Author's Note: Hello again friends! I know this is an unusual day for me to post, but I'm just a TOUCH excited about this chapter, so I couldn't wait to share it with y'all! Thanks, per usual, for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites. They really help me to keep writing :)

This chapter is technically part one of two, so we'll see more of Yule in the Mark in the next chapter as well. Hope y'all enjoy reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it ;)

Onward! Yule has arrived, and with it, presents of all sorts.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The first morning of Yule dawns beautifully bright and terribly cold. Lothiriel has been up since before dawn, yawning before the fire in her room's hearth as she prepares the traditional Gondorian Yule morning meal.

It is not something she has ever had to do on her own, before; in past years she has split the duties between herself, Naneth, and Alycia. Far away as they are, it makes her smile to know that even though they are not together, they are united in this simple, familiar thing.

Erchirion gives a mighty yawn from where he sits in the chair nearest the fire. Eowyn, too, as Faramir's intended, has been persuaded to join them, and even Duilin could not deny Lothiriel's entreaties.

"Why must it be so early?" Eowyn asks, rubbing wearily at her eyes.

"So that we may welcome the season with a full stomach and a happy heart," Lothiriel recites. "If also with tired eyes."

Duilin snorts. "I think the Eorlingas do much the same, but at a much more decent hour."

"You are just out of practice," Lothiriel tuts, passing him a plate.

"Do not let her scold you so," Erchirion says in a loud whisper. "One Yule, our mother had to drag her from her bed, kicking and screaming, in order to make the meal on time."

"I was six," Lothiriel protests, "and it was not my fault that Amrothos had kept me up late, teasing me about not getting any presents."

"He would not have been able to tease you, if you had not hidden starfish in Hirliun's boots-"

"He deserved it," she says, well aware of the smirks being exchanged between Eowyn and Duilin. "He kept pulling my braid-"

"Diabolical, our cousin is," Erchirion drawls. "For pulling your braid."

Lothiriel huffs, pushing a plate into his hands. "Eat your food and leave me be, 'Chirion."

Her brother merely grins, digging into his food with an appreciative groan. Eowyn regards her own plate with wariness: it is piled high with Dol Amrothian delicacies that Naneth has sent, along with all of the Yule gifts from the rest of their families.

"It will not bite," Lothiriel says, nodding at the shrimp. "It's considered quite good, at home."

"They are Faramir's favorite," Erchirion adds. "Do you remember the Yule he and Boromir got into a wrestling match over the last shrimp?"

"Barely," admits Lothiriel, nibbling on her own food. "I do seem to recall there was biting involved?"

Eowyn chokes out a laugh as Erchirion grins. "Uncle Denethor was mortified. Two Captains of Gondor, squabbling on the floor over shellfish."

"It is not their fault that no one can cook them as well as Naneth can," Lothiriel says with a shrug.

"So there is a morning breakfast, to welcome Yule," Eowyn says, clearly trying to piece together the differences in Gondorian and Rohirric traditions. "And then what?"

"Different foods at the various feasts throughout the twelve days," Erchirion says. "Presents are usually opened in the middle of Yule, though many families choose whichever day is most convenient for them."

"Yule is considered a time for family," Lothiriel adds. "You can give gifts to friends, of course, but they'd be opened later. Sometimes even after the holiday is over."

"Hm," says Eowyn. "It is not so formal in the Mark. Gifts are exchanged by most, and the feasts all happen at night."

"And last well into the morning," Duilin chuckles. "As I suspect tonight's ādfȳr will."

"Adfȳr?" Erchirion asks.

Duilin arches an eyebrow in Lothiriel's direction. She chews her lip for a moment, trying to remember the word. "Sacrificial..fire?"

"Yes," Eowyn says. "The whole city gathers in the hall-or tries to, anyways-and we offer the gods a sacrifice of wild boar. Then toasts are made."

"And then drank, I presume," Erchirion chuckles. "I think I will like Yule in Rohan."

Lothiriel rolls her eyes, but does not miss the nervous look that crosses Eowyn's face. She reaches over to take one of her friend's hands in hers. "Eowyn, it will be fine. You have planned too well and too thoroughly for anything else."

"I hope so," Eowyn sighs. "It is silly. I faced down the Witch King, and yet the thought of a Yule feast turning into a disaster makes me nearly ill."

"It will not be a disaster," Lothiriel insists.

Eowyn still looks unconvinced, poking listlessly at her food. Erchirion arches an eyebrow at Lothiriel before nodding to the corner of her room, where the rest of the parcels from Dol Amroth lie, waiting to be opened.

Oh, Lothiriel thinks, oh, of course.

It takes a moment of digging, but eventually she finds what she's looking for: a sealed letter, signed in Faramir's familiar, precise script.

"Mayhaps this will help with your nerves," Lothiriel says, offering the letter. "I was supposed to wait to give it to you until mid-Yule, but-"

Eowyn nearly dumps her plate on Duilin in her haste to take it from Lothiriel's hands. The older man bemoans abuse, but Lothiriel sees a fond smile lurking at the corners of his mouth as Eowyn reads over the letter. She presses a hand to her mouth, clearly holding back a smile, and the blush that fills her cheeks is utterly endearing.

They wait in silence for Eowyn to finish. She's a lovely rosy color by the time she does, reaching gingerly back into the envelope to reveal a ring.

"Faramir says it belonged to his mother," she murmurs in a very soft sort of voice.

"I know he would have liked to be here to give it to you in person," says Lothiriel. "But short of doing that and leaving Minas Tirith in an uproar, this was the best alternative we could think of."

"It signifies both Faramir's love for you and the acceptance of his family," Erchirion explains. "Us, our parents, our brothers. We are honored to share our cousin with you."

"And happy," Lothiriel says, feeling absurdly on the edge of tears as Eowyn stares dazedly back at them, "so, so happy."

Eowyn places the ring securely on her finger before flinging her arms around Lothiriel in a hug. Erchirion sniffs suspiciously behind them, and Duilin's half-hearted grumbles about "sentimental claptrap" sound anything but sincere.

Even with Dol Amroth so far away and the cold of a Rohirric winter seeping in through the windows, Lothiriel feels at home. And with family. A better Yule gift she could never ask for.

The hall is packed to the brim, but the heat is somewhat lessened by the occasional wafts of cold that drift in when doors are opened. Eomer wishes he were closer to a door, in truth. Between the heavy weight of the ceremonial tunic, the heat radiating out from the great hearth behind him, and the press of the crown he so seldom wears around his forehead, he feels more than a little uncomfortable.

"Steady now, sire," comes Erkenbrand's familiar, soothing voice. "It's just a toast."

Eomer snorts. "It is hardly just a toast, Erkenbrand."

Besides his coronation, it will be the first ceremonial event he will preside over, as king. Last year there had been little cause for celebration, even during Yule. But now...the War was won, the evil defeated. A tentative truce was in place with the Dunlendings, Eowyn betrothed to a good man, the relationship between Gondor and the Mark stronger than ever…

And it may soon be stronger yet, Eomer thinks, searching for a head of dark hair in the crowd.

She is wedged in between Erchirion and Wilfled, obligingly leaning back so that Eofor can sit in her lap. The boy is too old for such behavior, and certainly has complained enough in the past when Wilfled has tried to keep him still in a similar manner. Contrarily, he looks very comfortable where he sits now, grinning wider every time she reaches up to ruffle his already unruly hair.

Eomer should not be jealous of an eight year old. (And yet.)

"Do stop glaring daggers at my son, Eomer," chirps Eothain, sounding disgustingly smug. "He's as much competition as Gamling, when it comes to your princess."

"Eothain," he hisses, giving his friend a poisonous look. The hall is too crowded, too full of curious ears, for him to be making remarks like that.

His captain merely shrugs. "I will remind you that you are in charge of the ādfȳr. You need only stand up here until you make the toast."

Eomer opens his mouth. Closes it again. Damn him, but Eothain is right. He is the King now, and it falls to him and no one else to begin the Yule celebrations.

As if she has been listening to his thoughts, Eowyn appears, her own golden circlet in place around her brow. She offers him the wassail with an encouraging smile. Taking the goblet in hand, Eomer steps forward. The silence that falls over the hall is nearly instantaneous.

"Eorlingas, āstandan!" Cries Gamling. The whole hall rises to their feet, from the smallest child to the most withered old warrior.

Eomer clears his throat. "Hail Bema, Lord of the Forests, for success and victory in the year to come, we ask You!"

Hail! Answers the hall, voices ringing together as one.

Eowyn steps forward, her voice carrying just as loudly as his: "Hail Vana, Queen of Flowers, for joy and bounty in the year to come, we ask You!"

Hail! Cries the hall again, some smiling widely; it is no coincidence that Eowyn, only months removed from her wedding, is the one to call upon the goddess of youth and rebirth.

"Hail to our ancestors and departed friends," cries Eothain, voice wavering only the slightest bit, "who are remembered this night. Stay with us in the coming year, we ask you!"

Hail!

"Hail Eomer King, Eomer Eadig!" Erkenbrand says. "May you be blessed with wisdom, a long life-"

"And a good wife!" Someone-who sounds suspiciously like Eothred-yells from the crowd crows.

The hall cheers hail one final time as Eomer reminds himself that overturning a ceremonial mug of wassail over the Second Marshal's head is likely to ruin the mood of the feast. He finds himself suddenly surrounded by well-wishers-friends and strangers alike-all eager to pat his back, shake his hand.

"Enough!" Erkenbrand finally cries, elbowing his way in between Eomer and a particularly eager group of maidens. "Let the king take his place at the table."

Sparing his councilor a grateful look, Eomer all but flings himself down onto the bench. Eowyn beams at him, pressing another mug of wassail into his hands.

"You did wonderfully," she tells him in a low tone. "Uncle would be proud."

The thought makes his chest ache-but it is a good pain, a sweet one.

"He would be proud of you," he tells her. "All of this is thanks to your hard work."

Eowyn ducks her head, fidgeting absently with a ring Eomer has never seen her wear before.

"What is that?" He asks, nodding at it.

Eowyn blushes. Blushes. His fierce little sister, pink in the face and bashful! He has to stop himself from gawking at her, if only because he knows it will only embarrass her further.

"A gift," she says in a private tone, meant for his ears alone. "From Faramir. It..it was his mother's.

"That is no small thing," Eomer murmurs, reaching out to cover her twisting hands with his. "He loves you very much."

Eowyn smiles, then. "And I him. But I am glad to be here, now." She frees one hand from his grip, using it to lift her own glass. "Happy Yule, Eomer."

"Happy Yule, sweostor," he agrees, clinking their mugs together.

Eothain and Wilfled appear, children in tow, with Lisswyn, Darwyn, and Erchirion trailing along after them. But there is one familiar face Eomer does not see: Lothiriel.

Eothred startles him out of his search by flopping down beside him, flinging an arm around his shoulders. "Happy Yule, sire!"

"Do not think you have escaped punishment," Eomer growls, trying to maneuver out of the older man's grip.

Eothred merely grins, taking a large sip of his own wassail. "Was I wrong to wish you a good wife, Eomer King?"

"I knew that was you," Eowyn says, pinching Eothred's hand where it rests on Eomer's shoulder. "You should have taken my offer to give a toast in the first place, if you were already going to interject."

"I am not one for showing off-"

A loud snort interrupts him; they all turn to look at its source. Duilin stands, Lothiriel on his arm, looking at the Second Marshal with a sharp eye. "If ever there was a man more prone to performance than you, Eothred, son of Eodred, I have yet to meet him."

They all laugh at Eothred's affronted expression. Duilin prods the younger man until he scoots to make room on the bench. Once he's seated himself-Eothred, for all his bluster, respects the Master Healer just as much as the rest of them do-he flaps his hands in Lothiriel's direction.

"Oh, am I permitted to sit now?"

"Yes, girl, if your brother and Captain Eothain there will behoove themselves to give you some space."

They do, and she sits. Eomer is too busy admiring the thick waves of her hair, the all-too distracting neckline of her dress, to realize just where the Master Healer has sat her: directly across from him.

Lothiriel meets his eyes, seemingly coming to the same realization at the same time. The blush that floods her face is familiar and lovely, in the best way.

"Well, boy," Duilin says, clapping a hand to Eomer's shoulder, ruining the moment. "You did well today. I knew those lessons about standing up straight and projecting would pay off, someday."

Eomer groans. "Duilin, please."

"Curved as a question mark, this one was," he continues on, unperturbed. "Always slouching, trying to hide his growth spurts."

"Oh, and those knees!" Eothain crows. "All knob-knees and spindly elbows, but with shoulders as broad as a barn-"

Eomer can feel his face start to heat, the sensation only worsening at Lothiriel's obviously muffled laughter across the table.

"No, no, the worst was that first beard," Eothred chimes in, "patchy in some places, non-existent in others…"

Eomer groans again, letting his head come down to rest on the table with an unkingly thump.

"Enough," Eowyn says finally. "You three are terrible."

There is a pause, presumably as Eothred, Eothain, and Duilin shuffle awkwardly in their guilt. (Or so Eomer can hope.)

"Well," comes Lothiriel's voice, wavering traitorously with amusement, "not as terrible as that beard sounds."

He lifts his head to look incredulously at her. Eothain is nearly beside himself with laughter, Eothred not far behind. Wilfled has a hand pressed to her mouth, Lisswyn is clearly biting her lip to keep from joining her brother and uncle. Erchirion looks skyward, likely asking what he has done to be cursed with such a sister, and Eomer can just make out his own sister, whose shoulders are visibly shaking.

Lothiriel merely offers him a wide smile, on the verge of laughter herself.

Is he embarrassed? Yes.

Angry? Not when she looks at him like that.

"Byrnihtu cwén," he grumbles.

Lothiriel's eyes widen at that and she sucks in a breath of surprise, even as the laughter of their friends continues around them. Puzzled by her reaction, he follows her gaze to Duilin. Duilin, who is turning dark, accusatory eyes on him in a way he hasn't done since Eomer was ten and he and Theodred had overturned an entire vat of coltsfoot brew.

Oh, helle, Eomer thinks. He knows.

The gods must take mercy on him, for the first platters of food arrive, ending the discussion of Eomer's unfortunate teenage years, as well as preventing Duilin from launching into a very public interrogation.

For now.

Lothiriel does everything in her power to avoid Duilin's gaze as she eats. She distracts herself with sharing tales of Yules past with Erchirion, listens to Eothain's more-than-a-little inappropriate joke about the origins of the Yule Log, leans her chin on her hand to hear Eowyn describe what Aldburg's celebrations are like.

It is not enough.

She turns her head-just once, to answer a question from Eothred-and he has her.

The arched brow nearly disappears under the brim of his cap, but Lothiriel knows that expression. And it means trouble.

Though perhaps not for me, she thinks, judging by the dark looks he shoots Eomer every time he so much as breathes in her direction.

By some stroke of luck, Duilin's skills are required before dinner ends. Someone in the kitchens has burnt their hand on one of the pots, and the majority of the other healers are unable to be found or otherwise "indisposed".

"Do you need my help?" Lothiriel offers, frowning as Duilin rubs at his back as he stands.

"No, no," he assures her. "I am not so fragile as all that, byrnihtu cwén." There is a bite in his voice, at the nickname, and Lothiriel winces even as Eomer turns to look at the Master Healer with narrowed eyes.

"It seems you and I need to have a talk, boy," Duilin says in a low tone; Lothiriel has to strain to hear him, but judging by the increased ire on Eomer's face, he does not.

"I have done nothing to require a scolding-" He starts to say, temper clearly rising.

On instinct, Lothiriel stretches her leg out and presses her foot against Eomer's.

Stop, she thinks, desperately, stop, he is only worried, he only wants to understand.

Eomer freezes, eyes darting back towards hers. Whatever emotion is on her face, it must be enough to convince him to calm himself, for he turns back towards Duilin with a much more controlled expression. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Early," Duilin agrees. "Before the morning meal."

"Fine," Eomer says.

Duilin departs with one last searching look in her direction.

The rest of the table has either dissolved into their own conversations or wandered off to parts unknown, leaving her with no other choice but to meet Eomer's eyes.

"Would you care to explain," he asks quietly, "why I may be drowned in Duilin's best cauldron come tomorrow morning?"

Lothiriel sighs, pressing a hand to her face. "He is my mentor. And a friend. And knows the most about Rohirric traditions when it comes to," oh Valar, this is mortifying, and she drops a voice to a whisper, "courting."

Eomer stares at her for a moment. Lothiriel knows she has blushed in his presence dozens-well, perhaps hundreds, at this point-of times, but now she feels closer to spontaneous combustion, with how hot her face feels.

His sudden smirk startles her, but not nearly as much as the gentle nudge of his foot against hers-Elbereth, why had she not moved yet?

"You talked to Duilin," he murmurs, "about courting?"

"I-In a sense," she stutters, fidgeting nervously with the napkin in her lap. "I was...confused, and he was already teaching me about the language, and I knew he would not pry the way Wilfled would, or meddle like Eowyn-"

"And why would you be interested in the courting traditions of the Mark?" Eomer interrupts.

Her head snaps up in alarm. He looks far too detached, far too calm, while she feels as if her heart is trying to beat out of her chest. Oh, Elbereth! What if she has misread him, misread it all, allowed Eowyn and Wilfled and Eothain convince her that she is seeing something that is simply not there-

Eomer's mouth twitches.

He is-the insufferable man is teasing her.

She kicks him, swiftly, and feels a rush of satisfaction as he hisses a surprised curse under his breath.

"You are not funny," she whispers.

He merely grins, startling her again when his foot unerringly finds hers under the table once more. "Would it comfort you to know that it was likely much more awkward for me when I found myself asking your brother about Gondorian courting traditions?"

She had guessed that already, given Erchirion's comments, but it is another thing entirely to hear it confirmed, by Eomer's own admission. "I suppose so," she murmurs, fighting back another blush.

Eomer's hand twitches where it rests on the table and-and she is not sure how she knows, but she does, that were they not at a crowded table, with meddling friends and curious strangers all around, he likely would have reached for her hand. Unable to stop herself, she curls her foot further against his, hooking the toe of her boot around the back of his. They are barely touching, separated by shoes and warm woolen socks, and yet her breath catches anyways.

His eyes are darker than ever, bearing into hers with the same intensity they had in the stables, in the alleyway behind Eothain and Wilfled's house. His voice is low, private, and that same, shuddery feeling snakes up her spine again. "Would you permit being courted?"

Yes, yes, of course, yes dances on the tip of her tongue, but she thinks of his teasing and forces herself to looks serious. "If you paid attention to what my brother told you of Gondor's traditions, you would know that any noblewoman requires her parents' permission for such a thing."

"I do not ask because of your rank," is his quick response, "and I do not ask because of your parents, or your country. I am asking if it is what you want."

It is, perhaps, the most romantic thing that's ever been said to her, made all the more potent by the way their legs are quite nearly tangled together underneath the table. What else can she say, except the truth? "Yes," she says, unable not to smile. "Yes, of course it is."

His returning smile is near as boyish as Eofor's and Valar, if she doesn't want to reach over, to twine her fingers in his. Her smile stretches so wide it nearly hurts, but she cannot help herself-she is just so happy.

"What are you two over here grinning about?" Asks Eothain, causing them both to jump.

"It is Yule, Eothain," Lisswyn says softly, "we all have many things to be happy for."

Lothiriel looks over at the older woman, who offers her a knowing look before turning her attention back to Erchirion, who is listening intently to whatever pieced-together-story Darwyn is attempting to tell him in her childish Westron.

Merthwyn appears, declaring that Lothiriel absolutely must help the other women decorate the Yule wreath, and one of the councilors-Baldred, if Lothiriel is remembering correctly-pounces on the opportunity to claim Eomer's attention. She can hardly give the real reason she's so reluctant to leave her seat, so she allows herself to be led away.

The Yule wreath is lovely, and the welcome the other women give her is heartening, but she has a hard time focusing on the task before her. How can she? How can she possibly think of anything else-that he had asked her for her, for her opinion, her wants-

"Lothiriel?" Comes Cwenhild's concerned voice. "Vana bless you, child, but I think the wassail has gone to your head."

"Hm?" Lothiriel asks dazedly.

"Do not fret, Cwenhild," Eowyn says with a grin, passing another evergreen branch in the older woman's direction. "Rosy cheeks are quite standard for Lothiriel. Certainly not a sign of over-indulging."

The surrounding women laugh and Lothiriel blushes deeper, reaching up to cover said-traitorous cheeks with her hands.

She is not sure how they manage it, but she catches Eomer's eyes at the same moment. The damned man winks at her, and Lothiriel gives thanks to every god she can think of that she is already so flushed.

"Insufferable man," she mutters, turning her full attention back to the wreath.

And yet, hours later, she is still smiling as she curls under her blankets to go to sleep.

His guardsmen give him curious looks when he leaves his rooms a good two hours earlier than he normally does. The fires are still burning low in the hall from the revelry the night before, with a few stragglers snoring on benches or curled on the more sturdy rugs.

Eomer envies them; he had tried to leave the feast as early as possible, but every time he had made even the smallest motion towards an exit, another councilor had appeared, wanting his opinion on one thing or another. As such, he is about to face Duilin with only a handful of hours of sleep under his belt. Facing the Master Healer under the best of circumstances requires all of his wits, and he's fairly certain he's left most of them behind on his pillow.

Duilin is waiting for him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. "Don't let all the heat out, boy, get inside," he orders, as if Eomer has personally brought this cold weather down upon him.

Eomer is scarcely surprised to see the sight that greets him: a large pestle and mortar stands waiting on the table closest the fire, with a veritable bushel of herbs waiting to be ground up. It is an old punishment of the healer's, usually invoked when he and Eowyn-and more rarely, Theodred-had gotten into some sort of mischief as children. He's also less than surprised that Duilin does not speak for quite some time, choosing instead to putter around the shop muttering to himself as he goes.

Eomer dutifully begins grinding the herbs, waiting for the inevitable lecture. The silence remains, so he lets his mind wander to more pleasant things. Eowyn's happy laughter, her obvious pride in how the feast had turned out. The sight of Eofor cautiously rocking Blodwyn on his knee, under the watchful gaze of Eothain and Wilfled. The press of Lothiriel's foot against his own, the catch in her voice when she'd said yes, of course-

"You are lucky I am too old to give you a proper whipping, boy," Duilin says suddenly, jerking him from his musings.

Eomer blinks. Puts the pestle down before turning to face the older man. "What?"

Duilin simply glares. "You know precisely what, Eomer, son of Eomund, greatest idiot in all of Rohan! Calling that girl byrnihtu cwén! Turning her head with no promise of courting her-she is a princess, and too tender-hearted to deserve such treatment-"

"Duilin-"

"No! King or not, I will speak my peace. Have you forgotten everything your uncle ever taught you? If you think there will be no repercussions for this because you have become the Riddermark's most eligible bachelor, you are in for a nasty surprise-"

"Duilin-"

"And of all the women to choose! Lothiriel of Dol Amroth! Cousin to your sister's betrothed! Even worse that she is a good, sweet girl, worthy of courting-"

"I know that!" Eomer finally succeeds in interrupting. His outburst forces Duilin into silence. "I am well aware of her virtues, Duilin, and her rank as a princess of Gondor-"

"And yet-"

"-which is why," Eomer growls, gritting his teeth, "I asked her if she would permit me to court her. Last night."

The look of open-mouthed shock on the healer's face would be comical, were Eomer not so annoyed. First Erchirion, now Duilin-he is not sure what he has done to give anyone the impression that this was a mere dalliance, or that he intends to vanish into the wilderness with Lothiriel's good reputation in his pocket. But it rankles, to be thought so poorly of, especially by a man who has known him since infancy!

"Merciful Valar," Duilin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have been listening to her fret over her 'not-suitor' for weeks now, and now you tell me you have asked to court her?"

"What sort of man do you take me for, Duilin?" Eomer hisses. "I am no scoundrel!"

The older man's face softens. "No, no you are not. I did not mean to imply it. But what was I to think? She says she is not being courted, that the man she has a fancy for calls her a 'prickly princess', and then she was out of sorts for days. Would you not be concerned, if Eowyn had told you something similar?"

Eomer frowns. If Eowyn had told him anything resembling the picture Duilin has just painted, Faramir would likely have found himself dangling from the highest tower in Minas Tirith.

"You have a point," he grudgingly admits. "But, Bema, Duilin, what have I done to deserve such censure?"

Duilin snorts at that. "Calling a woman you would make your Queen 'prickly', for one. Not announcing your intentions from the start, for another."

"I did not have intentions from the start," he says. "The first time I met her, I nearly threw her out of Eowyn's sickroom."

"Charming," Duilin quips. "What changed?"

Eomer cannot stop the smile that pulls the corners of his mouth up. "You have met Lothiriel, haven't you?"

"She does have that effect, little aware of it as she is," Duilin murmurs. "She did not even know what glommung cwen meant until I told her, and even then she still worried that the people would not accept her." He turns, eyeing Eomer. "While her agreeing to be courted is proper by Rohan's standards, I doubt very much that anyone in Gondor would consider that enough."

"I already spoke to Erchirion," Eomer says. "I know there are differences, in what is acceptable here and in Dol Amroth."

"Then you should also know that courtships are much more serious things, in Gondor," Duilin says. "They are closer to what we consider a betrothal here."

Eomer assumed as much. It changes nothing.

"And," he says, with a worryingly wry grin, "that Gondorian standards of what level of affection can be allowed between a courting couple are rather...strict."

Eomer recalls that particular difference from watching Eowyn and Faramir's restraint around each other. It had not seemed such an ill thing then, but now…

"Meaning?" He asks.

Duilin smirks. "You'll need a chaperone if you want to speak to the lady alone. Any and all presents must be approved by a family member before they can be given," the healer ignores Eomer's groan of dismay, continuing on with, "and as far as physical affection goes, anything beyond a kiss on the hand is considered entirely too forward."

"Bema, how does anyone wind up married in that country, with rules like that in place?" Eomer grumbles.

"The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized," quotes Duilin, patting his shoulder. "Do you think you are up to the challenge?"

He's left to ponder that question when Duilin's first appointment of the day appears, forcing him to trudge through the still-falling snow towards the hall with the discussion unfinished. The last of the stragglers from the night before have been cleared out, and the morning crowd has begun to fill Meduseld with voices and laughter.

Eowyn and Lothiriel are seated near the fire, talking animatedly about something. The smile she gives him as he passes warms him to the backbone, better than any ale.

Whatever challenge, whatever rules, he thinks. It will be worth it.

It does not hurt to remind himself that while Lothiriel is Gondorian, he is not. And the courting customs of the Mark-infinitely preferable as they are-could likely be made use of, too.

Author's Note: Ok folks, tons to upack here, so let's begin!

Gondor's Yule traditions are a mishmash of my own creation and a number of medieval Yule practices. Shellfish is a popular Christmas meal in many places, and given that much of our current Christmas practices tie directly to Yule ones, I couldn't think of a better way to highlight Dol Amroth's link to the sea. (Yes, I realize shrimp probably wouldn't be the most fresh after a journey from Dol Amroth to Edoras, but shhh this is fiction. We're rolling with it.)

Rohan's Yule is based more decidedly around Anglo-Saxon traditions, especially the toasts, which are modified from actual Yule toasts still used today. Also, you'll notice that Yule is nowhere near over: it lasts 12 days (which inspired what popular Christmas song? I'm sure y'all can guess) which means there's PLENTY O'TIME for more presents, feasts, and flirting. Though only two of those things are actual Yule practices ;)

As far as courting goes, Gondor's practices are based on "courtly love", made popular in the 12th century by Eleanor of Aquitaine and a few others. Rohan's are older, more lax, and encourage a couple to fully establish if they're compatible before agreeing to marriage.

On a character note: I will let y'all's reaction tell me what you think of our favorite pair's interaction this chapter ;)