Author's Note: Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry for the HUGE delay in updating. I'm from Florida, and Hurricane Irma thankfully didn't do much damage to my house or any of my loved ones, but it did put me WAY behind at work. Unfortunately, fun writing had to take a back seat to work writing, hence why it took so long to get this chapter to y'all. I hope you're all still reading! This chapter's a bit shorter than normal, but that's only because the next one will be a bit longer.

As always: THANK YOU for the kind reviews. Y'all are amazing, and I'm so glad this story resonates with people. It's a blast to write, but it's even better hearing from y'all on things I'm doing well, and things that could use some tweaking. So again, thank you.

Also, I'm theemightypen on tumblr, if y'all ever want to come ask questions or yell at me to update faster!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lothiriel is glad that Eowyn had had the foresight to insist that they send their Yule presents for her family ahead the week before, because the snows have begun in earnest, blanketing Edoras in white. Lovely as it is, it is nearly intolerably cold, though Wilfled rolls her eyes when she says as much.

"You have sturdy boots and woolen socks on," she insists, poking Lothiriel's thoroughly encased foot with her own, "as well as one of the warmest dresses Mistress Théodburga made for you. You have absolutely no reason to be shivering this close to the fire."

"And yet, here I sit, shivering," Lothiriel laughs.

"With a cloak over your lap, too," Wilfled answers. "Are you sure I cannot persuade you to tell me what the embroidery means?"

Lothiriel spares a prayer to the Valar that Wilfled had agreed to do their sewing in her rooms instead of the hall. Not only for the blush that heats her face now, but also that it gives them privacy from prying eyes. Namely Wilfled's meddling husband, but Erchirion as well, who would likely only have to take one look at the cloak before guessing its meaning.

The thought of her brother dims Lothiriel's mirth. They still have yet to heal the rift between them and Yule is now less than a week away. It is uncomfortable, to be so at odds at him, and more than a little saddening. With the rest of their family in Dol Amroth, there is no one else nearby for her to share their country's own Yule traditions with; Duilin is her only other countryman present, but he has been too long removed from Gondor, and prefers Rohan's own celebrations anyways.

As if her musings have summoned him, Erchirion appears rather suddenly in the doorway. "Lothiriel, may we-oh. I am interrupting."

Wilfled's eyes flick to hers, the question in them obvious. "I probably should relieve Eothain to put Blodwyn down for a nap," she says, "if you do not mind me leaving?"

"Blodwyn's comfort is more important than mine," Lothiriel says in a low tone. "And this talk is long overdue."

Wilfled nods, gathering her supplies. She pauses by Erchirion at the door, giving him a serious look. "Tread cautiously, prince, as your sister is well-armed with her sewing needles."

Lothiriel gives an exasperated laugh at her friend's antics, but Erchirion only grimaces, nearly shutting the door in Wifled's amused face in his hurry to make his way into the room. He hesitates before choosing to drop down into Wilfled's recently vacated seat with a groan. "Does everyone in Edoras know we have argued?"

"We are not particularly subtle people, Erchirion," Lothiriel answers. "And given the fact that we have exchanged perhaps a dozen words over the past fortnight, it would not take a genius to figure out that we are at odds."

He steeples his fingers over the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes from view. "I suppose not."

They sit in silence for a while-their tempers may have been spent in Duilin's shop, but Lothiriel suspects their stubbornness has not. Sighing, wholly tired of the entire situation, she reaches across the space between them to pull one of her brother's hands into her own. "I do not wish to have this distance between us any longer. I am sorry, Erchirion, that I did not react better. Lisswyn is wonderful, truly. I let my own fears blind me."

She still is not sure that a marriage between them will be an easy feat, but there is no denying that it would make them both very happy. And that is something she desires above all else: Erchirion's happiness. So she can at the very least be an ally for them here, in much more accepting Rohan, and hope that Naneth and Ada's influence will be enough to protect them once they've returned home.

Erchirion's hand turns over in hers, squeezing her fingers. "You should not be the one asking for forgiveness, Lothiriel. What I said was cruel, for no other reason than my own wounded pride. And I am sorry."

"Yes," she agrees, "but what I said was cowardly. We were both at fault."

He stares at her for a moment before a small smile appears on his face. Oh, how she has missed his smiles. "Just like that? No sand in my boots? No buckets of water dumped on my head?"

"I will not deny that I would have liked to dunk your head in a bucket," she concedes, "but it has been so cold of late that I thought you might freeze and then I would be forced to explain your death to Naneth and Ada."

"I admire your restraint," he chuckles. The mirth in his expression fades and he squeezes her hand again. "But I do not know how you can forgive me so easily for what I said."

Lothiriel sighs. "You did hurt me, Erchirion. You took all of the fears I have shared with you over the years-every hurt, every slight-and flung them in my face. But that made me realize that I have too many fears. That I have let my worries keep me from doing things, feeling things, that I should not. And it was not fair of me to expect you to do the same, when Lisswyn so obviously returns your affection."

She's spent the better part of two weeks picking over her brother's words and her own. He'd been unkind, unnecessarily so, but perhaps not entirely wrong. She would always be an interloper to some of the Eorlingas-Bledgifu's stern face floats in her mind's eye-and there is still so much for her to learn about the country and its people.

But her objections to Lisswyn were rooted solely in her own fears regarding Minas Tirith's court. Both he and Eowyn had been right to question her, on that.

And he is still Erchirion-her dearest brother, one of her closest friends. She loves him more than he has hurt her. She has never been able to hold a grudge, not with her family, and especially not with him.

"You have always been prone to worrying, Lothiriel. But you've also always been thoughtful, even as a little girl," Erchirion murmurs, interrupting her thoughts. "It's why you are Faramir's favorite, of course. You both have that same vein of compassion that inspires loyalty in others."

Lothiriel can feel her face heating in another blush. "I am nowhere near as good as Fara-"

"Yes, you are," he interrupts. "It is why the people here have welcomed you so thoroughly. I've been told the true significance to what they call you. How you did not throw that in my face when I said you were too foreign-"

A year ago she would have snapped at him, asked him how he could have stomached saying such mean, petty things to begin with, but now she offers him a wry smile. "I merely called upon the same restraint that kept me from turning you into an ice sculpture."

That startles a laugh out of him. "You have grown up, little flower. How did I miss it?"

"Well, you have been somewhat preoccupied of late…" She murmurs, earning a laugh.

"Not grown up enough not to tease," he corrects himself, tapping her nose. "But grown enough for suitors, apparently."

She runs her hands over the collar of the cloak, her fingers catching on the slightly raised edges of the pattern. "I have no suitors."

"And you will not in any official capacity, until Ada and Naneth give their approval," Erchirion agrees. "But there is at least one interested party that I think will please you."

"Erchirion-" She splutters, but her brother continues on, unfazed.

"Judging by the pattern of that cloak you are failing to hide behind your hands, I would say I have done right in encouraging him. I do hope you realize that Amrothos will be unbearable when he finds out. To think the man you called 'insufferable' for months has now captured your fancy-"

She brandishes one of her sewing needles in his direction. "If you tell him, Valar help you, Erchirion-"

He laughs so hard tears leak from his eyes, and Lothiriel finds herself joining in, despite the lingering horror she feels about Amrothos being informed about her "not-suitor". After weeks of not speaking, of the weight of their squabble weighing directly on her heart, to laugh with Erchirion again warms her better than any fire ever could.

The councilors are appeased by Aragorn's concession to their demands about the Dunlendings, and that combined with Yule's swift approach makes them less prone to near brawls in the midst of their meetings.

Small mercies, thinks Eomer, as Baldred and Eothred needle each other with yet another round of verbal barbs. Neither man has particularly ever liked the other, and spending so much time in close proximity has done little to improve that.

"At least no one's thrown a punch yet, sire," Erkenbrand mutters, clinking his mug against Eomer's in a show of celebration, however half-hearted.

"The day is young," Eomer grumbles back.

They have been in the council room for hours, and will likely be here for hours yet. While most of the councilors have settled back into their chairs to watch the frankly embarrassing display of temper from the Second Marshal and their fellow council member, he can read the tension in all of their shoulders, the sheer boredom writ clearly on some of their faces. They have addressed every pressing matter they can think of: where the crops will be planted come spring, whether or not to offer the newly allied Dunlendings a similar truce as they had to Dera's tribe, how many people will be permitted to travel to Ithilien for Eowyn's wedding. It dawns on him that there is no real reason that they must all stay here.

"Baldred, Eothred," he barks suddenly, startling more than one councilor out of a daze. "Will this argument keep until tomorrow?"

The two men exchange a look, united for once in their confusion. "What do you mean, Eomer King?"

"It is clear neither of you intends to bend on this matter," what exactly that was, Eomer had lost track of nearly an hour before, "and thus require no assistance from anyone else here."

"Are you calling for a recess, sire?" Gamling asks.

Eomer spares a moment to remind himself to reward his chief guardsman with a vat of ale at dinner before answering. "I am. Are there any of you who oppose this?"

Baldred opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it at the sudden kick he receives to his shin. From which councilor it came from, Eomer cannot discern, but it makes him smile, nonetheless.

"No, sire," says Erkenbrand, clearly masking laughter himself. "We are all in agreement."

"Good," Eomer says, mood swiftly improving. "We will reconvene tomorrow morning."

Given the speed at which the majority of the council-including a number of men in their sixteth winters-scramble to get out of the room, he assumes he has made an enjoyable choice for everyone involved. Erkenbrand, still grinning, thumps his shoulder before making his own exit. Only Eothred looks somewhat disgruntled, frowning at Eomer as he motions him to follow him out of the council chambers.

"I nearly had him worn down, sire," his marshal grumbles, "ten more minutes and he would have caved."

"Baldred does not cave," Eomer argues. "He merely starts with an outrageous demand and works his way back down to the more reasonable request he wanted all along."

Eothred groans. "Bema. He's a slippery one."

"He has been in the council for well over 20 years, Eothred. He is well-practiced in the art of politics and at getting what he wants."

Eothred's expression shifts into something worryingly mischievous. "Like presenting Dernhelm's daughter to you as a potential bride?"

Eomer stops short, hand braced on the door to his rooms. "What?"

"You did not catch on to that? She's been invited here by her father for Yule, and apparently is everything you-or at least the country-could want in a queen."

Eomer groans. "I suppose my own opinion on the matter is irrelevant to the council?"

"Well, you have scarcely let them know that you already have a potential queen in mind," Eothred says with a grin. He dodges Eomer's less-than-kingly punch. "And I doubt you have let her know that either."

Eomer shuts the door in his face in response, rolling his eyes at the loud guffaws coming from the other side. Eothred is not wrong, though. Between Yule's swift approach and the seemingly endless cycle of paperwork-leading-into-council-meetings, he's scarcely been able to say more than a greeting in Lothiriel's direction, let alone anything of significance.

Such as anything concerning the cloak resting on the chair nearest the fire.

Mistress Théodburga has outdone herself, though her eyebrows had nearly hit her hairline when he had admitted that yes, this was a Yule gift, but no, it was not for Eowyn. She had regarded him quietly for a moment, one hand absently playing with the furs he'd passed to her.

"You are lucky that I have already taken the lady's measurements," she had said, eyes twinkling in an entirely disconcerting way. "Else the serving girls would carry this matter all over Edoras in a matter of hours."

Small mercies, he had thought then, but now, looking at the cloak, he cannot feel anything but grateful to the seamstress. The furs paired well with the dark emerald of the cloak, which was heavy enough to keep one warm without restricting too much movement. He can picture it all too well: Lothiriel, clothed in the colors of the Mark, furs warm and soft against the pink of her cheeks, her dark eyes bright with amusement, happiness-

A sudden knock at the door jerks him from his musings, and he stalks over to the door, frowning. "Eothred, what now?"

The door opens, revealing not Eothred's face, but Eowyn's.

"Ah, you are here," she says cheerfully. Eowyn has always loved Yule, and likes it no less now that all of the ceremonies and festivities rest firmly in her small, stubborn hands. "I met Eothred in the hall and he said you had dismissed the council."

"Released them, more like," Eomer retorts, drawing a snort from his sister. "Is there something you need?"

"Only my dearest brother's company on this lovely, bright morning," is the answer, and she slips her arm through his before he can protest. "There's a fine layer of snow down. I thought you might like some fresh air."

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth. Personal missives-one from Aragorn, another from Merry-lay unread on the desk. Though he's dismissed the council for the day, there are a number of ways he could occupy himself inside-namely, what qualifies as "appropriate wooing" by Gondorian standards-instead. But Eomer has been cooped up for nigh a week now, and he cannot deny the simple joy it would bring him, to be outside. Kings have not the freedom of marshals, after all, and he does not think he has spent so much time indoors since he was a child.

"I suspect you would drag me out even if I should refuse," he mutters, earning a sharp pinch. "Luckily, I am willing to indulge you."

"Luckily," she repeats, thrusting his cloak towards him with her free hand. "I see you've found your good humor again, Eomer."

"How do the Yule preparations fare?" He asks, ignoring her less than subtle hint about what-namely his conversation with Erchirion-has lifted him from his lingering ill-temper. Mercifully, Eowyn allows this change in subject with only a shake of her head at his side-stepping.

The first day of Yule is not three days away, but the keep and its inhabitants-indeed, the entirety of Edoras-are as well prepared as they possibly can be. Eowyn has had him practicing the traditional king's toast in his spare time, while she has been learning its female equivalent, as he does not yet have a queen. The guards open the doors for them as they pass, and the bracing wind distracts him from Eowyn's commentary on the feast's seating arrangements. She had not lied: the ground was indeed covered in powdery, white snow. Children, in their warmest clothes, run to and fro, shrieking their joy. Their parents and other craftsmen watch from the relative warmth of their stalls, the doorway of the stables.

All are smiling.

This is what they had fought for. Winter afternoons spent at play. A pair of new sweethearts exchanging a warm mug of ale, a wizened old man being helped down a lane by his granddaughter. For all that Rohan has lost-for all that he has lost-seeing his people like this lifts an immeasurable weight off of his shoulders. Helle, his heart.

Eowyn is watching him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I thought we had agreed not to give any early presents this year."

Eomer quirks an eyebrow at her. "I don't follow."

She reaches out to tap his cheek, grinning wider when he chuckles in surprise. "Your smile, of course. I thought it would take a miracle to see it again."

Embarrassed, but touched, he can only duck his head. "It is hardly a thing of value, Eowyn."

"It is to me," she insists, stubborn as ever. "And to all of those who love you."

Whatever he intends to respond to Eowyn's unexpected show of sentimentality is interrupted by Eothain's familiar voice. "Ah, the lion finally emerges from his cave!"

Rolling his eyes, Eomer turns to face his captain. "Not another nickname."

"As king, one can never have too many," chirps Eothain. "Eadig, céne...léona is hardly inappropriate, with that mane of yours."

Eomer offers him an unimpressed look.

"You can hardly take credit for that particular nickname, Eothain," Eowyn chimes in. The look on her face is pure mischief and Eomer can almost feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "We must give true credit where credit is due."

"The ladies of Edoras, if not all of Rohan, are all very...intrigued by your hair, sire," Eothain says. "Or at least that's what Wilfled tells me."

"Bema, spare me," Eomer groans. As if his hair was anything to take note of! There were hundreds, thousands, of Eorlingas with hair just like his.

Eowyn and Eothain laugh, clearly enjoying his discomfort. Their mirth is cut short into gasps of surprise-he joins them in this-as a snowball collides rather forcefully with the back of his head.

Eothain's laughter begins anew, and he nearly doubles over, holding himself up with his hands on his knees. Eowyn and Eomer turn in unison to discover what sort of fool would dare throw a snowball at the King of the Mark-

It's Eofor he spots first, looking torn between horror and hysterics as he looks back at them. But there is a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder. That hand is attached to an arm, which leads up and up and up, until he registers that it's Lothiriel's mortified face looking back at him. Her other arm is still extended. There can be no other culprit.

Here is how it happens, from her side.

She had been making the snow-logged, cold trip back from Duilin's shop, still warm from her teacher's company and a mug of spiced ale. Her thoughts have her preoccupied enough: Yule is one of her favorite times of year as well, especially in the wake of her and Erchirion's reconciliation. Despite the cold, she feels warm all the way through, especially when she brushes her fingers against the length of cord Duilin had given her, as a final touch to the cloak. A blur of brown and green abruptly barrels into her: Eofor's arms are tight around her waist, his blue eyes pitiful as he stares mournfully up at her.

"Modor promised she would come to the square with me today," he explains, "but Blodwyn is fussy, and has to go home. Will you come with me, glómmung cwén? Please?"

Wilfled sends her an apologetic look from where she stands a few feet away, a quietly whimpering Blodwyn strapped to her chest, no doubt thinking of Lothiriel's aversion to the cold. But Eofor's expression is so forlorn, so puppy-like, that she cannot refuse him. "Of course, Eofor," she says. "I would be happy to accompany you."

"Be wary," Wilfled says in a low tone when she squeezes her arm in thanks, "he and his merry band of friends are known to start snowball fights big enough to involve the entire city."

Lothiriel, inexperienced in the ways of snow itself, let alone snowball fights, does not intend to partake. But then Eofor claims his team was one member short, that some of the boys' older sisters-a midwife in training and a maid from the hall-were going to play as well, surely she could, too?

So, she does.

Eofor's team is very proud to have her, their glómmung cwén, even when it becomes apparent that she cannot roll a snowball with any sort of speed. Throwing them, however, is a different matter. Soon, the boys devise a system: they roll the balls as quickly as they can and then pass them to her, directing her aim towards members of the opposing team. Victory is theirs, and she awards each boy with a kiss to the cheek. Some make noises of protest, while others had loop back in hopes of another, much to her amusement.

Eofor, though, is not satisfied. "Would you throw one more snowball for me, my lady? That could be my prize, instead of a kiss."

The way his nose wrinkles at the idea of a kiss tells her that a snowball would be much more welcome. "Happily, Eofor. Who shall I aim for?"

Eofor's target is none other than his own father, easily visible by both height and hair from their vantage point. While Eofor rolls the snowball, Eothain moves off, hurrying up the stairs towards the last landing leading down from Meduseld. Lothiriel's heart gives a sudden lurch as it becomes clear who he's moved to talk to: Eomer, wearing a fondly exasperated expression as so many people do when talking to the Mark's captain.

"Oh, no!" Eofor cries, when he finally hands the snowball off to her. "That's too far for you to throw, my lady."

Lothiriel purses her lips, gauging the distance. "I promised you a snowball, Master Eofor. I can manage."

As it turns out, she can't.

The result is one sturdy, cold snowball colliding with the back of the King of Rohan's head.

Eofor makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a gasp; Lothiriel finds she cannot make any sound at all.

Brother and sister turn in unison towards them-dimly, she's aware of Eothain nearly collapsing in laughter behind them. But then she can only see Eomer's expression: thunderous anger morphing into surprise, and then, even more worryingly, a wide grin.

"I think we should run now, my lady," squeaks Eofor, tugging at her hand.

And run they do: Eofor leading her as quickly as he can down the twisting lanes of Rohan's capital. Shopkeepers and other onlookers shout their support as they go-"Quickly, Eofor, he's gaining on you!"-and Lothiriel cannot help the breathless laugh that escapes her. She has not had this much fun in weeks.

Eofor tugs her around a corner only to stop short, causing her to nearly bowl him over in their haste. "Eofor, what-Oh, Elbereth."

Eomer stands before them, looking unfairly tall-and handsome, damnably handsome-in the middle of one of the wider lanes. She's seen him in passing, of course, in the weeks since Erchirion had interrupted them-since he'd been close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off of him, to feel the hot brush of his mouth against her palm-but they've scarcely said more than a few words to each other. Erchirion's words had fed her doubts, her worries, and she had let them interfere with her own happiness.

She will not make that mistake again. Not when he gives her a small, private smile before schooling his features into something like sternness. "You do know that an assault upon the King is considered a treasonous offense?"

Eofor flinches and Lothiriel wraps a protective arm around his shoulders. Eomer is teasing, she knows, but Eofor is a child, and has no small amount of hero-worship for his father's dearest friend and king.

"I am the responsible party," she says, forcing back a smile when Eofor's head tips back so he can goggle at her. "Eofor is free from blame."

Eomer's lips twitch, but he nods regally, stepping forward to crook a finger under Eofor's chin. "Is that the way of it, Eofor, son of Eothain?"

Eofor's eyes dart back and forth between them, clearly torn between wanting to avoid trouble and wanting to spare Lothiriel the same. She gives him a tiny nod and he finally manages to squeak a "yes".

"I was afraid of that," Eomer says, and then suddenly he is moving, scooping Lothiriel up in his arms as if she weighs no more than a bit of fluff.

"What are you doing?" She manages to cry, attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. "Eomer, someone will see-"

"I hope so," he says, before dumping her into a nearby snowbank.

By the Valar, it was cold and damp and all-together unpleasant! She struggles her way out of it, finally succeeding in freeing her head and one arm, only to find Eofor muffling giggles behind his hands as Eomer smiles benignly down at her.

"Insufferable man!" She grumbles.

"You were the one who hit me with a snowball, byrnihtu cwén," he says. "This seemed an appropriate punishment."

She ignores the blush that heats her face at the familiar nickname, still trying to extract herself from the snow pile. Eofor says something about finding help, hurrying off back down the lane, leaving them alone. Eomer finally takes pity on her, offering her a hand to help pull herself out of the snow. She allows him to hoist her out with as much dignity as she can muster, scowling at him as he chuckles.

"You look like you've been dusted in sugar," he says.

"Sugar would be a good deal sweeter," Lothiriel answers, "and far less cold."

That takes the mirth from his face. Concern replaces it and suddenly he's brushing the snow from her shoulders, the edges of Eowyn's borrowed cloak. A fierce blush heats her cheeks, especially when his hands run gently through her hair. It is an achingly familiar sensation, from the night of Blodwyn's birth, and she has to force herself not to close her eyes, to sway into his touch, to the comforting warmth of his broad chest.

"I should have remembered how little you like the cold," Eomer says.

She looks up at him, smiling softly. "I do not think I ever told you that."

Her smile only widens as the spots of color in his cheeks darken; Lothiriel does not think she has seen him blush since Minas Tirith, and the sight is utterly, utterly charming. Her hands nearly itch with the effort it takes not to lay them against his face, to see if his cheeks are as warm as they look.

"You did not," he mutters.

"Have you been worrying about me, Eomer King?" She teases.

"Yes," Eomer responds, startling her. "But not because of the cold. You have not been yourself-"

"I know. Erchirion and I argued," she interrupts, cheeks flushing for a much less pleasant reason. "But we have made amends. I will be more cheerful from now on."

His smile is soft, gentle. "Good. Smiling suits you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth."

She had said the same thing to him, once, and her heart stutters at the realization that he remembers as well.

Eofor skidding back around the corner interrupts them before they can say anything more. Sad as she is about being interrupted, Lothiriel cannot deny that she is cold, and slightly damp.

But Eomer's arm is warm under her hand during the walk back to Meduseld. She is reluctant to release it, even when they make their way inside the hall and Merthwyn scolds them both for being outside for so long.

"And you, my lady! It looks as if you took a swim in a snow drift!"

Lothiriel's eyes flick towards Eomer's, who grins. "She lost a snowball fight, Merthwyn."

The housekeeper tuts in disapproval, forcing Lothiriel onto a bench nearest the fire and stripping the slightly-frozen cloak from her shoulders. It becomes apparent that her hands are too cold for her to remove her own gloves. Merthwyn frowns, all but shoving Eomer onto the bench beside her. "As I suspect you had a hand in this snowball fight, sire, you can make amends by warming the princess's poor fingers."

Their eyes meet, and Lothiriel can read the question there: will she permit it?

It would be no small thing, in Gondor, for a man to touch a lady's hand thus, but she has already been held by him in the depths of sorrow, felt the press of his lips to her palm, and so Lothiriel decides that this can be allowed. They have a chaperone, after all. Eomer's hands are somehow blisteringly warm, closing around hers with a gentleness that makes her chest ache. How foolish she had been, to let Erchirion make her doubt him!

"When you are finished, you had best get yourself into something warm as well, Eomer King," Merthwyn orders. "I shall not be responsible for the King of the Mark having a head cold all through Yule."

Eomer snorts. "Eowyn would skewer me alive if I did anything to upset her planning."

"Skewer you and then serve you as dinner, more likely," Lothiriel agrees. "And me as well, for being involved."

"Eowyn would not harm you for all the world." Her breath leaves her in a rush when he turns one hand over in his, pressing a kiss to its back. A hot bolt of something sings in her veins, from her hand all the way down to her toes, and every place in between. "Nor would I."

Despite the men of Minas Tirith having as much interest in her as a bushell of toadstools, Lothiriel has been flirted with before. Her brothers' friends, lords from neighboring territories, even a number of Alycia's cousins, visiting from Umbar after Alphros's birth. But this does not feel like a flirtation. Or not just that, at least. It feels like a promise. And everything she knows of Eomer tells her that she can trust it. Trust him.

The thought curls warm and heady behind her breastbone, and she cannot help but to press his hand, wishing that they were not in such a public venue so she could tell him-show him-how much such a thing means. In fact, it is only Merthwyn's snort of amusement that keeps Lothiriel from doing something extremely foolish, like kissing him in plain view of the entire hall. Eomer shakes himself, clearly as dazed as she is, before releasing her hands to stand.

"Dry clothes now, Eomer King," Merthwyn says, graciously ignoring their embarrassment. "The lady has been sufficiently defrosted."

That pulls a laugh from both of them, and Eomer offers them both one last smile before turning on his heel towards his rooms.

"Oh, look at you, dopænid," the housekeeper says, chucking Lothiriel lightly under the chin. "Not two minutes ago you were pale with cold, and now your cheeks are rosy enough to light a lamp."

Lothiriel claps her hands to her face, cursing how open her expressions are. "Oh, Merthwyn, is it so obvious as that?"

The older woman smiles. "Do you know what I said to him, the very first time I met you, at the coronation feast? That he could do far worse. But now I think he could do no better."

Lothiriel can feel tears pricking at her eyes. In Gondor, she had hoped that her eventual marriage would have brought an ally in at least her husband, perhaps a sister-in-law, or another nearby lady. Here, she was not even wed-and should be careful not to get ahead of herself, there has been not even a hint of courting breathed to her parents-and had more friends than she knew what to do with, let alone deserved.

"You are too kind, Merthwyn," she says.

"Bledgifu is not the only one who can claim to have mothered him," is her response. "I have known that boy since he was scarcely more than knee-high. Strong-willed always, and serious, so serious once Theoden King made him a marshal. But Vana. That heart! He takes after his mother in that regard, make no mistake. To see him happy would be one of the greatest joys I expect to know."

Lothiriel bites her lip, feeling suddenly shy. And anxious. But if her argument with Erchirion has taught her anything, it is that these fears are more harmful to her own happiness than nearly anything else. So she squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet the older woman's eyes. "And...and you think I could make him so?"

Merthwyn chuckles. "I think you already do."

Author's Note: I'm sure some of y'all are ready to murder me, seeing as how we're now 18 chapters in and still nothing more than a few hand kisses have happened, but I PROMISE: it's coming guys. Pinky swear.

But YES, our two favorite starry-eyed goofballs are FINALLY MOVING FORWARD. Ish. Slowly. Those cloaks are going to be an integral part of the next chapter, and with good reason. We'll also get to see what Yule looks like, both in Rohan and in Gondor. Plus, Faramir will be making an appearance-via letter, but I promise I haven't forgotten about him and Eowyn (my ultimate darlings, honestly).

Terms:
Céne: the brave, bold, warlike
Léona: Lion, though it should be noted I am NOT the first to coin this moniker in relation to Eomer; there are a number of talented writers who made this connection well before I did, but they inspired me!
Dopænid: Duck, duckling