Author's Note: Sorry again for the delay, folks! The holiday season is quickly approaching and it's a bit of a busy time for us at work. And this chapter would just NOT COOPERATE-Yule was only supposed to be two chapters, but thanks to a certain two characters running away with some extra fluff (oh, darn), it's turning into a bit of a three-parter.

Thank you AGAIN (as always) for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites! It really does make sharing this story that much more joyful for me :)

Per usual, break down of a few things from this chapter in the ending Author's Notes. Now, onward! More Yule celebrations and those pesky cloaks FINALLY get exchanged ;)

CHAPTER TWENTY

The first week of Yule whirls by in nights of packed with feasting, mornings full of aching heads and regret. But through it all: joy. Happiness. Warmth by every hearth, friendship in every heart. After all the suffering his people have seen, both during the War and before it, they have earned this season of peace, this respite from worry, however short it may be.

It's thoughts of these things that Eomer repeats to himself, over and over, as he paces back and forth in Erchirion's rooms. Today-the seventh day of Yule-is the traditional day of gift giving, in Gondor, and at Duilin's less-than-gentle instruction, he has reluctantly presented the cloak to the Prince for inspection.

Inspection. The very word makes him want to tear at his hair.

"You are giving me a headache, boy, with all that pacing," grumbles Duilin, reaching out a leg to kick at Eomer's knee. "Sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet."

Irritably, he does, flinging himself into the chair opposite the Master Healer's with a groan. "I do not understand why this is such a damned long process."

"Because the prince is likely toying you with a little," Duilin says, his smirk evident. "Another Gondorian tradition, though unspoken. You must test a man who courts, to see what his intentions are."

"Test-" Eomer starts, irritation growing. His anger is cut short by Erchirion emerging from the adjoining room, cloak in hand. The other man's face pulls into a grin when he spies the tracks his pacing has left on the carpet.

"Nervous, Eomer King?" He asks. "That's a good sign."

Duilin snorts. Eomer reminds himself that punching Edoras' Chief Healer and a Prince of Gondor is unlikely to encourage any woman to want to marry him, let alone one who holds them both in such high regard as Lothiriel does.

"It's somewhat of an unconventional gift," Erchirion continues on, unaware of the fleeting danger he'd been in, "but I cannot deny it suits her much better than the usual jewelry or flowers any other courting man would have chosen."

"Any other Gondorian man, you mean," Duilin chimes in helpfully. "There may yet be more Rohirric swains for you to fight off, prince."

Eomer bristles at that; he is no fool, he has seen how some of his riders-both local and visiting-have looked at her, but to think-!

"I doubt that," Erchirion answers. "Perhaps it is not Gondorian tradition to take a lady's opinion into consideration, but I will have to fail tradition, on this account." He turns to give Eomer a warm smile, holding the cloak out to him. "And there is no other man she would consider, Rohirric or otherwise."

Eomer takes the cloak in a daze, willing himself not to blush like a wet-behind-the-ears boy.

"Well, she could scarcely do better than a king, anyways," Duilin says, earning himself a black look.

Erchirion chuckles. "You'll have to forgive me in saying that Eomer is the one who could do no better," he emphasizes this statement with a mostly gentle pat to Eomer's shoulder. "Though I do suffer from a brother's bias."

Dulin snorts again. "Aye, you do. Though I must say, your choice of a gift is interesting in more ways than one, Eomer."

Steeling himself for some comment on its informal nature, its lack of value-in Gondor, perhaps, though the furs lining the collar would be haggled over for hours in any Rohirric market-Eomer arches an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

It's Erchirion who answers, with a wide grin. "Did I forget to mention my sister has a gift for you as well?"

Eomer blinks, stunned. It is normal for courting couples to exchange gifts, of course, but that Lothiriel had already thought to give him a máþþumgifu without knowing of his own…

"What is it?" He asks, dimly.

Erchirion's grin only widens. "If I told you, I am afraid she would skin me alive. You will have to wait until the afternoon to see for yourself."

"Steady now, boy," Duilin cautions, mirth evident in every tone. "I doubt you want to go into the council meeting looking as if you've been walloped over the head with a stick."

That forces a chuckle out of him and he rubs the back of his neck. "No, that would not do. Baldred and Eothred would turn the entire council on its head if given half the chance."

"Meeting first," Erchirion chirps, with another brotherly pat to his shoulder, "presents later."

Eowyn seems more nervous about hosting the small group of their friends and family in her rooms than she had about the entirety of Edoras in the great hall. The sight of her pacing back and forth, adjusting and readjusting the chairs, poking at the fire, making a show of arranging the assembled presents together is both endearing and somewhat headache-inducing.

"Eowyn, enough!" Lothiriel finally cries, taking her friend's hands and all but shoving her into the closest chair. "It looks wonderful."

"That is easy enough for you to say," Eowyn grumbles. "You have planned Gondorian Yule celebrations for years-"

"And I will say again," Lothiriel interrupts, smiling, "this sort of Gondorian Yule celebration is just for kith and kin. Meaning everyone who comes through your door is going to be happy to be there, regardless of what the room looks like." Even so, she gestures at the merrily crackling fire, the wonderful smelling Yule wreaths, the sprig of mistletoe above the door. "As it is, it's lovely. My mother herself could have done no better."

Eowyn swats her for that, even as her cheeks pink. "You exaggerate."

"Perhaps a little," Lothiriel teases. "Naneth would not have to bank the fire so high, as Dol Amroth does not suffer from these ghastly winters the way Edoras does-"

Eowyn flings a pillow at her, laughing. "The fire is only so warm for your benefit, Princess Coldfeet!"

Lothiriel throws the pillow back at her, giggling herself, and that is how Eothain, Wilfled, and Lisswyn find them, red faced and laughing, as if they are girls of twelve instead of women grown.

"What is this?" Eothain asks. "Does Gondor intend to wage war through its princess? And on the sister of the king, no less!"

"Hm, who shall we side with, Blodwyn?" Wilfled murmurs. "Your cumendre or the White Lady?"

Blodwyn's very eloquent gurgle has little meaning to Lothiriel, but Wilfled nods solemnly, coming to stand at her side. "It is decided then."

"Traitors!" Cries Eothain dramatically, slinging an arm around Eofor's shoulders. "We shall not prove so treacherous to the Mark, shall we, Eofor?"

"No, Fæder," the boy giggles.

As if on cue, Erchirion appears. He takes in the scene before grinning widely.

"A battle during Yule?" He asks. "I thought it was only ever Amrothos responsible for those."

"Amrothos is not here," Lothiriel says. "I thought someone should do the honors."

"Perhaps we should refrain from battle entirely," Lisswyn interjects, smiling. "Or I fear we shall not get to p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s and then I will never know peace."

Darwyn furrows her brow, clearly confused, until Eofor blurts, "Yes, yes, presents!" Then the little girl's face lights up and she wiggles out of her mother's arms before hurrying over to the pile of gifts near the corner.

"Darwyn, I doubt those are all for you," Eothain chuckles.

"No doubt she wants them to be!" Eothred chimes in, appearing in the doorway. He intercepts his great-niece before she can do more than tug at the nearest wrapped item, and kisses away her stormy frown before she begins to cry.

"You are missing something, Eothred," complains Eowyn. "Or rather, someone."

"His Royal Grouchiness will be along shortly," Eothred explains. "He was tasked with collecting Master Duilin, something I do not envy him for."

"Duilin only antagonizes you because you let him, Uncle," Lisswyn says.

"Duilin antagonizes everyone," Lothiriel corrects with a laugh. "It is merely the most entertaining for him to watch Eothred turn the same color as his hair."

Eothred splutters in mock-outrage at that, and the resulting laughter heralds Duilin and Eomer's arrival. Both are covered in a fine dusting of snow, and Eomer's arms are laden down with a number of parcels that she suspects that he was talked (forced) into carrying by the elderly Master Healer. His expression is...less than pleased, though whether from cold or from the weight of the items he carries, Lothiriel could not say. She has to hide a smile behind her hand. His Royal Grouchiness indeed.

"Do not stop on our account," Duilin quips, "Eomer's frown will defrost once he spends some time near the fire."

That starts another round of laughter, even as Erchirion steps forward to rescue the gifts from his arms, and Eowyn helps peel her brother's cloak from his shoulders. Lothiriel does the same for her teacher, shaking her head at the man's mischievous grin.

"You are supposed to be well-behaved during Yule, Master Healer," she scolds.

"Tch," he tuts, "a bit of teasing is unlikely to hurt your not-roguish suitor, girl."

She swats him, flushing crimson, and pointedly ignores his answering snort. Mercifully, the rest of the room is too busy bustling to and fro to have heard Duilin's less-than-subtle comment. She and Erchirion have been explaining the Gondorian tradition when it comes to presents to the entire group for nigh a week now, and it appears they have been paying attention. Eofor and Darwyn-with Eothred's help-eagerly push the assembled gifts into a pile at their respective recipient's feet. Eowyn has begun to pass out the spiced ale out. She sends Lothiriel a wink; they'd had quite the time making it, two nights previously, both of their hair ending up smelling like orange peel and thyme, cheeks flushed from the heat and the number of samples Merthwyn had insisted they take.

Once the ale and the presents have been divvied out, they all settle into their respective seats. Grouped by families, Lothiriel cannot help the overwhelming swell of fondness in her breast, just from looking at all of them. Her friends. Her second family.

Lisswyn bounces Darwyn on her knee as Eothain makes faces at her, while Wilfled looks down fondly at where Eofor and Eothred are inspecting her son's pile of gifts-Blodwyn is sleeping sweetly, oblivious to it all. Eowyn and Eomer, more alike than ever in the warm light of the fire, are both groaning good-naturedly as Duilin lectures them on the properties of some herb or another.

She thinks of her own family, back in Dol Amroth. She misses them, of course, and the familiar sound of Amrothos's laughter, Elphir's singing voice, so rarely used, the sight Alycia's wide smile. Alphros's weight, warm and trusting, as he snuggles into her shoulder. Naneth and Ada, at ease and happy, as their children trade presents and teasings alike.

Oh, but how could she forget Pippin? And dear Merry, soft-spoken Sam, and Frodo-she wonders what Yule looks like in the Shire. Lothiriel suspects it involves a lot of food.

And Aragorn and Arwen-and she cannot neglect Legolas either, or Gimli, with his big belly-laughs and twinkling eyes.

How lucky am I, to have so many to be thankful for? But if only I could have them all together, just for an hour. All the people I love best in this world, she thinks. That would be the perfect Yule.

"Lothiriel?" Comes Erchirion's voice, pulling her from her musings. "Are you well?"

She turns, offering him a smile. Her dearest brother, her little piece of home. "I am very well." She leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Happy Yule, 'Chirion."

He grins, pressing a kiss of his own to her forehead. "Happy Yule, Lothiriel."

"Can we open presents now?" Eofor asks, causing them all to laugh.

"So impatient!" Eothain teases, poking his son's stomach.

"Well," says Wilfled, "he is your son, after all."

"How do we go about this?" Asks Eothred from where he's currently sprawled across one of the rugs. "Just all dive in at once?"

"Hardly!" Cries Eowyn. "We open in order of age." She flicks a glance in Lothiriel's direction. "Yes?"

"Yes," Lothiriel agrees. "Gondorian Yule opening celebrations can take quite some time, and the little ones may need n-a-p-s."

Eofor's face twists at that. "I won't! I am not little, like Darwyn and Blodwyn!"

"There is no shame in needing rest, Eofor," Eomer says, reaching over to give the boy's hair a ruffle. "I think I would like nothing better than to be given permission for a few extra hours of sleep."

"Nothing better, eh?" Says Duilin, in a dangerous sort of tone. "Then I suppose a certain gift can be returned to my shop, then-"

If she had not seen it herself, Lothiriel would never have believed that Eowyn would actually resort to kicking the elderly man in the shin, but she does, and the room dissolves into laughter once more at his outraged yelp.

"Blodwyn first, then?" Eothain asks. "I suppose she's permitted some aid, glómmung cwén?"

"Aid away, Eothain the gallant," she teases.

Blodwyn's first present is a carved rocking horse-a joint effort between Eothred and Eomer, apparently, both whom blush furiously when Wilfled tears up in gratitude.

"It is wonderful," she sniffs.

"Look, glómmung cwén," Eofor cries, "I won't have to wait til Blodwyn is so big to teach her to ride!"

That lightens the mood, and the rest of the baby's presents-a blanket from Eowyn, four pairs of knitted socks from Lothiriel, and a number of herbs to help ease the pain when her teeth began to come in from Duilin, are quickly unwrapped.

"Oh, there's one more," Lothiriel says, plucking the box off of the hearth. "It's from my sister-in-law. Alycia. She's just had a daughter as well, you see, and she wanted to send something…"

She twists a strand of hair around her finger, anxiously, as Wilfled opens the small box. Blodwyn, recently awakened by Eofor's gentle prodding, peers down at it alongside her mother.

"Oh, Lothiriel," Wilfled gasps, "I have never seen anything so fine."

She passes the box off to Eothain, who removes the item from within with the utmost care. The rattle-wrought in silver, in the shape of a flower-looks comically small between his fingers.

"I told her about your prayers to Vana," Lothiriel says in a quiet voice, "and about Blodwyn's name. I hope...I hope it is fitting."

"Aye," Eothain answers hoarsely, offering it to Blodwyn, who grasps it with a toothless grin. "More than fitting, Lothiriel."

Wilfled slips over to kiss her cheek as Darwyn tears eagerly into her own presents-the first being a tiny pair of riding boots, from Eothred-and Eothain manages to give her braid an affectionate tug when Eofor drags her from her seat, demanding her help unwrapping one of his presents: a wooden sword.

"I suspect your sister-in-law had help with her choice of gift," comes a low voice near her ear, and Lothiriel jumps, turning to meet Eomer's gaze.

"Perhaps a little," she says, smiling. He looks as relaxed as she's ever seen him, sprawled across the chair with a mug of spiced ale in hand. His hair is more golden than ever in the firelight glow, his face soft with contentment. But Elbereth, those eyes! Dark, and hot, and she can almost feel them slide over her like a caress when she twists a little to settle herself more comfortably at the foot of his chair.

So close and still so far, she thinks, suddenly wanting nothing more than to rest her cheek on his knee, to feel the gentle pull of his fingers in her hair.

Next Yule, you could do just that, a little voice in her head mutters, all that and more.

She's so flustered by the thought that it takes Eowyn calling her name three times to clear her head, and she meets the room's stares with a sheepish look.

"Perhaps it is not only the little ones who will need n-a-p-s," teases Eothain. "Where were you just now, glómmung cwén?"

"A dream," she admits, "a very good dream."

"Well, wake up," barks Duilin. "It is your turn to open your gifts, girl."

Eomer can feel Erchirion and Duilin's eyes on him as Lothiriel begins to unwrap her gifts. There is a vial of something sweet smelling from her sister-in-law, a new sturdy leather satchel from Eowyn, a thick woolen hat from Wilfled and Eothain-who insist on her putting it on, and promptly dissolve into laughter at the sight of her, flushed and grinning, hair askew-and a book from Faramir, sent on Erchirion's behalf.

Her mother has sent her a pair of delicate silver earrings and Lothiriel's eyes dart in his direction, her lip caught in her teeth; they're in the same shape as the shell necklace around his neck, and he can't help but give the pendant a twist, if only to watch her blush once more.

"I think that pile is missing something rather important," Duilin mutters, "did the walk from my shop give you cold feet, boy?"

Erchirion's arched eyebrow indicates he's thinking something similar.

"I was under the impression," Eomer says in a low tone, "that courting gifts were between the people courting. Not the entire group of their meddling friends and family."

Duilin frowns. "Is it not a Yule gift?"

"It was," Eomer concedes, "until the prince agreed that I might," at this he frowns, damning Gondorian propriety for what feels like the thousandth time in the past week, "appropriately woo his sister. Yule presents would not have to be examined by a lady's chaperone."

Erchirion shakes his head, but there's no missing the smile on his face. "You've done your research. I should have expected that."

Actually, it had been Eowyn who had done the research, barrelling into his room not two mornings before and all-but shoving a thick, Gondorian book under his nose, opened to a page about courting customs.

Eomer thinks it's probably wise not to reveal this, so he merely offers both men a smug grin.

"You are so like your father," Duilin grumbles, poking him rather viciously in the arm, "dragging your feet for months about courting the girl, and then trying to weasel your way past tradition-"

"I hardly have thrown Lothiriel over my horse and ridden off into Fangorn with her," Eomer protests. "And by all accounts, my mother wanted to be kidnapped."

"I will ask you to refrain from spiriting my sister off," Erchirion says, face stern but amusement bleeding through in every tone. "Though, I suppose I will have to permit you the standard allowance that is your due for giving her a courting gift."

Eomer's brow furrows; he hadn't gotten to that part in the book. "Which is?"

Duilin snorts. "Didn't get to the end of that chapter, eh? A courting couple is permitted a moment alone to exchange gifts, assuming the lady's chaperone has approved of both man and present."

Helle, if Eomer had known about that particular rule, he would have forced Erchirion into inspecting the cloak the minute it had been finished!

"And no one thought to mention this to me?" He asks.

Erchirion's grin only widens, making him look disturbingly like Amrothos. "Well, you did not ask."

Duilin guffaws loudly, drawing the attention of the rest of the room.

"You three are being quite rude!" Wilfled says, fixing them with the sort of look that only motherhood seems to bring. "Quit whispering to one another and join us in watching Eowyn open her gifts."

The three men share a vaguely guilty look before dutifully complying. Eowyn's gifts are lovely, and well-suited to her-there is much cooing from the other women when Faramir's letter is opened, revealing a few potential designs for their wedding marks-but Eomer watches it all in a daze.

A moment alone to exchange gifts...it goes against everything he has learned thus far about Gondorian tradition and propriety. He's hardly complaining, only...only he had not thought to have such a thing, and has not prepared for it in the slightest. Of course they've been alone before, but not since she'd accepted, since they'd acknowledged-Bema, what was he supposed to say to her? All of Edoras seems to know how susceptible you are to the cold, so I had a cloak made for you to as a token of my affection?

It sounds stilted and awkward, even within the confines of his own head.

"Eomer?" Eowyn's hand is pressing gently at his elbow, her face turned upward towards his own. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he snaps, wincing at the bewildered look she gives him. "I am sorry, Eowyn-"

Eowyn's eyes flash from his face towards Erchirion's amused expression and back again. "You didn't finish the chapter."

"I thought I had covered the important parts," he admits, drawing an exasperated sigh from his sister.

"Typical man," she mutters. "I would have thought you would be pleased at the idea of a moment alone with Lothiriel." At this, mischief enters her expression. "Though I suppose you have already had more than what this gift will earn you-"

"Eowyn-"

"Your secret is safe with me, brother," she says, giving his cheek a less-than-gentle pat. "And do not look the gift-horse in the mouth. It is not as if you have had any difficulty speaking to her before now."

Eomer will admit this is true-not since the first month of their acquaintance has he felt awkward in Lothiriel's presence. There is no reason to start now.

Still, he helps himself to another mug of spiced ale as Wilfled opens her gifts, to better calm his nerves.

The rest of the afternoon passes without significant incident-Eothain does nearly shed a tear at the new saddle Lisswyn and Wilfled had made for him, and Eomer himself is more than a little misty-eyed at the unexpected gift sent by Faramir and the rest of Lothiriel's family: a signet ring of Theodred's, apparently found in a drawer in Boromir's rooms-and quite suddenly, all of the gifts have been opened. Eowyn begins reminding everyone that they would all be needed in the Great Hall soon, for the night's feast.

Something very akin to panic grips him as the room starts to empty; it is only a gentle touch from her brother that stops Lothiriel from following Wilfled and Lisswyn out the door.

"Erchirion?" He can hear her ask. "Is something the matter?"

"You've a máþþumgifu to open yet, girl," comes Duilin's voice instead. "Care to see what it is?"

Eothain and Eothred stop stock-still in the doorway, turning in eerie unison to grin at him.

"Out," Eowyn orders, shooing uncle and nephew-and mercifully, Duilin as well-from the room. "It is not a spectacle, and should not be treated as such."

Eomer groans, burying his head in his hands. "Damn Duilin."

"He is remarkably meddlesome," Erchirion says. "I like him."

The press of someone's hand forces him to look up and he nearly flinches to find Lothiriel standing there, looking as uncomfortable as he feels. She offers him a soft smile before turning an unhappy expression on her brother. "Courting gifts are exchanged alone, Erchirion."

"Which is why the two of you will be using Eowyn's solar, just through there," he answers. "And we will wait here, close by."

Chaperoning, Eomer thinks, and frowns.

The sudden tug of her hand in his pulls him from his frustration, and any lingering irritation he feels at Duilin's meddling, Erchirion's knowing look, is wiped away by the sight of her, blushing and eager.

"I have something for you, too," she admits, squeezing her fingers around his. "Come with me?"

Anywhere, he thinks, absurdly enough, but he lets himself be pulled along into Eowyn's solar, and resolutely ignores his sister's near face-splitting grin when he pulls the door shut behind them.

Lothiriel laughs, suddenly, startling him even more when she reaches up to press a soft hand against his cheek. "Oh, your poor face. I am glad not to be the only one blushing, for once."

He cannot help but huff a grudging chuckle at that. "Your blushes are far more becoming than mine. Eothain used to call me bæl hléor, when we were children."

"Flame face," she laughs. "I shall have to make use of that."

"I would rather you didn't," he says, but in truth, the old nickname would not sting as much, coming from her. It is hardly as if she does not suffer from a similar problem.

She gives one last laugh before dropping her hand. Anxiety creeps into her expression and she twists a strand of hair around her finger. "I confess I am rethinking your present. It seemed a good idea at the time, but after seeing all of the other gifts everyone has received it seems...dull."

Privately, Eomer suspects she could have given him a jar of dirt and he would have found something to like about it. But that is a thought so infused with infatuation that he dare not voice it aloud. He takes her hands in his before she can twist any more of her hair, running his thumbs over their backs. "I think I should be the judge of that," he says.

Lothiriel ducks her head, but not before he sees a smile tug at her lips. "Be my guest then, oh king."

Someone had put both of their gifts-he suspects Eowyn-on the small desk, and he makes a show of examining it, even lifting the package to his ear and giving it a shake.

"Insufferable man," Lothiriel cries, but she's smiling. "Open it and put me out of my misery."

All earlier nervousness forgotten, he does.

Of all the reactions she expected him to have, bursting into laughter upon opening her-much long-labored over-gift is not one she pictured.

Lothiriel can only gape in-Surprise? Mortification?-as Eomer's shoulder shake with the force of his laughter.

"I am no master weaver," she says, slowly, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of her voice, "but I did not think I was so unskilled as that."

Eomer's look of mirth vanishes as quickly as it arrived and he strides over, his cloak in one hand, and his still-unwrapped gift in the other. "No, Lothiriel, it is not-" He passes her the wrapped package. "Open it. If you do not laugh as well, I will apologize."

Confused as she is, she trusts him. So she pulls back the wrapping, to reveal...a cloak?

A giggle burbles out of her throat before she can stop it, and then they're both laughing, holding their respective presents.

"There is a Gondorian saying," she finally manage to choke out, wiping tears from her eyes with her free hand, "that great minds think alike."

"You Gondorians have sayings for everything," Eomer chuckles. He shakes the cloak out as he does so and Lothiriel cannot help but feel nervous. Oh, but what if the fabric was not to his liking? Or the cut too short, the embroidery too...other, too Dol Amrothian compared to Rohirric standards?

"Did you you sew this yourself?" He asks, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Yes," she admits, "we Gondorian trinkets must be good at some domestic things…"

He shoots her a look that clearly implies that he knows she's trying to hide her anxiety with humor. He pulls the cloak around his shoulders before she can stop him. He's gotten it upside down, somehow, and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh at his irritated expression.

"Here," she offers, setting her own cloak down. Between the two of them, they manage to wrestle it into the correct position. It drapes regally around Eomer's broad shoulders, the length of the fabric long enough to keep him warm, but not so long that it would drag the floor.

"This is well made," he says and she risks a look up at him. It is a mistake, because his eyes are soft, expression sincere, and Valar, it feels as if her heart will beat out of her chest.

"Thank you," Lothiriel says, her voice steadier than she feels. "The pattern is from home. It's supposed to invoke protection and blessings for its wearer."

"I thought that was what your necklace was for," Eomer teases.

"Perhaps I like to think of you protected in more ways than one," She blurts, and feels heat rise in her cheeks.

He's silent for a moment before she feels a calloused but oh-so-gentle finger crooking under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "That is a better gift than either cloak or necklace, though I value them both."

She can only smile helplessly at that-Valar, will she ever be able to be this close to him and not feel as if she were overheating, from the inside out? The sensation only increases when his thumb slides over the side of her jaw-he could easily feel the mad race of her pulse, if he moved his finger just an inch further-and her hands drift up to his chest of their own accord. Lothiriel is more aware than ever of how strong he is, how handsome, how achingly good, and how little effort it would take, for her to stretch up on her toes and finally, finally press her mouth to his-

A sudden rap at the door make them both jump.

"Five more minutes, Lothiriel, you know the rules," comes Erchirion's muffled voice. "And if so much of a hair is out of place on your head-"

Lothiriel wonders, briefly, if her parents would really mind being less a son. They have an heir in Elphir, a nuisance in Amrothos; surely they would understand if she smothered the extra one with a pillow? "Yes, I know, Erchirion!" She cries, loud enough to be heard through the door. "Meddler," she mutters in a lower tone.

Eomer looks to be thinking something similar, if the furrow between his brows is anything to go by, but he steps back to a more proper distance, to retrieve her cloak from the chair she'd placed it on. He sweeps it over her shoulders with much more ease than he had with his own, and Lothiriel marvels at the softness of the fur-lined collar once it's settled. The color, too, is rich and bold: a deep emerald green that she's seen so much of in Rohan.

Like his mother's dress, she realizes, and flushes pink again at the thought.

"It is beautiful," she says in a soft voice. "And so warm!"

He cracks a smile at that. "Perhaps I like to think of you as protected, too."

Lothiriel cannot help her mouth falling open in awe. A suitor-an eventual husband-was someone she always suspected would want to possess her, to want her for her title, her name, her connection to the powerful men of her family, even if they did love her. And yet, here Eomer is, wanting to see her safe-happy-for her own merit, her own self.

So she cannot help but to step forward again, sliding her hands to rest at his elbows, and stretching up as far as her toes will allow her, to press a kiss to his cheek. A bolder woman would have kissed him in truth, but with Erchirion likely lurking behind the door, she dares not.

That does not stop her from blushing anew at the nearly audible swallow he gives, nor how his eyes linger on her lips once she's pulled away.

"Lothiriel," he starts to say, but another round of pounding on the door stops him.

"I have been informed that your time is up," Eowyn says, "and you should both know I am the only thing preventing Erchirion from forcing the door open."

Lothiriel huffs, giving Eomer's arms an apologetic squeeze before stepping away. She opens the door to find Eowyn-exasperated, but amused-and Erchirion-frowning in a way that is only barely hiding his obnoxious grin-and glares at both of them.

"Were you expecting us to carry on a conversation in raised voice?" She asks.

"I did not," Eowyn answers, elbowing Erchirion.

"It is not in either of your natures to be particularly quiet," defends Erchirion. Lothiriel shakes her head at his antics, pinching him as she steps back into Eowyn's room.

"You are cruel," she tells him. "I do not recall either you nor Amrothos interrupting Elphir and Alycia so rudely when they were courting."

"Elphir was as likely as to do something improper as Amrothos is to suddenly sprout wings," Erchirion chuckles. "You, on the other hand-"

She swats him, rolling her eyes. Oh, Lothiriel could mention how decidedly improper it was to vanish for well over half a day with a woman he was not betrothed to, but frankly? She is too happy, to at ease, to be bothered by her brother's teasing. It is Yule. She is the now the owner of a blessedly warm and beautiful cloak, and of the certain knowledge that Eomer courts her for herself. It would take a disaster of truly epic proportions to dampen her mood. Erchirion's over-protectiveness is not that.

Eowyn is grinning widely, forcing Eomer to turn to and fro as she examines his cloak.

"Oh, this is masterfully done, Lothiriel," she says. "And to think you both thought of cloaks-"

"Great minds think alike," Eomer quips, shooting Lothiriel a smile so warm she feels it all the way down to her toes.

"Or great minds were nudged in the right direction," Erchirion says. "But it is very fitting."

"Am I permitted to say 'I told you so' now?" Eowyn asks, blinking innocently at them both.

"I suppose," Lothiriel says at the same time Eomer groans, "No."

They all laugh at that. A knock at the door interrupts them; it is a servant girl, reminding them that the feast begins in little under half an hour, would they all be ready by then?

Eowyn blanches, all but shoving them from her room so she can dress, and ordering them all to do the same. Lothiriel slips an arm through the crook of both Erchirion and Eomer's elbows, laughing quietly as they eye each other, clearly trying to decide if they were pleased with the arrangement or not.

They both walk her to her door, standing like guardsmen on either side, clearly waiting for the other to leave.

"You have already had the reward for your courting gift, Eomer King," Erchirion says. "Do not think I am such a fool to leave you and my starry-eyed sister alone again after that."

"Erchirion!" Lothiriel protests, face flaming. It is hardly as if she would drag him inside her rooms and kiss him senseless-

Much as you would like to, a little voice whispers, and Lothiriel is suddenly very glad that neither man possesses Lady Galadriel's skill of reading minds.

Eomer rolls his eyes before turning a much more gentle expression towards her. He lifts her hand to his mouth-a familiar gesture by now, but it does not fail to set her pulse throbbing once more-for a kiss. "Until later then, my lady. I believe I owe you a debt."

Lothiriel is not sure how she knows-perhaps it is his tone, or the way his lips are brushing gossamer soft over the back of her hand-but she knows he means the almost-kiss she had stolen. Somehow, she doubts his payment will be as chaste as hers.

Eomer is gone before she can collect her thoughts, leaving Erchirion blinking perplexedly after him. "What did he mean by that?"

"A Rohirric courting tradition," Lothiriel lies.

Mercifully, Erchirion does not ask for further explanation.

Author's Note: Alriiiiiight, let's break it down, shall we?

The Gondorian Yule present opening tradition is actually based on my own family's tradition (I come from a large Catholic family) that's gone back for about 3 generations now. There's no historical precedent for it other than I really enjoy doing it each year (we're up to nearly 50 of us in my immediate family, so you can imagine how long that takes).

As to the Gondorian post-courting gift tradition: taking a page from actual Victorian courtship (those poor repressed bastards). Yes, Victorian couples could be left alone behind closed doors-but not for very long periods, and typically only after they were "officially" engaged. I tweaked it a bit here, but what is fiction for, after all?

So, I'm sure some of y'all are ready to SKEWER me for there still being no "actual" kissing yet, but friends. My darlings. It's coming. Pinky-promise. (It was supposed to happen this chapter but then I made some scenes longer and had to add in a couple of other things so pls don't kill me). As it is, I hope this chapter satisfied in in its own way! Feel free to yell at me over on theemightypen on tumblr if you find you need to 3