Author's Note: Back again! Seriously cannot thank y'all enough for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites.

Crime of Passion '06, to answer your question: I actually don't have a set number of chapters for this story! I have a big outline, but sometimes ideas bloom into little bunny trails, and I end up having to separate what was supposed to be one chapter into two. Also, I feel as if I should mention this entire story is merely Part 1 of a two-part series...this is all pre-wedding stuff for Eomer and Lothiriel, and there's another story for their wedding and first few months as a married couple forthcoming. I hope you'll all stick around for it!

As for this chapter, it's a bit more introspective, for both of our favorite duo. We get another glimpse into some culture clashes between Rohan and Gondor. Also: cloaks.

Oh! And you guys can find me over on tumblr now, at theemightypen. Feel free to send me questions, concerns, and what-have-yous!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lothiriel is grateful that Yule is almost upon them, for no one thinks to question her sudden insistence to stay by Eowyn's side at nearly all times. After all, she is more than a little overwhelmed with the planning of the various feasts and celebrations. Lothiriel would be remiss in her duties as both a friend and near-kinswoman in not offering Eowyn any and all help she can.

But her real reasons are not entirely altruistic. She and Erchirion have not spoken since their last, disastrous confrontation in Duilin's shop, and the tension is beginning to show. If she enters a room, he leaves. If she speaks, he finds someone else to engage in conversation… and the pattern goes on. And though being in Eowyn's presence constantly brings her near Eomer fairly often as well, they've yet to be alone again either. Every time she finds herself wanting to explain her sudden distance, her retreat back into near Minas Tirithian-levels of propriety, Erchirion's words ring in her ears again: Eomer will need to look within his own borders for a bride. And Dol Amroth is many things, but Rohirric is decidedly not one of them.

Lothiriel knows very well that she is terrible at hiding her emotions, even worse at lying, and so it does not come as a terrible shock when Eowyn all but pulls her into her rooms one morning and forces her into a chair.

"You are not yourself," Eowyn says sternly, hands on her hips. "And if you say 'I am fine' one more time, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, I will hang you from the rafters by your toes."

"That would be a truly impressive feat," Lothiriel quips, trying for levity.

Eowyn looks unimpressed. "Between Eomer and myself, I think we could manage. You have us both worried, min drut."

Oh, that was not fair. She knows Eomer has likely been more than a little vexed by her sudden coldness, as he has every right to be. "I am sorry," she says, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers. "You are right, Eowyn, but I do not know...I do not know if I should speak of it. To anyone. Even you."

Eowyn frowns, abruptly kneeling on the carpet and taking Lothiriel's hands between hers. "Whatever you tell me can be in strict confidence. Even Faramir will not know of it from me. But whatever it is, it is eating you alive, Lothiriel, and that I cannot watch."

Lothiriel sighs, tears pricking at her eyes again. It feels as if that has all she has done in the past weeks. Cry. "Erchirion and I quarrelled."

"Mm," hums Eowyn. "I thought as much."

"We have argued maybe four times in our lives before this-it was always Elphir I butted heads with, and Amrothos for Erchirion-but this, this...I do not know if we can be close again, after this."

"Surely it is not so dire as that? Why, Eomer and I used to get into screaming matches so loud that Uncle swore the roof of Meduseld would rattle, but we would be fast friends again not days later."

Lothiriel smiles briefly at the thought of a young Eowyn and Eomer bickering-likely not all that different from what their current selves would look and sound like-before frowning once more. "I wish it had been just a loud disagreement, Eowyn. It is the matter we discussed that has caused this rift, not our tempers."

Eowyn quirks an eyebrow, clearly expecting her to explain.

And suddenly, Lothiriel finds she cannot carry this secret anymore, cannot keep this hurt walled up in her heart with only Aly's letters to soothe it. "Erchirion wants to marry Lisswyn," she says, nearly stuttering over her words in her haste.

Now Eowyn's eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, a look so utterly reminiscent of Eomer that it makes Lothiriel's heart ache. "And you do not approve?"

"No! No, I mean, yes, I approve, I am very fond of Lisswyn and think her a fine match for my brother but Eowyn-oh, Eowyn, I fear for her. For them!"

"And why is that?"

"The courts, the damned, pretentious, greedy courts. They will eat them alive, both of them. Erchirion for daring to love someone not of noble blood, Lisswyn for marrying above her station-as if it matters! But if they marry, there will be no place in Gondor that will open their doors to them, regardless of Lisswyn's goodness, or Erchirion's royal status."

Eowyn frowns. "And you are sure of this? Sure that is what they would face? Or they would not be happy, as long as they had each other?"

Lothiriel hesitates. "I would like to believe that," she says, after thinking for a few moments. "That the courts would prove themselves already changed under Aragorn and Arwen's influence. Or if not, that they could live in a little house somewhere, just the two of them, Darwyn, and whatever babes the Valar sees fit to bless them with, but I do not know if that would be enough for a lifetime of happiness. Elphir is accustomed to being a prince, Lisswyn is Merthwyn's heir apparent for Meduseld's Housekeeper...a quiet life in some tiny town does not suit either thing that they have been raised to do."

"That I can agree on," Eowyn says. "But Lothiriel, your mother has managed the courts. I will have to manage them. Do you think you are perhaps assuming the worst, for Lisswyn?"

You are afraid. Afraid that all of those around you will find happiness and you will not.

"I...suppose so," Lothiriel agrees, quietly. "I am not as brave as you, Eowyn."

Eowyn squeezes her hands. "It is another kind of bravery to know one's fears. Your concern for them does you credit, but they are grown people, Lothiriel, and will have to make their own choices, for good or for ill."

Offering her a watery smile, Lothiriel nods. "You are right. And I am sorry I have been acting so strange-"

"But I do not think this is the only thing you and Erchirion argued about," Eowyn interrupts. "Because it is not just I who has seen a very different Lothiriel, of late."

Eomer.

"You are right," she murmurs, unable to meet Eowyn's eyes. "I-Erchirion was upset that I did not support his intentions to court Lisswyn and he...he said a few things about someone he thinks I would not be a suitable match for."

Eowyn curses, suddenly, startling her. "Dysig brōþor! I knew he had not made his intentions clear!"

"W-what?"

"Lothiriel, correct me if I am wrong, but I assume Erchirion meant Eomer?"

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel nods. "He said that there could be no chance of...of Eomer paying court to me. That he would need to marry within Rohan's borders, that I was too foreign-"

"Your brother is lucky if I do not wring his neck," Eowyn growls. "Of all the things to say! Our own grandmother was from Gondor and much beloved by our people. And you have already made more of a name for yourself just as my friend, let alone as a potential queen-"

"Eowyn!"

Eowyn rolls her eyes. "If you think the two of you have been subtle, you are a fool. A lovely, endearing fool, but a fool all the same. Bema, the longing glances you have been giving each other the past two weeks have been enough to give me fits."

Lothiriel covers her face with her hands. "Oh, Elbereth. Oh, Eowyn, someone will tell my father, surely-"

"Lothiriel," Eowyn says, gently peeling one hand back. "It is only obvious to those of us who know you best. And I say this with full confidence: I have no doubt of my brother's intention to court you. As to what your brother said...I think he spoke out of both spite and concern. Either way, he will be made to see the errors of his thinking before long."

"Do you intend to hang him from the rafters by his toes?" Lothiriel asks.

Eowyn stares at her for a moment before they both dissolve into helpless laughter, her head leaned on Lothiriel's shaking shoulder.

"No," she finally says, a rather dangerous smirk on her face, "but Eomer might."

Eomer cannot blame his squires for being wary whenever he calls for food or more parchment. He has been in an admittedly black temper for nigh two weeks now. Between the council's constant squabbling, the sudden drop in temperature, and Lothiriel's strange standoffishness, he has not been on his best behavior by any stretch of the imagination.

So when he hears the door swing open, his responding bark of "What?" is hardly out of the ordinary.

"Bema, you're in a pleasant mood," says Eowyn.

Groaning, he turns to face his sister. "Eowyn, I have neither the time nor the patience for any more discussions about how many cloves of spices should go into the wassail-"

"Good, because I have not come to discuss wassail. Though, if you must know, the final agreed upon number was seven."

He lets his head fall to the desk with a rather loud thud. "The gods must be punishing me."

"You know, I think the kingship has made you more dramatic," Eowyn says drolly, perching herself upon the corner of his desk. "But I have something that may help pull you out of your doom and gloom, brother."

"Is it a mug of ale? Because Eothain has already tried that-"

"No, it is not ale," she interrupts, flicking his shoulder. "Since you would not do it, I took it upon myself to find out what has been troubling our dear Lothiriel."

Eomer nearly chokes on the breath he'd just taken. It takes Eowyn pounding on his back for a number of moments to get him to stop coughing. "Eowyn," he finally manages to growl. "I have asked you not to meddle-"

"You are not the only one who cares for her," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Even Duilin has expressed concern about her behavior of late. And my suspicions were correct: she and Erchirion quarreled."

Eomer snorts. "A blind man could have told you as much."

"A blind man could not have told me the reason behind it," she counters. "Of which there are two, but one that should be of particular interest to you."

Oh, helle. "Eowyn-"

"Erchirion has put the idea into her head that you could not possibly be serious about courting her," Eowyn says, the expression on her face clearly indicating her own thoughts on the matter.

That stops him short. "What?"

"You are serious about her, aren't you?" She asks. "Because if he is right, it will not be the Prince of Dol Amroth hanging from Meduseld's rafters, but you."

Eomer pulls at his hair. "Of course I am serious about-Eowyn, I have never felt this way about a woman in my life."

He hasn't put it into words, before now, but it is the truth. The past two weeks of stilted conversations and limited contact have only thrown into further relief how much he enjoys her quick wit, her easy laughter. He suspects he would find her lovely always, but she is much more suited to her usual smiles and blushes than the more stoic look she's adopted of late. This new, distant creature was not the true Lothiriel. Bema, it has been torture, to watch her pull away and not know the reason for her sudden reserve.

Eowyn's grin is smug. "Good. I have been looking forward to saying 'I told you so' for months."

He groans anew. "Is that really necessary?"

"I am afraid so," she says, not sounding terribly sorry. "Speak to Erchirion, Eomer, and then decide what you would like to do with the furs the Dunlendings gifted to you."

"How do you-" Eomer stops himself with a frown. "Eothain."

"Eothred, actually," Eowyn chirps, entirely too cheerful. "Who now owes Faramir and I at least five gold coins. He predicted you would not realize what you felt for her until my wedding."

"Faramir-Eowyn, those letters could be easily intercepted-"

With one last eye roll, she hops down from his desk to give his cheek a less-than-gentle pat. "I have no secrets from my betrothed. Least of all the happy news that my charming idiot of a brother has taken a rather fond interest in his most beloved cousin."

With that rather unsettling parting remark, Eowyn departs with a smile.

Eomer lets his head hit the desk one more time, for good measure.

...oh, Lothiriel, I hate to think of you dealing with all of this on your own. Is there no one you can turn to, to ease this weight from your shoulders? And Erchirion! To say something so callous to you, his own dear Thiri! He is lucky that I am not a better rider, else I would mount Elphir's horse and accompany this letter to Rohan just to have the privilege of boxing his ears myself.

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at Alycia's outrage. It will ease her sister-in-law's mind to know that she has spoken of the fight to Eowyn, and for that, she is glad.

"A smile! A smile at last!" Crows Eothain, startling her into almost dropping her letter into her goblet. "Bema, I thought you had forgotten how to, glómmung cwén."

She lifts her head to glare at him, but cannot stay stern for too long. No one could, when presented with the image of Eothain with Eofor on his shoulders and tiny Blodwyn slumbering in his arms. "Very funny, Eothain."

"I have been called so in the past," he agrees. "What is that has finally made our dear Lothiriel happy again, hm?"

"A letter from my sister-in-law," she answers. "She and Wilfled together would be a force to be reckoned with."

"Hah!" He laughs. "I am sure they are plenty forceful on their own."

"Faeder, may I get down?" Eofor interrupts. Eothain look up in alarm, clearly worried about his son squishing his daughter in his haste to get down from his shoulders, and Lothiriel hides a smile behind her hand at his distress.

"Here, I can hold her," She offers, holding her arms out towards her goddaughter.

Eothain breathes a sigh of relief, passing off the sleeping infant before reaching up to help Eofor in his descent. Lothiriel coos at Blodwyn, grateful that the quick hand off has not roused her. She had held Alphros as a baby, many times, but does not remember him being this small, this delicate. But Blodwyn cries much less often than Alphros ever had, and is most content in someone's arms, like she is now.

Eofor scampers off as soon as his feet touch the floor, clearly intent on some mischief, but Eothain lingers, settling down onto the bench beside her with a smile.

"So, glómmung cwén," he says, "what are Gondor's Yule traditions?"

"They are not so very different from Rohan's," she admits. "There are presents, of course, and time spent with family and friends. We do not have wassail, but spiced ale is certainly popular."

"Perhaps you can be persuaded to make us some," he says pleasantly. "I admit I find Gondor's beer rather like piss-" He catches himself, and she cannot help but laugh at the uncomfortable look on his face, likely brought on by Cwenhild's sudden glare from down the table, "er, unable to hold a candle to the Mark's, but spiced ale sounds much more enjoyable."

Still laughing, she pats his elbow.. "I am glad not all of our beverages seem so unappetizing."

"And presents, you said? Who gives and who receives, in Gondor?"

"Oh, everyone. Parents to their children, siblings, friends-"

"Hm. And what of sweethearts?"

Lothiriel can feel the blush in her cheeks. "I would not know, Eothain, as I have never had one."

"But it's likely they exchange gifts, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Eothain's grin is nearly blinding. "And what is an appropriate gift, for a sweetheart to give?"

"Something the object of their affection likes, presumably," she answers.

"And what is it you like, Lothiriel?"

"Why, Eothain," she says, feigning shock, "fond as I am of you, I am not in the habit of accepting sweetheart gifts from a married man."

Eothain throws his head back to laugh, shaking the bench as he does so. Blodwyn's eyes flutter open at the sound of her father's mirth, but mercifully close again without incident.

"There's that wit," he chuckles. "We've all missed it nearly as much as your smiles."

"You are ridiculous," she tells him.

"And you are avoiding my question. Tell me truly, princess, what would a man gift to you to earn your favor?"

"Something to keep her warm," chimes in Eowyn, seemingly appearing from thin air. "Poor Lothiriel has not stopped shivering since the snows started."

"I do not know how your people have survived winters like this for three Ages," Lothiriel agrees, grateful for her friend's interference. "It is not natural."

Eothain ignores her attempt at a change in subject, leaning his chin into the palm of his hand. "Something to keep her warm, eh? Helpful as always, Eowyn." At that, he plucks Blodwyn effortlessly from Lothiriel's arms before standing. "Good day to you, ladies."

Lothiriel watches him go, more than a little bewildered. "I...am not entirely certain what just happened."

Eowyn merely grins. "I suspect he is just as tired as I am of watching you and Eomer making cow eyes at each other."

"I-we do not-"

"Yes, you do. And now I think I understand why you called Faramir and I simultaneously charming and nauseating."

"That is not a fair comparison," Lothiriel complains, "for I highly doubt that any sort of longing glances-if there were any!-can be as sickeningly sweet as the sight of the pair of you nuzzling noses."

At last, it is Eowyn's turn to blush. "When did you see that?"

"The library is hardly the most private of places, Eowyn," she says. "Though I doubt the two of you would have heard an army of Oliphaunts parading by, with the state you were in."

"Oliphaunts indeed," Eowyn huffs, cheeks still flushed. "You are exaggerating."

"I recall calling Fara's name for a number of minutes before I spotted you, to no avail," Lothiriel says, smugly. "If not Oliphaunts, than at least a veritable pack of Orcs."

"You are horrid," Eowyn tells her. "No wonder you and Eomer are so well suited."

Lothiriel flings a napkin at her to distract the hall from her affronted squeak. Eowyn merely grins, and when they begin their lesson for the day-this time on appropriate menus for a royal feast-Lothiriel feels at ease, truly at ease, for the first time in weeks. A small measure of giddy embarrassment hardly seems like a steep price, for that.

Erchirion looks understandably confused as he passes Gamling into Eomer's study. Despite his extended stay in Edoras, Eomer thinks he can count the private conversations they've had on one hand. Between his duties as king and...whatever it is Erchirion has been occupying himself with of late, there's been little overlap. But Eomer knows him enough, from their time in Minas Tirith and before, on the way to Morannon.

He knows Erchirion to be the quietest of Imrahil's children-well, he cannot speak for the eldest son, Elphir, who he has yet to meet-the most prone to both romanticism and melancholy, and an excellent rider. And proud, in the way that many Gondorians are.

"You wished to speak to me, Eomer King?" Erchirion asks, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes," he answers. "And it's a matter of importance, so please make yourself comfortable."

Erchirion's face is not nearly as readable as his younger sister's, but Eomer thinks he can see a hint of alarm there, coupled with...guilt? It's an odd look, out of place on the prince's usually even countenance.

He sits, fidgeting almost anxiously with the goblet of wine Eomer passes him. The silence drags out in an uncomfortable way-Eomer is not prone to nervousness, but Bema, he has never been in this sort of situation before. Helle, how had Faramir done it? How does a man politely tell a brother in arms, a prince, that he has intentions towards his sister? Honorable intentions, to be sure, though Erchirion would likely have his head on a platter if he knew the contents of some of his less than...proper dreams-

"I think I know what this is about," Erchirion says, suddenly, startling Eomer out of his recollection of the last, tortuous dream that had involved a much, much emptier stable and a conveniently rain-drenched Lothiriel.

"You do?" Bema, his voice is nearly as high as a green boy's, and he clears his throat, damming his nervousness. "I admit, that does not surprise me-"

"Yes, it's not exactly a secret, is it?" laughs Erchirion, though his mouth is turned in a self-deprecating sort of way.

That gives Eomer pause, because for all of Eothain's teasing and Eowyn's meddling, not one of his councilors nor any of his other guardsmen have mentioned Lothiriel to him as anything other than a diplomatic guest. It may have been another story if they'd been witness to what Eothred had, in the stables, or been the ones to stumble upon them in the alleyway behind Duilin's shop, like Erchirion himself. But they had not. Quirking an eyebrow, he studies the other man.

"Erchirion, I'll speak plainly: I would like to court your sister."

Erchirion coughs, having just choked on the sip of wine he's taken. "What?"

Clearly they had been at cross-purposes, for this to surprise him. "What did you think I was talking about?"

"Not-" He coughs again, pounding his fist against his chest a few times for good measure, "that."

Eomer frowns. "Well, what then?"

"A different matter, of equal importance," the other man admits, rubbing a hand over his face. "Elbereth, Eomer, are you serious?"

"This is hardly something I would joke about," Eomer says, feeling a sudden spike of irritation towards the prince. Was it so ludicrous that he should want to court Lothiriel? She was a princess, well taught in terms of diplomacy and leadership. Kind to a fault, loyal to the point of stubbornness...and Bema, beauty for days. She was a true friend to Eowyn, had earned Wilfled and Eothain's affection, charmed even Duilin with her hard work and easy smiles...there was little point pretending any longer that she has not charmed him, too.

Erchirion fixes him with a stare. "By the Valar, you are in earnest. I thought it a flirtation-"

"I am not prone to flights of fancy," Eomer growls, well on the way to losing his temper. "And do you think I would spit in the face of the respect I have for her, for your family, to string her along so?"

In his surprise, Erchirion's face is as open as Lothiriel's. And Eomer can see that's exactly what he had thought. "You must think very little of me, then-"

"No," Erchirion interrupts, looking horrified. "Eomer, you have to understand. Lothiriel has never had a suitor before-well, at least not ones she has been aware of, let alone any she would seriously consider-and you are Rohan's king. Much as she has come to like it here, surely there are some of your countrywomen who are better suited to the role as queen?"

Eomer can only imagine what his face looks like. "Are you implying that Lothiriel is somehow not suited?"

"I-she is young, and tender-hearted," Erchirion mumbles, "and no amount of Rohirric lessons will make her less Gondorian. I would think your people would be more comfortable with a queen that comes from within their own borders-"

He cannot help but bark a laugh at that. For all the effort that Lothiriel has put into understanding the eorlingas and the Mark itself, it appears her brother has remained willfully untaught. "Erchirion. They call her Lady Twilight. The Elves have called our people 'the Men of Twilight' for two Ages. I think they would be more than willing to accept her."

Though no doubt there are those who would take issue with another Gondorian Queen of the Mark, a little voice whispers, or have you forgotten Bledgifu's insults already?

"I had not realized her nickname to be so significant," Erchirion murmurs, seemingly lost in thought. "I thought Eothain had heard of our discussion at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, and it was just at translation."

"That is likely where it started," Eomer concedes, "but my people do not take names lightly. They would not call her thus if they did not think it fitting." That, at least, is the truth. No matter Bledgifu's opinions, there was no denying that the people of Edoras were as fond as Lothiriel as she so plainly was of them.

Erchirion pinches the bridge of his nose. "Elbereth, but I have been a fool. I owe you an apology, Eomer. And likely Lothiriel one as well. But you should know that my approval matters very little on whether you may court her or not."

Eomer nods. "I said the same thing to Faramir, when he asked for Eowyn's hand. It is a mere courtesy, to ask the family's permission, but as you are the only member of her family nearby-"

"A matter of courtesy?" Erchirion repeats in an incredulous tone. "Betrothals are not considered binding without the approval of both of a woman's parents."

"What?" He asks.

Erchirion sighs. "Merciful Valar. Is the Rohirric tradition for betrothals so different?"

"The only permission needed to begin a courtship is the woman's," Eomer says. "Having her family's blessing is to be hoped for, but it is not the determining factor."

Something like thoughtfulness crosses Erchirion's face. "Only the woman's?" Two spots of color appear in his cheeks when Eomer arches an eyebrow at him. "As...interesting as that may be, we are still of Gondor, Eomer. Lothiriel cannot enter into any sort betrothal without both my father and my mother's permission."

Eomer scowls. It should not surprise him, given what he knows about other Gondorian traditions, but Bema, how cold! How unfair! He knows that the majority of their southern neighbors enter into arranged marriages, but he had supposed Dol Amroth to be different. Were Gondorians not expected to be able to trust their own hearts?

"Though I do not doubt they will give their approval," Erchirion says, interrupting his thoughts. "My father has liked you from the very first, and there is little my mother does not agree with him on."

"You speak of their approval," Eomer says, "but not of yours."

"Did you approve of Faramir?" Erchirion shoots back.

"From the moment I saw Eowyn after Morannon," he admits. "You did not see my sister before she fought the Witch King. You did not see her, here, surrounded by shadows and dark things until she was nearly one of them. Hounded by a man I could not protect her from, who supplanted even Theodred in my uncle's heart-" He cuts himself off. Taking a deep breath to push those memories away-Bema, how he had failed her, no matter what Lothiriel thinks-and meets Erchirion's eyes. "Faramir healed her in ways I doubt any other man could, no matter their skill or strength of heart. What right would I have to question her choice?"

Erchirion stares at him for a moment. "She smiles more. Lothiriel, I mean, when she is near you. I had not noticed until after your return from the West-mark-my sister has always been prone to happiness, and Valar knows she is abysmal at hiding those blushes of hers, but...these are different smiles." He leans back in his chair with a sigh. "As you said, who am I to question her choice? Despite our recent...quarrel, I have only ever wanted Thiri's joy."

"Being an older brother is no easy thing," Eomer says, smiling slightly.

Erchirion snorts. "That we can agree on, Eomer King." He stands, abruptly, holding out his hand. "I cannot give my blessing for a betrothal, but I can give my permission for...appropriate wooing."

Eomer suspects this, like so many other Gondorian traditions, will be needlessly stifling and formal. But short of writing Imrahil and Lady Dejah a likely rambling letter, he will have to make due. For now.

He reaches out to shake the prince's hand when he finds himself suddenly pulled to his feet. Erchirion's grip is nearly vice-like and despite the number of inches Eomer has on the other man, he nearly takes a step back at the fierce look on his face. "I know you to be an honorable man, Eomer King, and a wise ruler. You have been an admirable host and a good friend, to both myself and my family. But if you hurt her, in any fashion-"

He cannot stop himself from recoiling at the thought. "Not for the wide world would I cause Lothiriel any pain." He stops himself from saying unlike you, if only just.

Erchirion's expression softens, slightly, and he shakes Eomer's hand with a nod. "Then may the Valar bless your efforts, my friend."

He turns on his heel before Eomer can utter so much as a word. Eothain's face appears in the doorway when Erchirion opens it, and he offers the prince a passably polite bow before ambling into the room, Blodwyn in his arms.

"I did not say you could come in," Eomer complains.

"Is that any way to greet the father of your godchild?" Eothain quips back. "Besides, I have news for you, Eomer King."

Groaning, Eomer covers his eyes with a hand. "Of course you do."

"Our dear glómmung cwén is not accustomed to our harsh, Rohirric winters," Eothain continues on, grinning widely. "And the Dunlendings did say you should put those furs to good use-"

"Out," Eomer growls.

Gamling mercifully appears, herding his captain from the room. But Eothain is not finished, calling out behind him as he goes, "Yule is only two weeks away, Eomer! Best head down to the shops now, if you want any good fabric-"

The door shutting cuts off his friend's voice. But the idea lingers, all through his missives and letters to Aragorn. A cloak in a deep green similar to the color of the dress she'd borrowed from Eowyn, with a fur-lined hood...perhaps Eothain was on to something.

"Freca!" He calls, smirking slightly at the sound of his page's yelp. "Find Mistress Théodburga."

Duilin's shop is warm, illuminated by a merrily crackling fire in its hearth. Yet Lothiriel still shivers, blushing at her tutor's amused chuckle.

"By the Valar, girl, you act as if you have never seen winter before," he tells her, abruptly dumping a pile of blankets into her lap. "But I do not want to think what Eowyn would say should I let you freeze while under my care."

"Likely something most Gondorian noblewomen would consider very impolite," Lothiriel laughs through chattering teeth. But all of this-the mention of her aversion to the cold, the blankets-makes her think of Eothain's earlier inquiries.

Makes her think of her own curiosity, regarding a sweetheart's gifts.

"Duilin," she says, glad for once that her face had already been flushed, "what is considered a traditional courting gift, in the Mark?"

She knows she has shocked him by his sudden silence. She lifts her eyes to meet his, only to find him smirking at her, hat slightly askew. "No suitors indeed," he chortles. "Did I not tell you that you were underestimating your appeal, hm?"

"I-"

"Come now, girl, tell me: what has your roguish not-suitor given you?"

"Nothing," she answers. "I-I would like to give him something."

That stops Duilin short. "Merciful Valar. He is a lucky man."

Lothiriel can feel her blush deepen to an almost painful degree. "I will not if it is improper-"

He waves her off, easing himself into the chair beside hers. "No, no, it is not unheard of. You'll want it to be something practical, something that you can have a hand in making. A bottle of herbs is useful, yes, but hardly romantic...and pleasant as your singing voice is, I suspect you have no skill for original composition-" He ignores her outraged squeak, tapping his chin. "You're more than passing fair with a needle, are you not?"

She nods, a little uncertainly. "I cannot match a master embroiderer, at least not in the Rohirric style-"

"Lothiriel, this is a gift from you," Duilin interrupts. "And I have never seen any embroidery of higher quality than that found in Dol Amroth."

"I did bring a few patterns with me…" She says, voice trailing off as she pictures them. One is modeled after her father and brothers' favorite, and would feel strange to give to Eomer. Another is particularly feminine in design, gifted to her by Aunt Ivriniel, and also wrong for that reason alone. The last she had yet to attempt: it was a squared key pattern, intended to invoke protection and blessings for its wearer. It was strong, eye-catching, practical. Yes, that would work!

"Best stick to outer garments, girl," Duilin says, chucking her gently under her chin. "You don't want to give him the wrong impression."

Lothiriel splutters a laugh-she had been thinking of a blanket, in all honesty, but suddenly that seems too intimate, too forward. Elbereth knows the thought of giving Eomer something he would sleep with, perhaps feel against his bare skin-

"A cloak, then," she manages to squeak, glad that Duilin cannot hear her thoughts. "Would that suit?"

"Aye," He says. "A fine idea, glómmung cwén."

Author's Note: They're finally making moves! Sort of! I know y'all are all probably as tired of their glacial pace as Eowyn and Eothain are, but it serves a purpose, I promise.

So given the more formal nature of Gondor's society, coupled with the prevalence of arranged marriages, needing parental approval for a match only makes sense. Obviously the nobles don't want a bunch of teenagers pulling a Romeo and Juliet (or the Tolkien equivalent) and promising themselves to each other when they're not well suited/aren't from the same social level/unsuitable in some other way.

On the flip side, Rohan's culture is generally based around love matches. Obviously families can object if a woman wants to marry Hill Billy Bob, whose wives keep mysteriously dying, but for the most part, Rohirric families trust a courting couple to know what they're about/know the object of their affection before rushing into anything. Given the seriousness and commitment level associated with wedding marks, a betrothal isn't entered into lightly. And not all courtships end in betrothals in the Mark.

Terms:

Dysig brōþor: idiot brother