Author's Note: Hey guys! I have to apologize again for the delay: this chapter was giving me FITS as I tried to fit everything I wanted in it, plotwise, so it took a little longer than usual. But I hope y'all think it's worth the wait!

Thank you again to all of you sweet reviewers, followers, and favorites: it makes sharing this story with y'all an absolute delight.

Fair warning: I fully expect some of you to be calling for my head due to the end of this chapter, but I promise the conflict that happens (though I won't say with who) is necessary on a number of fronts, and is not there just for drama's sake.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lothiriel has scarcely managed to pull herself out of bed-she's slept much later than is her wont, but given the events of the day before it's only to be expected-when there is a knock on the door. Expecting one of the usual serving girls who usually helps her with her dress, or even Eowyn coming to check on her, she opens the door with a smile.

Instead, it's Lisswyn's soft, serious face that greets her, wearing an expression Lothiriel can only describe as resigned.

"May we come in?"

Darwyn is there, too, and waves happily at her from her perch on Lisswyn's hip.

"Of course," Lothiriel says, though she feels far too fuzzy-headed from sleep to truly handle the conversation they're about to have. She busies herself with tying her dressing gown closed and pouring water into two cups as Lisswyn settles her toddler on the rug nearest the hearth. They sit, Lisswyn accepting the mug and taking a sip. The only sound for a few minutes is Darwyn's happy babbling.

"Bema knows what you must think of me," Lisswyn says, suddenly. "I could not have picked a worse time to be so...irresponsible-"

"You could not have known the babe would come so suddenly," Lothiriel interjects, "and confused though I may be by your sudden...flightiness, I do not think any less of you than I did a week ago."

That, at least, is true. It is not as if Lisswyn is a married woman, or someone who would seek to trap Erchirion with a child, or even one of the many Minas Tirithian ladies with their sights set on becoming royalty regardless whether they had any affection for the man who would make them so. And Lisswyn is kind and witty, if a little shy, as well as a good mother and sister. Dalliance with Erchirion aside, she has done nothing to lower herself in Lothiriel's opinion. She just cannot fathom why the two of them would choose to be so...rash, so obvious, especially on the day the eored was due home.

She says as much, watching as Lisswyn sighs. "Have you ever been in love, Lothiriel?"

Lothiriel forces herself not to flush at the question. "No," she says, but thinks not yet.

Lisswyn smiles, slightly. "I had not been either, before now."

Lothiriel's eyebrows raise. Everything she has learned about Rohirric culture thus far tells her that marriages here, much like in Dol Amroth, are usually ones of love. And Darwyn's existence as well as the winding red wedding mark on her friend's upper right says very obviously that Lisswyn has been married before.

"I do not understand," she says.

"I can see that you do not," Lisswyn says, expression still soft. "Did you know that I am older than Eothain, Lothiriel?"

She did not. From their interactions, how gentle Eothain has always been with her, she had supposed him to be older. Their relationship was not wholly dissimilar from her own with Erchirion, after all.

"I am five years his senior," she continues on. "And when he wed Wilfled eight years ago, at just twenty, my family began to worry about me. My father had died in a battle with Dunlendings three years before, and my mother had not been in the best health since then. My uncle had just been made Second Marshal and spent much of his time in the Westmark. So if something were to happen to her, I would either be alone or live with my newly-wed little brother." At this, her nose wrinkles. "You have seen the pair of them together, now, with two children and eight years of marriage under their belts. Imagine how they were in the blush of love."

Lothiriel cannot help but wince. Wilfled and Eothain were known the city over for their...obvious affection for each other. "I dare not."

Lisswyn laughs. "Exactly. And there was a childhood friend of mine-Wídfara-who my brother had always teased me about. I had never felt anything more than friendly affection for him, but he was a good man, a kind man, and I did not want to worry my mother any longer."

"So you married him," Lothiriel surmises. "Oh, Lisswyn."

"Yes," she murmurs. "He knew the truth, of course. I would not lie to him and he hoped I would come to feel what he did in time. And I did love him, but...not in the way he wanted. I expect I will never not feel guilty about that."

Lothiriel is not sure who she feels worse for: tenderhearted Lisswyn, who could not give her husband the love he craved, or poor Wídfara, for having only two thirds of what he wanted in a marriage.

"I had never experienced the passion that happened so easily for Eothain and Wilfled, for so many others. But now...now I know what it was that I denied Wídfara, what I denied myself. And I feel both wretched, for having hurt my poor husband, but also fortunate that I did, for it gave us Darwyn and that I will never regret."

"No, you should never regret that," Lothiriel agrees, turning her head to look at the toddler playing on the rug, blissfully unaware of what was being discussed. "But Lisswyn, this has been so sudden and I fear-"

Lothiriel cannot bring herself to say the truth: that there is such a low possibility of this romance to ending in happiness. For all that Erchirion was a second son, he was still a Prince of Dol Amroth. Naneth and Ada would adore Lisswyn-and be utterly charmed by Darwyn-but no matter how much they approved of her, how much Amrothos would tease about their even-keel brother being decidedly not for once...they would not find welcome anywhere outside of Dol Amroth. Perhaps not even there. The best they could hope for would be to go to Pelargir, to Naneth's brothers, but that would take them far from everyone they know, from both of their kin. And Naneth's brothers are border-lords, ever-wary and prepared for conflict. That sort of atmosphere would not suit her gentle brother at all, let alone soft-spoken Lisswyn.

And for all of Eothain's status as captain and Eothred's role as Second Marshal, that did not equate to royalty, in Rohan. Nobility, perhaps, but it would be a stretch, considering what Lothiriel has learned about the actual noble families in the country. Lisswyn would be seen as a power-hungry peasant, Darwyn would somehow be made into Erchirion's bastard child regardless of all evidence to the contrary, and Erchirion himself would be reduced to a cautionary tale, a warning against the inner-mingling between the various layers of Gondorian society.

"I know how dearly you love your brother, Lothiriel, and you would not see him hurt," Lisswyn says, gently, clearly misunderstanding her, "and I know how sudden it must seem...but this is no game to me. Nor to him."

I know that, Lothiriel thinks, and that makes this even worse.

Suddenly, she is angry-oh, not with Lisswyn, never Lisswyn, who deserves this sort of happiness in spades-but with Erchirion. Lisswyn does not know Minas Tirith's court, does not know Gondor's traditions, but her brother does. By the Valar, he knows better than most! He must know what obstacles they would face, how alone Lisswyn would feel in Minas Tirith's court, and yet still, he has persisted!

Is that what she will truly face, a voice that sounds irritatingly like Naneth whispers, or what you have?

"Lothiriel?" Lisswyn asks, startling her out of her thoughts. "Are you well?"

"Yes," she says, "yes, of course. But Lisswyn...what will you tell Eothain? Or Eothred? Or, Elberth, Wilfled!"

Lisswyn's cheeks pink a little and she ducks her head. "Wilfled knows the truth. I owed her that much. And I will tell Eothain and my uncle in time, after-" She stops herself, blush deepening, but Lothiriel can hear the unspoken statement clearly: after Erchirion has asked for my hand.

"But they will want to know where you have been. And I confess, so do I," Lothiriel says, both wanting to know and wishing she could keep her blissful ignorance. "I have tried to think of what could have kept you absent the entire day-"

Lisswyn's blush only increases and Lothiriel realizes the why, if not the where, of their absence.

"There is a meadow not an hour's ride from Edoras," murmurs Lisswyn, avoiding her eyes, "and goldenrod blooms there during this time of the year. It's believed if you take your loved one there, Vana will bless you with seven years of health and happiness."

Judging by her friend's still red cheeks, Lothiriel can guess that they did not while the day away picking flowers. "I see." She stands, abruptly, wanting anything besides continuing this conversation. "I am sorry, Lisswyn, but I really must get dressed-Duilin is surely expecting me, or Eowyn-"

"I know this is not an easy discussion to have about one's brother," Lisswyn interrupts, smiling softly, "but I must thank you for letting me explain."

She leaves, gracefully, quietly, with a waving Darwyn back on her hip.

Lothiriel sits with her head in her hands for a few long moments, wishing it had been Amrothos who had come with her to Rohan, after all.

The buzz of his councilors' voices is a dull hum in the background. Eomer knows he should be paying more attention-they had relented on meeting the night before, given the sudden arrival of Eothain's daughter and his obvious weariness-but it as if there is cotton in his ears, making it difficult to concentrate.

He is still tired from the journey. One night's rest in his admittedly much more comfortable bed had not been enough to truly restore him. Especially when one considered he had not truly rested at all-how could he have, with his thoughts occupied as they were? Bema, how right she'd felt in his arms. How close he'd been to kissing her. If not for Eothred's interruption, he likely would have, and would have spared himself the torment of remembering the sensation of the soft skin of her face under his hands without the accompanying knowledge of what her mouth would taste like, if she would sigh, or blush in her usual endearing way-

"Sire?"

Baldred's voice jerks him rather unpleasantly from his thoughts and he blinks, forcing himself to focus on his councilor. "Yes, Baldred?"

"We were remarking on King Elessar's letter," he says, clearly repeating himself. "He has reported Dunlending ambassadors have reached his court, to pledge their tribes as Gondor's allies."

Just as Dera and Madoc had reported, and Eomer is glad of it, to know that they had not been lying. "Gondor's allies are ours as well. If Aragorn accepts their terms, so will the Riddermark."

"Do you think that wise, sire?" Dernhelm asks. "I know that the High King is a friend of yours, but if the Dunlendings become more loyal to Gondor and still seek to reclaim parts of the Mark as their own-"

A round of grumbles break out of this-some clearly in agreeance, other in disapproval-and Eomer can only frown, irritated with the older man. "Do you mean to imply that the man who saved my sister's life, who helped lead our people to victory in Helm's Deep, a man I consider a brother, would encourage rebellion and violence against our country? Against our people? Against me?"

"Gondorians have been...changeable in the past," Dernhelm continues on, clearly ignoring the loud "for shame" Erkenbrand mutters. "Who is to say they will not be so again?"

"I think the fact that Lady Eowyn is marrying the Steward of Minas Tirith might make them more inclined to keep stable relations with the House of Eorl," Eothred chimes in, looking far too relaxed for the level of tension in the room. "And the fact that Lord Denethor was, by all accounts, a miserly old bastard dealing with the constant threat of Mordor on his back doorstep. I think everyone here who has met the Lord Aragorn can safely say he is not the same sort of man."

There are more murmurs of agreement; Aragorn had done much to endear himself to the Rohirrim in his time here, both as a Ranger from the North and later as High King.

"And besides," Eothred drawls, turning a grin in Eomer's direction, "how can you possibly think poorly of any Gondorian, if Princess Lothiriel is the standard of what passes for good and fair in their country?"

Eomer grits his teeth as a number of councilors laugh. Second Marshal or not, Eothred was walking-no, trouncing-upon the thin line of his patience.

"Oh, aye, she is that," Erkenbrand chuckles, "especially when one considers how willingly she stepped up to serve as your niece's mǣg, Eothred."

"I will admit to being a bit biased," Eothred admits, "not as much as some, of course, but it's hard not to like the lass, true and sweet as she is."

"As...admirable as the princess may be," Dernhelm interjects, "I still think it would be in the Mark's best interest to insist that we be placed on equal terms with Gondor when it comes to negotiating peace with the Dunlendings."

"Is that not what allies are?" Erkenbrand counters. "Bema, Dernhelm, the people of Gondor know how much they owe the Rohirrim!"

Privately, Eomer agrees with him, but there are a number of councilors massing behind Dernhelm, all wearing looks of ill-content. Aragorn would understand this caveat, unnecessary as it is, and there are enough things for the council to worry about without dealing with infighting.

"Peace, Dernhelm, Erkenbrand," he says. "I will write to Aragorn with our stipulations. He wants peace as much we do. Ensuring the Dunlendings participation in that peace is not such a great boon to ask."

Not like all of the extra grain we have had to beg for, nor the hands we will need to plant it come spring-

"Food, hands, timber; what is sharing such things amongst friends?" Lothiriel's voice floats back to him, the memory of her almost outraged face making the corners of his mouth twitch, despite his lingering irritation. She was right, of course. His pride is hardly worth more than food that will keep his people alive.

"Thank you, Eomer King," Dernhelm says. "And now onto our second item of the day…"

Lothiriel is so distracted by the rambunctious game a group of stable boys is playing in the city's square that she doesn't hear the heavy tread of boots behind her. As such, she shrieks in surprise when she's abruptly lifted into the air from behind, earning herself a sudden spin for her trouble.

"I've found you at last!"

"Eothain, put me down!" She protests, struggling weakly in his grasp. The surrounding market-goers chuckle at her and she can feel her face start to heat in a blush. "I am not a doll!"

He sets her down, grinning wildly when she turns to give him a magnificent scowl. "No you are not, glómmung cwén. You are a wonder! A miracle sent from Vana herself-"

"You are ridiculous," Lothiriel hisses, reaching up to give his ear a sharp tug. "And you are going to make me late to Master Duilin's-"

"I already talked it out with the old sourpuss," he interrupts, sliding an arm around her shoulders and all but forcing her down the path leading towards his house, "and he agreed to delay your lesson for an hour. There's something Wilfled and I would very much like to discuss with you."

The sheer level of panic that suddenly floods her veins is disarming. Oh, Valar, what will she say if he asks about Lisswyn and Erchirion? Wilfled knows the truth-or at least part of it-but Eothain does not, cannot-

But Eothain is too relaxed, too cheerful, to be upset with her, or anyone else. This must be a matter of a different sort.

Wilfled looks much less weary, now, as she sits on her bed, new babe in her arms and Eofor beside her.

"You ran off before I could thank you, yesterday," She scolds, teasingly. "So I had to send my errant husband to find you."

"And once again, what my lady requests, I grant," Eothain chuckles, bending to press a kiss to Wilfled's hair.

Eofor makes a gagging sound, earning a laugh from Lothiriel and a gentle cuff from Eothain.

"How do you feel about being a brother, Eofor?" Lothiriel asks when neither of her friends begin to explain why she'd been brought here in such urgency.

"S'alright," the boy sniffs, "she hasn't cried too much yet, like my friends said she would. But she's just so small!"

"She is, that," Lothiriel agrees, reaching out to gently touch the tiny tuft of red-gold hair on the baby's head. "But she will grow, in time. And then you can do all of the fun things that brothers and sisters do together."

There's a knock at the door that Eothain rises to answer, leaving Lothiriel with Eofor's wide-eyed amazement and Wilfled's palpable amusement.

"Like what?"

"Hm," Lothiriel says, tapping her chin in mock contemplation. "I imagine you'd like to help her learn how to ride. My brothers helped me, when I was small."

"Oh, yes! She'll be able to do that?"

"Not for a few years, my son," answers Wilfled, smiling slightly. "But eventually, yes."

Eofor peers down at his sister with new interest. "That's alright. She has to be bigger so it's safe for her to ride, right?"

"Yes," Lothiriel agrees. "See? You're already doing wonderfully as a brother, to think of that."

Eofor beams. "And I can help her learn about the harvest! Oh, and queek!"

"Be careful what you teach her, Eofor," comes a familiar voice, "for one day she may best you at all of it. Little sisters have an annoying habit of doing that."

Lothiriel forces herself to turn her head very, very slowly towards the doorway. Eothain and Eomer lean against it-which should be an impossible feat, given the width of both of their shoulders and the narrowness of the doorframe-both grinning at her. But where Eothain's smile is comforting, friendly, Eomer's is...something else. Something that makes her think of the strength of his arms, the soothing-yet-not pull of his hand through her hair, the dark depths of his eyes so close to her own-

"It is not our fault we are simply more talented than our older brothers," she somehow finds herself saying, feeling her cheeks flush once more when Eomer laughs, Eothain following not far behind.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Wilfled's eyes flicking back and forth between her and Eomer. Schooling her face into a less open expression, she meets Wilfled's knowing look with an innocent blink. "But I do not think we were called here for a discussion of siblings."

At least, she hopes not.

"Aye, you're right," Eothain agrees. "There's something we'd like to ask you. Both of you."

"Eothred mentioned he might have startled you yesterday," Wilfled chimes in, "but he was not wrong in assuming we would like you to be our daughter's cumendre, Lothiriel."

The breath leaves her in a rush. "I am flattered," she manages to say, "but Wilfled, Eothain, surely Lisswyn is the right choice for this? She is family, after all, and she will be here, in Rohan-"

"Lisswyn is Eofor's cumendre already," says Wilfled, looking serene in a way that Lothiriel envies. "She does not begrudge you this, after yesterday. And," here a spark of mischief enters her expression, "I fear I am being wholly selfish in hoping that by giving you such a role in my daughter's life, you will find reason to visit Edoras as often as you can."

Lothiriel feels tears prick behind her eyes and she has to look away from Wilfled's fond expression, away from Eothain's near-face-splitting smile, down at the little life they have created. How can she refuse them? Refuse this dear little babe, not yet a day old, and already so loved, so precious?

"Well, if I must," she says, mopping at her eyes and resolutely not thinking of what her brothers will say upon hearing she's acquired a Rohirric godchild.

"Good, that's settled then," Eothain chirps. He turns then, clapping a hand to Eomer's shoulder. "And you'll be her cumpæder, then, Eomer?"

The look of shock on Eomer's face is nearly comical. "Eothain, you cannot-"

"Eomer, it is only fair," interrupts Wilfled, who looks worryingly amused. "You are Eothain's oldest friend, and given the fact that Lothiriel will be returning to Gondor, my daughter will need at least one godparent who will always be nearby."

"But-"

"Come now," interrupts Eothain, "should anything happen to me, it's only right that I should want the fiercest protector possible for my daughter. And I can think of no one more stubborn about protecting those whom he loves than you, my friend."

"This is too high an honor-"

"Yes, it is," Wilfled says simply, "and that is why it must be you."

The babe, resting quietly in her mother's arms up until now, suddenly gives a mighty wail, startling them all.

"See, Eomer?" Eothain teases. "The thought of your refusal upsets her."

Wilfled croons at her daughter, rocking her gently until she's quieted again. Lothiriel smiles at the picture they make, despite the baby's still pinked face. "You cannot refuse her choice, or Wilfled and Eothain will never know peace." Her eyes flick up to Eomer's, but instead of a smile or an amused look, he looks nearly stricken. He composes himself before Eothain glances his way, but Lothiriel has seen his expression, and worries.

"So, it is settled, then," Eothain says, patting Eomer's shoulder again before walking over to drop a kiss to Lothiriel's forehead. "I cannot think of a luckier child than our Blodwyn."

"Oh, what a lovely name!" Lothiriel says. "I had meant to ask before…" Her brow furrows as the name processes. Children in Rohan are typically named in a similar pattern as their parents: Theoden to Theodred, Eomund to Eomer, Theodwyn to Eowyn. Blodwyn follows neither Eothain nor Wilfled's name. "Why Blodwyn?"

Wilfled and Eothain share a look-by the Valar, the intimacy there, such understanding-before both turning towards her. "It is meant to be a special thanks to Vana, for her health. And to you."

"Me?"

"Blodwyn means white flower," Wilfled explains. "It is meant to honor the goddess, of course, but I must admit it will always make me think of a certain flower-garlanded maiden as well."

Lothiriel can only stare at them in open mouthed shock. "Wilfled, that is...it is too much!"

"Eowyn already considers you kin," the other woman insists, "is it so surprising that we do, too?"

"I-no, it is only-"

"Blodwyn she'll stay, Lothiriel," Eothain says, giving her nose a tweak. "And I'll remind you that you did say I was every bit as irritating as any of your older brothers."

"You are far worse," Lothiriel sniffs, trying and failing to keep the wobble out of her voice. "I cannot tell the two of you what this means."

Wilfled smiles, reaching over to squeeze her hand briefly. "Bewáest ac bist gebewiten. I am afraid you're quite stuck with us now, glómmung cwén."

"A happier fate I cannot imagine," she says, bending to press a kiss to her goddaughter's forehead. Blodwyn gives a tiny snuffle and Wilfled beams.

"To Duilin's shop with you now, Mistress Healer," Eothain orders, offering a hand to help pull her from her chair. "I would escort you myself, had I not been forbidden from leaving my ladies unattended."

"As if you need to be told to do such a thing," Eomer grumbles. "I doubt wild Wargs could pull you away."

"Which is why I intrust the protection of my beloved daughter's cumendre to you, Eomer King," says Eothain, pressing Lothiriel's hand into the crook of Eomer's elbow. "One never knows how dangerous Edoras's streets have become in our absence."

Wilfled scarcely muffles her laughter and Lothiriel knows her face has flushed once more, but Eomer merely frowns at his captain before turning his face towards hers. "Do you think you need an escort, Lothiriel?"

"Need? No," she says, quietly enough that perhaps Eothain and Wilfled will not overhear. "But I think I would like one, all the same."

Something has upset him, and she intends to find out what. It is only a small bonus that doing so will let her keep her arm looped through his.

Eomer's expression softens, slightly, and he nods. "I am yours to command, then, my lady."

Eothain's near blinding smile is visible out of the corner of Lothiriel's eye-he had planned this, of that she is sure-but she ignores it, all but tugging Eomer out of the house and into the bright almost-winter sunshine.

Eomer is grateful that Lothiriel does not immediately press him for the reason behind his sudden ill-temper. He is not sure how he would explain it to Eothain and Wilfled, let alone her, of how little deserving he feels of their trust. Bema, he had not even been able to protect Eowyn from thrice-damned Wormtongue! Or Theodred, from Saurman's Orcs, or Uncle from the Wizard's machinations-and now they would entrust him with their infant daughter? More precious to them than anyone or anything, save Eofor?

"You do not have to tell me," Lothiriel say quietly, fingers pressing gently against the bend of his elbow, "but something has upset you, Eomer. And I do not think that was Eothain and Wilfled's intention."

No, it certainly hadn't been. To be named a child's cumpæder was no small thing. It was a vow to protect, to love the child as one's own, should anything befall their parents. It was usually given to a brother or a cousin. Someone the child would know and feel comfortable with, someone proven time and time again as capable of caring for them, keeping them from harm-it is an honor, however undeserved, that Eothain and Wilfled think him an apt choice.

"Eomer?" comes Lothiriel's voice again. "You helped me last night, when you need not have. Please let me return the favor."

The lane they're currently standing in is a far cry from the privacy of Niprehdil's stall, but Eomer finds himself stopping all the same, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Their faith in my ability to protect Blodwyn is misplaced. They should have chosen some other cumpæder for her. One who is better deserving of their trust."

There is a pause. Eomer steels himself for Lothiriel to sympathize, as he had the night before for her, but instead she says, "You cannot be serious."

Eomer blinks, meeting her gaze. "Utterly."

"Have you hit your head in the hours it's been since I've seen you last? Been kicked by Firefoot?"

"Lothiriel-"

She drops his arm, stepping closer to poke him rather violently in the chest. "Because if you expect me to stand here and let you give this...baseless critique of yourself, you truly must have suffered some sort of head wound recently-"

"Baseless-you do not know my failings, Lothiriel-"

"Who have you failed to protect? Your people? My people? The Dunlendings who would have frozen to death in the hills, if not for you?" Her voice has risen enough to attract a few curious looks and he frowns, tugging her around the corner of the nearest house.

"Eowyn, my uncle, Theodred-" He hisses, voice catching on the last name. Of all of those he has failed, the fact that he had been unable to protect those closest to him-his only living kin-sticks like sawdust in his throat.

Lothiriel's expression shifts. "Oh, you stupid man."

He bristles at that-and to think he had been so gentle with her fears, her doubts!

But then she's reaching up, cradling his face between her small, soft hands, and all irritation is lost, whisked away like smoke on the wind. "Eowyn is fine, Eomer. Happy. Betrothed. Wormtongue cannot haunt her footsteps any longer. And your uncle's death...Theodred's death...they were not of your making. You love them, and you miss them, but you certainly did not fail them."

He can only stare at her. Bema, she is even more beautiful now than she had been the night before, here, now, in the afternoon sunlight and without tears in her eyes. Her face is still flushed, though, and continues to pink the longer he stares down at her.

Recovering himself, he reaches up to cover one of her hands with his own. "You see me as better than I am."

"I see you exactly as you have shown yourself to be," she insists, a small smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.

Eomer cannot help himself; he closes his eyes and pulls her hand over to his mouth to press a kiss to its palm. He hears, rather than sees, her sudden intake of breath.

"Eomer…" Her voice is as soft as he's ever heard it, breathless in a way that will likely keep him awake for hours later.

He's just managed to open his eyes and catch a glimpse of her expression-wide-eyed, blushing, and with a smile so soft his heart lurches-when he sees a sudden movement of something over her shoulder. No, not something. Someone.

"I so look forward to the explanation behind this," Erchirion says.

Lothiriel flinches, her head turning sharply to meet her brother's gaze. "Erchirion-"

"We need to speak, Lothiriel," he interrupts. "About many things, it would seem."

"Erchirion," Eomer starts, only to receive a sharp look.

"I know you to be an honorable man, a brave warrior, and a rather over-protective brother yourself," the older man says, "so I will assume that I saw an innocent expression of admiration for my sister, and nothing more."

"As if you have any room to lecture me on innocent expressions of admiration," Lothiriel hisses. Eomer looks towards her, startled at her venom. She and Erchirion were close, at least as close as he and Eowyn, and he does not think he has ever heard her be cross with him.

Erchirion's scowl deepens. "We will have this discussion privately or not at all, Lothiriel."

"Fine," she spits, before turning back to Eomer. Her fierce expression falters. "Thank you for the escort, my lord."

She is invoking propriety for her brother's sake, he knows, but he much prefers his name to his title coming from her lips. "As I said, I am yours to command, my lady."

If looks could kill, the one Erchirion sends him would likely rob the Mark of its king, but the sudden flash of mirth on Lothiriel's face tells him his humor is appreciated by at least one royal of Dol Amroth.

Erchirion's grip is nearly bruising around her elbow as he all but drags her towards Duilin's shop. Irritated as she is with him, she has no desire to set her brother off in public-they all have the Pelargirian temper, when provoked, even Elphir-and the thought of having a row within hearing range of any portion of Edoras's population is singularly mortifying.

Duilin looks up when Erchirion all but flings the door open, eyeing them with interest.

"I see you've found your wayward sister, Prince Erchirion. Am I to excuse myself from what will undoubtedly be a civil and polite conversation between siblings?" He asks. "Or shall I stay to mediate the ensuing squabble like a schoolmaster would?"

"Master Duilin," Erchirion starts, clearly taken aback by the healer's attitude, "I apologize for this sudden intrusion-"

"You need not mediate," Lothiriel interrupts-she knows her teacher well enough to see the mischievous twinkle in his eye-and she ignores her brother's gobsmacked look as she pulls her elbow out of his grip to cross the room and plant a kiss on Duilin's weathered cheek. "I know the rules of your shop well, stearcmód láréow."

"No bloodshed, no wasting of supplies," he reminds her, patting her hand. "And I am seeing patients in an hour, at which time I expect the two of you to have this resolved."

And with that he turns on his heel and vanishes out the backdoor. Lothiriel thinks she even hears him whistling and shakes her head at his antics. Turning to face her brother and crossing her arms, she leans herself against the well-worn table. "You wanted to speak to me, Erchirion. So speak."

"You hardly have any right to take that sort of tone with me, given what I have just witnessed," he shoots back. "By the Valar, Lothiriel, have you no sense?"

"Me? I was not the one absent for an entire day yesterday, doing Elbereth knows what in some field with someone I am neither betrothed nor married to-"

"Oh! But letting the king kiss your hand in the middle of a public street, that is not worthy of censure?"

"It was my hand, Erchirion," she hisses, "hardly something to cause a scandal."

But he is right-it had not felt so innocent. And if he had not found them, Lothiriel doubts she could have stopped herself from curling her fingers around Eomer's jaw and stretching up to press her lips to his, to finally know what his mouth would feel like against something other than the backs of her fingers.

Erchirion pinches the bridge of his nose. "You cannot be that naive. You are too intelligent and too conscious of your reputation to not have considered how compromising a position you could have been in, had someone other than me found you."

"As you were the one who found us, that point is irrelevant," Lothiriel says. "Whereas you will most certainly have to face the ramifications for your irresponsibility yesterday. Sweet Elbereth, Erchirion, everyone knows Lisswyn could not be found! We nearly tore apart the keep looking for her! It will not take much for Cwenhild's excuse to be disproven, and even less for someone to mention that you were conspicuously absent as well. What will you say to Eothain, to Eothred, when they question you?"

"The truth," he answers, a little bit of anger bleeding out of his expression. "I have nothing to lie about. I love her and I intend to marry her, with their blessing."

Lothiriel can feel her jaw drop open. "Erchirion-"

"Of course I will write to Ada and Naneth, as well," he blazes on, eyes focused somewhat dreamily over her shoulder, "I know our duty to our parents, Lothiriel, surely you do not doubt that?"

"No, of course not, but 'Chirion," oh, Elbereth, her sweet brother, her best brother, "surely you cannot imagine they will approve?"

His eyes snap back into focus, gaze near scorching on her face. "What?"

"I do not mean they would not like to," she tries, feeling utterly wretched, all earlier anger at him bled away in the face of his confusion, "for Lisswyn is a wonderful woman and a good match for you in so many ways...but brother, think of what she will face in the courts! Of what you will face, how they will whisper of Darwyn's parentage, mock you both for marrying out of your stations-"

"And you think I care for any of that?" Erchirion asks. "Ed' i'ear ar' elenea, Lothiriel, it as if you do not know me at all!"

"I know you do not care what the courts think of you," Lothiriel says, "but they will make all three of your lives miserable, because they will not understand."

"Then we will not go to the courts," he counters. "Ada and Naneth will not deny me my birthright, or our uncles to the South can make easy use of me as a captain-"

"You, in Pelargir? Erchirion, you are a fine warrior, but you fight for the necessity of it, not out of any real affection for it. And our uncles know this."

"Then we will stay here. In Rohan. I am our family's best horseman-"

"Life in an eored is more battles, Erchirion," she cuts across him, wincing at the sharp look he sends her. "And you cannot speak Rohirric at all-"

"You have learned it, it cannot be that difficult-" He stops himself, a shadow falling across his face. "Why did you choose to learn Rohirric, sister?"

Blinking at the sudden subject change, she shrugs. "It is easier to talk to people from the far reaches of the Mark in the language they understand. And I wanted to know the meaning behind all of the nicknames people were giving me-"

"People," he repeats, "or Eomer King?"

Lothiriel can feel her face flush crimson. "Erchirion-"

"No, Lothiriel. If my courtship of Lisswyn is as ridiculous to you as you have made it sound, you must understand that I consider the idea of him pursuing you equally unlikely."

The breath is all but pushed from her lungs in surprise. "What?"

"There is no need for such an alliance. Eowyn and Faramir's marriage will tie Rohan and Gondor together. Eomer will need to look within his own borders for a bride, to better strengthen his councilors' faith in him. As much as the common people like you, you are still Gondorian, still a foreign lady with only the barest of notions of how Rohirric society works."

"I-"

"And who is to say you are the only lady whose hands he's kissing in alleyways? He is a young king, and a handsome one, and there is no shortage of women the Mark over who would happily volunteer to be his queen-"

"You are saying this to hurt me," Lothiriel says, "and I know you are angry that I do not think your courtship of Lisswyn will end in happiness, but it is the truth, Erchirion. I do not take pleasure in it. Or your unhappiness."

He scoffs. "You say it because you are afraid. Afraid that all of those around you will find happiness and you will not."

Tears well in her eyes. Erchirion is her dearest brother, and has been her comfort through many hurts. So many balls, so many nights where she has been left partnerless and alone. He knows her darkest, most private fears, and thus knows where to drive the knife deepest, like he is doing now. "I do want your happiness, 'Chirion."

"Any other day of our lives, I would have believed that," he snaps. "I will marry Lisswyn, Lothiriel, with or without your support. I had not thought you to be so selfish."

Dimly, she's aware of the door to Duilin's shop opening and closing as he leaves. She's somehow managed to sink onto the nearest stool without falling over. The blood is rushing unpleasantly behind her ears. Her throat is tight, her vision blurry.

Perhaps Erchirion is right. She does feel selfish. And small. And mean. Perhaps she is, to not have supported him in her usual fashion, as she has since she was old enough to have opinions on anything. It would not be too late to run after him, to tell him that he was right, that of course she would be delighted to have Lisswyn as a sister, that she would support them as a couple in spite of any obstacle-

But it would be a lie. And that, above all else, she cannot endure.

Author's Note: So. Yeah. Please put down the pitchforks, whether they're intended for me OR Erchirion. There's a purpose to this, I promise! Pinky swear! (And yes, Erchirion could have been less of a dick, obviously, but he's also a man in love and at odds with his sister that he's maybe fought with...three or four times before in their entire lives? Not a great combination.)

And I DID manage to give y'all some E/L goodness to make up for the bad at the end.

On the rest of this chapter: Before I have any entymologists leaping down my throat about Wilfled and Eothain's daughter's name: yes, technically going by the rest of the names thus far both in canon and in this story, Blodwyn probably closely translates to 'white joy'. But in this instance, I adapted a Celtic name-Blodwen-which does mean white flower. But as -wyn is much more common in Rohirric names, it just seemed fitting. Roll with me here, people.

Terms:

cumpæder: godfather

Bewáest ac bist gebewiten: Keep and be kept, though it should be noted I am not a student of Old English, so this could be conjugated very badly

stearcmód láréow: stubborn teacher

Ed' i'ear ar' elenea: By the sea and stars! This is an Elvish phrase, not a Rohirric one