, with thoughts like that.

The stables have clearly been forewarned of their coming, as they're near to bursting with eager stable-boys and the Master of Horses, who is the one to accept Eothain's reins when he all but flings them from his hand.

"No news yet on the babe, Eothain Captain," he says.

Eothain spares him a somewhat civil nod before all but sprinting from the stables towards his and Wilfled's home. Eothred dismounts nearly seconds after him, passing his horse off to one of the older boys.

"Bema, he can move quickly when he wants to," he huffs. "We had best hope someone's already there barring the door, lest he try to burst in while the midwives are doing their work."

Eomer snorts, amused at the thought.

Eothred, however, quirks an eyebrow at him. "I'm serious, Eomer King. Eothain has never possessed a level head when it comes to that stubborn wife of his. Have you forgotten the foranlencten incident?"

Two years before Wormtongue had come to Edoras, when there had been unrest but not yet outright war, Wilfled had scorched her palm during one of the season's traditional bonfires. Eothain had been nearly beside himself, despite the fact that Duilin's salve took away nearly all of Wilfled's pain. Duilin was not one to be easily intimidated, but even the long experienced Master Healer had been on edge under Eothain's steely stare whilst wrapping her hand. Imagining him being similarly brutish while the midwives attempted to aid Wilfled, now…

"Follow him, Eothred," Eomer groans. "I will join you in a moment."

His marshal offers him a firm nod before turning on his heel to chase after his nephew.

Herubrand snorts. "You'd best go too, Eomer King. I doubt one man will be enough to keep Eothain from attempting to beat his own door down."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eomer nods at his Master of Horse, who simply grins before clapping a hand to his back.

It's easy enough to wind the familiar path to Eothain's home-before he'd been king, when his uncle had been growing more and more ill with Wormtongue's poison in his ears, there had been no place he'd felt safer-but he can only groan anew at the sight that greets him. Eothain is a tall man-just slightly shorter than Eomer himself-and he has at least three inches on Gamling, and is using every one of them to tower over the older man, who stands between him and the door.

"Eothain, it is no place for you-" Gamling is trying to say, which draws a near snarl out of Eothain's throat.

"You've no right to stand between me and my wife, Gamling-"

"He does when there's a babe in the mix, you great lummox!" Eothred cries, marching up to join Gamling's position by the door. "What good do you think your sweaty, dirt-covered self will do a newborn babe, eh?"

Their yelling has attracted an audience and Eomer can only groan again as curious neighbors being to open their doors to catch a glimpse of the cause of the racket.

"Uncle, move aside-"

"I will not."

"Gamling-"

"I have become a father thrice over, Eothain Captain, and believe me when I say that your face is the last one that Wilfled will want to see right now."

It's faint, but Eomer can just make out a cry of pain from behind the door. Eothred's eyes flick over to his-Eothain's face has gone as red as his hair, the way it only ever does in the heat of battle, and Eomer knows his captain well enough to know he is contemplating something truly stupid-and they move in unison, to pin him down.

Eothain yelps in surprise when they collide with him, all three of them toppling over in a swearing, sweaty pile.

"Get off of me, Eomer, or I will-"

"You'll do nothing to your friend and king, you great dunderhead," Eothred pants, finally succeeding in getting an arm around his nephew's throat, "and quit squirming before I strangle you in front of your own front door."

Eothain doesn't, of course, cursing them both, Gamling, and the door itself as he continues to fight them. The onlookers have only increased. Vaguely, Eomer is aware that this is likely far from king-like behavior. The sudden shock of Eothain's elbow being driven into his stomach makes that thought vanish and he shifts, trying to get a better hold on the other man's ribs.

"Um...E-Eomer King?" asks someone. A boy, judging by its tone. Likely a squire.

"What?" He asks, knowing himself to sound more than slightly irritated.

"The council...they have asked for you, sire."

Eomer lifts his head-Gamling has joined the fray now, sprawled rather effectively across Eothain's legs-and gives the boy as even a stare as he can manage. "Tell the council," he says, reminding himself to keep his temper, that it is not the squire's fault that his captain is behaving like a soft-brained fool, "that I am occupied, at the moment."

The boy scurries away to the sound of muffled laughter.

Eothain, damn him, is still fighting them, coming up with some extremely inventive descriptions of where they could shove their swords.

"Eothain, enough," he manages to grit out, "you're being an esol-"

"You were the one who allowed me to push for home!" Eothain hisses back. "And now you stop me, not feet from my door?"

"There is no help you can offer Wilfled now, Eothain!" Eothred argues, sounding slightly muffled. "She has your sister, she has the midwives-"

"I am her husband-"

The sudden shock of water being dumped on their heads stuns them all into silence.

"Oh, good, you're finished," comes Eowyn's familiar voice. "Now, I would appreciate it if you would kindly stand and act like grown men again, instead of children brawling in the dirt."

Wincing, Eomer clamors to his feet first, turning to offer Eothred a hand. Eothain remains where he is, hair plastered wetly to his head as he sits on the ground.

"What is it," Eowyn says, after looking them over for a moment, "about childbirth that reduces men to gedwæsmenn?"

"A question we women have been asking ourselves since the dawn of time," answers Cwenhild, appearing suddenly-and mercifully-with towels in hand. Eofor trails along after her, holding a toddling Darwyn's hand.

The sight of his son and niece seems to drain all of the fight out of Eothain, who accepts a towel to wipe most of the water off before opening his arms to both of them. Eofor all but flings himself into his father's embrace, Darwyn following along after. After they're both settled, Eothain stands, striding wearily over to a bench his nearest neighbor must have pulled out during the scuffle. Father and son talk quietly to each other as Eothred drifts closer to sit beside them, smiling slightly as Darwyn climbs into his lap, babbling happily.

Cwenhild fusses over her husband-Gamling merely smiles at her, waving off her concern-and Eowyn fixes Eomer with a look that can only be described as exasperated.

"What exactly," she asks, "were you trying to achieve?"

"We are dirty from the road-though perhaps less so now, after our impromptu dousing," he rolls his eyes at her snort, "and while I know little in the way of healing, I know enough to doubt that a sweaty rider would be welcome in the birthing chamber."

"A wise thought," Eowyn says, smiling slightly. She steps closer to him, wrapping her arms around his middle despite the dampness of his tunic. "I've missed you, Eomer."

Smiling despite himself, he rests his cheek on top of her hair for a moment. "And I you. I am glad to find Edoras still in one piece."

"You are horrid," she tells him, but he can hear the amusement plain in her voice. She steps back to poke him firmly in the chest. "And there is a matter of some importance I would speak to you about."

He eyes his sister-her demeanor is still teasing, still at-ease, and yet she speaks of something important. "Dare I ask: what?"

"Have you or have you not," Bema, her expression is positively smug, setting off alarm-bells in the back of his head, "called dear Lothiriel a byrnihtu cwén to her face?"

Oh, helle. "Eowyn-"

"Because if you have, I must tell you that there are simpler, less strange ways to tell a woman you-"

"Eowyn," he hisses again, all too-aware of the people milling about, drawn by Eothain's earlier outburst. "Not here."

Rolling her eyes, she crosses her arms. "Fine. But you should know, Eomer-"

Whatever Eowyn was going to say is interrupted by the muffled-but unmistakable-cry of a babe. Eofor scrambles quickly down from his father's lap, clutching Eothain's hand tightly. Eothred remains seated, rocking Darwyn gently, and Eothain-

Bema, the hope and fear warring on his face.

The door opens a few tense moments later, revealing a smiling Mistress Déorwyn.

"You have a daughter, Eothain Captain," she says.

"Vana be praised," Eothain says hoarsely, squeezing Eofor's shoulder. "And-and Wilfled, is she-"

"She is well," the midwife answers. "You can go inside once her mǣg is finished with the last blessing."

Eothain slumps, in relief, back down onto the bench. Eothred lays a hand on his nephew's shoulder in comfort, solidarity. Eomer has known Eothain since they were green boys, scarcely higher than their horses' knees, but he has never seen his friend quite like this.

The door opens again, interrupting his musings. Instead of revealing Lisswyn's shy smile and fair red hair, it's Lothiriel's weary but happy expression that comes into view. "Eothain, you can-"

He passes her without even noticing that it's the princess of Dol Amroth, not his younger sister, beckoning him in. Dimly, Eomer is aware of the crowd laughing, a few members of the eored who have joined in making quips about Eothain's speed in all things, but it is background noise, a mere buzz. He should be puzzled by her presence here-Lisswyn is the obvious choice to serve as Wilfled's mǣg-but instead he is merely glad to see her. Foolhardy and irrational as the thought is, he cannot deny it. Even though Lothiriel's normally neat braid is wispy, strands of hair falling all around her clearly tired face, she is lovely.

Eowyn elbows him, startling out of his reverie. "Go and change your shirt," she orders, gently. "Dunking or not, you still smell of horse."

"Such a kind sister I have," he grumbles, "so helpful, so generous-"

"Oh, hush," Eowyn says. "Go."

He goes, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder as he does so.

Lothiriel stands, dazed and slightly amused, as the door is pulled firmly shut behind Eothain's retreating form. Cwenhild's gentle hands lead her towards a bench-"Poor child, you look ready to faint! Sit, sit,"-and she finds herself sitting. She is tired, she is hungry, and this wooden bench may be the most comfortable thing she has ever sat upon. Likely that is the exhaustion talking, and she leans her head against the nearby wall of the house with a sigh.

Wilfled had been so brave, so strong, and while Lothiriel's hands might ache for the next few days from the force of her friend's squeezes, she is glad to have been there. Glad to have been able to help, in some small way, bring their dear child into the world.

And yet you did not help Alycia thus, a poisonous little voice whispers, you would aid a woman you've only known for months over your own sister-in-law? You have already held Wilfled's child, but would not know your own niece if she stood before you calling your name-

The gentle touch of someone's hand startles her out of her thoughts. She opens her eyes-when had she closed them?-and meets Eothred's concerned stare.

"Lass, are you well?"

"I am fine," she croaks, suddenly aware of the dryness of her throat.

Eothred frowns, waving someone over. One of the weavers appears, mug of something in hand. He presses it into Lothiriel's hand, waiting until she has taken a few fortifying sips of the ale to speak again. "It is no small thing you have done for Wilfled, my lady."

"I know," Lothiriel says. Bites her lip, rephrases, "at least, I think I know."

"They've told you what being a mǣg means, yes?"

"A sister-helper," she recites. "Someone to pray for the mother and child during birth."

"In part," Eothred agrees. "But the bond is not so...limited as that. Oft times a mǣg becomes the cumendre."

Lothiriel blinks fuzzily at him. She has heard that word before, while going over familial traditions with Duilin during their lessons, and yet all of that knowledge has turned to smoke, slipping through her tired fingers. "Cumendre?"

Eothred kneels before her, taking her hands gently in his. "Godmother, as you'd say in Westron. It's why a woman's mǣg is usually a sister, or a sister-in-law, or a cousin. Should something happen to the mother, the cumendre assumes her role in the child's life."

Abruptly, Lothiriel feels wide awake. "But-I will return to Gondor-I-I cannot-"

"Now you've gone and frightened her to death, Eothred Marshal," Cwenhild scolds, clearly having been eavesdropping. "No one will expect you to abandon your life in Gondor to care for Wilfled and Eothain's daughter, glómmung cwén. She has family here, and you have done enough already. Besides, Wilfled and Eothain are young, and healthy. The practice of cumendre usually comes to pass in lean times, in times of war."

"I only say such a thing because Wilfled had a much more natural choice in mǣg than the lovely princess here," Eothred counters. His hands are still around Lothiriel's, warm and calloused and dry, but she is far from comforted. "Where is Lisswyn?"

Oh, Elbereth, thinks Lothiriel, this is not the time, how can I tell him without resulting in my brother's murder, why have they not returned-

"Lisswyn has been ill for two days," Cwenhild says before Lothiriel can collect her mad-dash thoughts. "The midwives would not let her so close to a newborn while her own condition was so poor."

Eothred, though, has not taken his eyes from Lothiriel. "Is that the way of it, my lady?"

His eyes, she realizes, are the exact same shade of cornflower blue as Eothain's, as Lisswyn's. It makes it even harder to choke out the lie, but lie she does, saying, "Yes, I'm afraid so, Eothred Marshal."

He examines her for a moment longer before slowly rising to his feet. "Regardless, my family owes you a debt, glómmung cwén. I will not forget that."

"There is no debt," Lothiriel says, weariness seeping in again to mingle unpleasantly with the lingering panic. "Helping someone I love is its own reward."

Eothred smiles, just slightly, before Eofor appears to tug him inside to meet his new grand-niece. Cwenhild runs a gentle hand through Lothiriel's hair-the sensation is so like the way Naneth has always calmed her that she nearly cries, pressure building in her throat and chest and behind her eyes-before turning to answer her husband's call.

Lothiriel leans her head back against the wall of the house. She still feels on the verge of tears, and shuts her eyes to ward them off for as long as she can. Suddenly all she wants is to be home, back in Dol Amroth. To look over her shoulder and see Naneth and Ada discussing something by the great hearth, to reach out and pinch Amrothos's hand when he makes a bawdy joke, to stroke Alphros's hair as he sits in her lap so Elphir and Alycia can play a game of chess-

"Lothiriel?" Comes Eowyn's voice. "Are you well?"

She opens her eyes again, meeting Eowyn's concerned stare. "Fine," she says. "I am fine."

Eowyn's lips twist. "Lothiriel-"

She stands abruptly, startling her friend and herself. "I-I just need to walk, for a moment, to get some air-"

"But-"

"Please, Eowyn," she whispers. "I need to clear my head."

Eowyn's hand drops and something like sympathy, something like understanding, enters her expression. "I will be in the hall when you return."

Lothiriel offers her a sharp nod. She is tired and strangely heartsick. Her thoughts are a whirl of Wilfled's pain, Eothain's joy, Eothred's obvious suspicion, coupled with her own gnawing worry about Erchirion, and Lisswyn, and their now nearly day-long absence. How honored, how humbled, how frightened she feels at the thought of taking on such a role for Wilfled and Eothain's daughter-oh, Valar, she hadn't even lingered long enough to learn the child's name!

She walks without noticing where her feet are taking her. It is not until the sudden nicker of a horse close to her ear startles her that Lothiriel realizes where she's wandered to: the stables. They are full of horses again, with the eored returned, though the stable boys have all mostly cleared out for the evening meal. A wave of tiredness hits her again and she forces her feet forward. There is a bench in the stall across from Niprehdil's that she's taken to sitting on when she needs a break from the hall. It has served as a quiet place to sit, to think, in the past and it calls to her now like a lodestone.

But before she can reach the bench, there's a rustle of fabric somewhere to her left. Blearily, she turns her head, searching for the source-

Oh. Oh, Elbereth.

Surprise quickly replaces tiredness. Surprise, and if she's being honest with herself, awe. The tattoos themselves are impressive, of course, but they're not what's holding her attention. Broad shoulders only partially hidden away by long, blonde-slightly damp? How odd-hair, the long, lean line of his back, the impressive muscles there…

She should look away, continue on to her bench, but after the day she's had, Lothiriel decides she deserves some kind of reward. The thought makes her snort a laugh before she can stop herself and her hands fly up to her mouth in horror-oh, please, let him not have heard-

The Valar must not be listening to her prayers today, for Eomer turns, brows furrowed in confusion, only to abruptly stop when he meets her gaze. They stare at each other, time feeling strangely still. Then he begins to fumble with his tunic, attempting to pull it on over his head while one sleeve is still twisted. The result is one frowning King of Rohan, hopelessly tangled in his shirt.

Lothiriel cannot help it: she laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, tears leaking from her eyes, until she is not laughing any longer. The tears are no longer ones of amusement, but exhaustion and homesickness and worry, oh, so much worry. She knows she must look a fright, but she cannot stop, cannot even pause long enough to draw breath.

Dimly, she's aware of him calling her name. The rush of embarrassment that brings only serves to make her cry harder, bringing her hands up to cover her face as her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs.

When Eomer had turned to see Lothiriel staring at him, his first thought had been that he was going to murder his sister.

The instant she bursts into tears, though, he knows Eowyn has not sent her. Likely, Eowyn would not have let Lothiriel out of her sight if she had known how distressed she was. It would be alarming, the intensity of her sobs, if he hadn't seen this sort of thing before. Exhaustion is a cruel mistress, especially when paired with hunger. Even the most season rider would be helpless in the face of such a combination.

While he hadn't really enjoyed being laughed at-his tunic being twisted surely wasn't that humorous-he would prefer it to this: watching her cry as if her heart is breaking, scarcely muffling the sound behind her hands.

"Lothiriel?" He asks, lowly, not wanting to startle her. It hadn't been quiet enough; if anything, the sound of her name only serves to make her cry harder.

Eomer isn't conscious of stepping closer until there is only a hand's span between them. Lothiriel hasn't noticed at all, her eyes still hidden behind her hands. So he does what he would do for Eowyn, for Wilfled, even for Bledgifu: he takes her into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed gently to her lower back.

At first, she doesn't acknowledge him at all, likely still crying too hard to be aware that she's being held. Slowly, she leans more heavily against him, her arms slipping around him to allow her hands to fist in his tunic.

This is not the time to notice how well she fits in his arms, how easy it is to rest his cheek on top of her head, to stroke a hand through her long, dark hair. But he does.

"Sire?" A soft voice calls. It's one of the stable boys, cautiously peering around the corner. Keeping one hand gently running through her hair, he waves the boy off with the other, giving him a glare fierce enough to hopefully keep him from running his mouth.

Gradually, Lothiriel's sobs ebb, dwindle down into small sniffles muffled into his chest. Much as he hates to see her so upset-he will find out why, of that there is no doubt-it is no small pleasure to have her this close, in the way he'd tried not to think of during the long stretches of silence on the journey back from the West-mark.

She mumbles something intelligible, keeping her face resolutely hidden against the front of his tunic.

"What was that, swete?" He asks, the endearment falling from his tongue unbidden.

Mercifully, she's too flustered to have heard it, or if she did, chooses not to acknowledge it, saying in a very soft voice, "I am sorry, I did not mean to wail all over you like some...some...child-"

Frowning, he crooks a gentle finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes are red, her face wet with tears, and he can see the exhaustion there, mingled with sorrow. Still, so lovely. "You are not a child," Eomer says, in as gentle voice he can manage, "and there are very few things you could do to lessen my regard for you. Crying is certainly not one of them."

She huffs a watery laugh at that, a smile taking some of the sorrow from her face. "So I am not a Gondorian trinket, then?"

It's his turn to chuckle, thinking of their disastrous first meeting. "Much too strong to be a trinket."

Lothiriel's smile fades, and she leans her head back against his chest. "I do not feel so strong, now."

His hand has a mind of its own, still stroking through her hair in slow, soothing motions. "What happened?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. He feels, rather than hears, her sigh. "Everything. It has been a long, strange day, and then Eothred…"

Of course Eothred has something to do with this, Eomer thinks, ungenerously. "Bema, I can only imagine what he's said-"

"No, it wasn't...nothing crude, I swear it, but he explained that about the...the cumendre-"

"Ah," Eomer says. Yes, he can see how the thought of stepping in to serve as Eothain and Wilfled's daughter's second parent would be overwhelming, especially when one considers that her time in Rohan is limited, that she is a princess of Gondor, hardly able to abandon her family and the numerous other responsibilities that await her there. Eothred had not been wrong; a woman's mǣg was usually the natural choice for the role of cumendre, but he suspects Wilfled will make an exception here. But then again, perhaps not. It was very strange that Lisswyn had not been there for her sister-in-law…

"Lothiriel, where was Lisswyn? By all rights, she should have been with Wilfled today."

Were he not holding her, Eomer thinks he might have missed her reaction, but as it is, he feels her sudden flinch. Suspicion flares and he's tempted to tip her chin upward again, to better see her face. She has no talent for lying, and even if she tried, her usual blushes would give her away.

"Lothiriel-"

"I am certain she merely lost track of time," she says in a rush, determinedly avoiding his eyes. "I think she may have been showing Erchirion different parts of the city. Merthwyn did give her permission to take the afternoon off from her duties, and the babe came so suddenly-"

"And she could not be found in time?" He asks.

Lothiriel bites her lip, finally lifting her gaze to his. The sudden wave of desire he feels is completely ill-timed, but she is so close, so warm and trusting in his arms-

"Yes," she says, startling him out of his train of thought, "yes, exactly that."

Eomer is not certain he believes her, but she has been through enough today without him badgering her for a more concrete answer about Lisswyn. "I do not think that is all that caused you such distress."

The tears have begun afresh, and Bema, the sight makes his heart ache. Makes him want to offer something, anything to make her smile, to take away the conflict she's so obviously grappling with.

"I...I was not there for Alycia. My sister-in-law had my mother, of course, but in Gondor, unwed maidens are forbidden from the birthing chamber. And after watching Lisswyn...I imagined Aly, and how afraid she must have been, how much pain she experienced, and I did nothing. I did not even think to offer-"

"You said yourself that maidens are not allowed in the birthing chamber-"

"And I have never seen my niece!" She blurts suddenly, clearly having not heard him, "Nemiriel is nearly 6 months old and I could not tell you more than a handful of things about her-I could not even pick her out of a crowd! Alphros must be so tall now, so grown, and it'll be a miracle if Amrothos hasn't wrecked half of the fleet since he's been made captain-"

Ah. Homesickness and guilt color every word. Eomer knows the sensation well enough. It has been his bedfellow in the recent months, made worse by his uncle's strange illness, Eowyn's brittle strength, Wormtongue's foul presence. Theodred's death had begun it; what was Edoras without his cousin and closest friend? Why had he not been by his side, at the Fords? But there is no changing it, no way to undo the past. Eomer has spent too much time already concerning himself with the 'what if's' rather than the 'what are's'. He would not have her do the same.

"Lothiriel, do you wish to return to Dol Amroth?" He asks.

That startles her out of her misery and she blinks, leaning her head back to meet his eyes. "Well-yes, but not now. I...I like Edoras, of course, and my lessons with Duilin, the friends I have made here, Eowyn, you…" Her cheeks pink, slightly. "I made a promise to stay until after Yule, to help Eowyn. I cannot-I will not leave until I have fulfilled it."

"Do you think your parents or your brothers begrudge you for that promise?"

"Of course not," she says, quickly. "They know how dear Eowyn is to me, that there was no one else-" Lothiriel stops, biting her lip again. Bema, but she needed to stop doing that. "I have been very foolish, haven't I?"

"Not foolish," he promises, "merely tired and overwrought. As anyone would be."

"Still," she sighs, pressing her cheek back against his chest. "I did not mean to throw all of this at you, Eomer, I know you must be tired as well-"

He is, of course he is, but that matters so little just now, with her so close. "Not so tired that I would abandon a lady in distress."

A tiny smile curves her lips upwards. "A true hero."

He snorts. "Hardly."

Now it is Lothiriel's turn to frown at him. "I do not say it lightly, Eomer. The peace you have achieved with the Dunlendings...the kindness you have showed me-"

"You have earned every kindness, Lothiriel. Do not make me out to be some...champion. I am just a man, with flaws and fears like the rest."

"But a good man," she insists, chin jutting up in stubbornness-Vana, even that is endearing-"Better than you know, even if you are insufferable, on occasion."

That startles him into a laugh. "Byrnihtu cwén."

"Not so prickly, surely," she counters, smiling, "perhaps a little damp…"

Eomer frowns, just slightly, reaching up on impulse to wipe the last few tears from her face. Lothiriel stares at him, mouth slightly parted in surprise. Her skin is soft, nearly unbearably so, and warm, and suddenly he wants to kiss her so badly he aches with it. Their faces are only inches apart...all it would take is him bending, or her stretching up on the tips of her toes, small thing that she is-

"Bema, but you are a hard man to find, Eomer-" Eothred's voice causes them both to jump. Lothiriel steps back, face flushed once more, and Eomer thinks a litany of very foul words before turning to face his marshal.

"Yes, Eothred?"

Eothred's eyes flick from him, to Lothiriel, and back again. The wide grin that blooms on his face is one of the most unsettling things Eomer has ever seen, and he has battled Orcs and Wargs and Uruk-hai. "Am I interrupting, sire?"

"Eothred-" He starts to growl, but Lothiriel speaks over him in a rush.

"It has been a long day, and Eowyn will be expecting me-"

"And the council is expecting you, Eomer King," Eothred says, still grinning. "Shall we escort the lady back to the hall?"

There is very little else he can do besides nod, forcing down a scowl when Lothiriel chooses to take Eothred's arm over his. Later, he will recognize Eothed's interruption for the blessing it had been-they were both tired, and in the stables of all places-but for now it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to cause his marshal bodily harm when Eothred shoots him a far from subtle wink over his shoulder.

Lothiriel scarcely remembers the walk back to the hall, much less the food and drink Merthwyn had all but shoved at her, tutting over her bedraggled and worn appearance. Her head is a-whirl with her earlier worries, the overwhelming tiredness she feels, the lingering sensation of Eomer's hand stroking her hair…

Oh, Elbereth, the way he'd looked at her. The way she'd looked at him!

Blessedly, Eowyn writes off her silence as a symptom of weariness instead of daydreaming, and sends her off to bed the minute she's finished her food.

"We will talk in the morning, min drút," she says, giving Lothiriel's hand a squeeze. "Get some rest."

And she has every intention to, making the way towards her room in a daze-by the Valar, how was she supposed to think of anything else now? Anything other than the warmth of his arms, the gentleness with which he'd held her, listened to her fears, her guilt-

"Lothiriel?"

Her head snaps up in surprise. Erchirion is standing beside her door, Lisswyn beside him.

"Is it true?" Lisswyn asks in a rush. "Wilfled-the babe-"

"You have a niece," Lothiriel sighs, feeling utterly ancient. "And your sister-in-law lives."

"Oh, thank Vana," Lisswyn cries, her hand obviously held tight in Erchirion's. "Is she well? Who was-"

"I am too tired to have this discussion now," Lothiriel interrupts. "Lisswyn, if your uncle asks, you have been ill for two days and the midwives would not let you in to tend to Wilfled. I do not know how long that excuse will hold, but it is what Cwenhild has told him."

Lisswyn pales, nodding once before hurrying past her towards the hall's exit.

Erchirion studies her for a moment, frowning. "You do not look well, sister-have you been crying?"

"Erchirion," she says, "please. Not now."

"We have always had honesty between us-"

"Oh, and we shall," she cuts in, a touch sharper than she means to, "but not this night."

His mouth tightens in a way that's utterly reminiscent of Elphir, and the sight almost makes her smile, despite everything. "In the morning, then."

"Good night, brother," she murmurs, side-stepping him and shutting the door before he can get another word in.

When she sleeps, she dreams of dappled horses and dark eyes, and thinks of Erchirion and Lisswyn not at all.

Author's Note: Y'all, I can honestly tell you I've been waiting to write this chapter since I started this story. That being said, I just want to break down a couple of things I've introduced before getting too wrapped up in our favorite pair finally making moves-sort of.

So as mentioned in the previous chapter, the tradition of the mǣg is my own invention, as is the practice of cumendre. Obviously the term 'godmother' is a fairly Christian idea, but it just made sense for Rohirric culture to have something in mind in case a mother dies in childbirth. Like many Anglo-Saxon cultures, having a female and male influence in a child's life is considered very important, and the mǣg-to-cumendre link seemed too right to flow into to ignore it. Obviously the most logical choice for any child's cumendre would be a close family member or a friend-I myself am godmother to my favorite cousin's oldest son-and so I've introduced that tradition into Rohan here.

Vana is, as stated, the Queen of Flowers and Bema's-Orome, as he's known in the Silmarillion-wife. Given the importance of Bema in Rohirric culture, it only makes sense that his wife would have an equal status. As she's the goddess-or Tolkien equivalent-of youth, flowers, and growing things, she's the natural choice for prayer when it comes to childbirth (and marriage too, which we'll touch on in later chapters). Conversely, in Gondor, where the relationship with Elvish culture is much more long-standing/intertwined, it makes sense that childbirth prayers there would be dedicated to Varda-or Elbereth, as she's often called both in this story and in the novels. (And yes, there will be significant interest in the fact that Lothiriel's name means 'flower-garlanded maiden'.)

On a more character related note: Just where Lisswyn and Erchirion have been all day will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise. As to the long-awaited reunion between our favorite duo: I'll leave it up to y'all to tell me how I carried it off. (May or may not be one of my favorite things I've ever written, but you know. Author's bias.)

Terms:

mǣg: sister-helper

cumendre: godmother

foranlencten: early spring festival

gedwæsmenn: fools

esol: asshole

swete: sweetheart