Author's Note: Back again, friends! Thanks again for the sweet reviews, follows, and favorites. They're so very much appreciated.

This will be the last chapter centered around Yule, for anyone keeping track.

And now, onward! Lothiriel makes a new acquaintance, and Eomer discovers that dancing is much less simple as King than it was as a marshal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In Gondor, the last day of Yule is something of a non-event. It's the end to the holiday celebrations-both family and court-based-and most people are so worn about by the twelve day stretch of feasting and dancing that they are all too happy to let the day pass by without much fanfare.

It becomes quickly apparent that Rohan does not share this mindset.

Lothiriel finds herself being shaken awake when it is still dark outside, blinking blearily up into Eowyn's excited face.

"Eowyn?" She asks. "Is something the matter?"

"How can you possibly still be asleep?" Is her friend's answer. "It will take us ages to make the cynehealm, not to mention everything else we must do before the feast!"

Privately, Lothiriel is not sure how weaving a simple flower crown would take up the better part of the day, but she allows herself to be pulled from her warm, comfortable bed, hurrying to get dressed as Eowyn all but vibrates with impatience by her door.

Upon joining Merthwyn and a number of other ladies in the kitchens, it becomes clear as to the reason for such urgency: there are flowers here enough to fill a field. Winter jasmine, calendulas, primroses, and a large red type of flower she's never seen before. The result is a fragrant pile, brightly colored and cheerful.

"Sweet Elbereth," Lothiriel breathes, drawing a laugh out of Eowyn.

"It is tradition for the hosting household to have crowns enough for every lady present," Eowyn explains. "They are meant as a wish for happiness and blessings from Vana in the year to come."

"And a request for luckiness in love," chortles Merthwyn, dumping an armful of flowers into Lothiriel's lap. "Though you have no need of such prayers, Eowyn!"

That sets the rest of the ladies tittering in laughter. Some faces she recognizes-Mistress Theodburga, Mistress Deorwyn, a clump of serving girls scarcely more than six and then-and some she does not. There is a gaggle of women who are entirely unfamiliar to her: blonde and beautiful to a one, they are dressed rather more finely than the other women. "Daughters of some of the council members," Merthwyn murmurs, catching her obviously perplexed look.

"I think we all should aspire to be as lucky as Lady Eowyn in love," one of the women says, sending a knowing smirk in Eowyn's direction. "Though we may not all have to venture to Gondor to do so."

There is an insult there, thinly veiled, and Lothiriel cannot tell if it is directed towards Eowyn, Faramir, or Gondor itself. Either way, it sets her teeth on edge.

Eowyn, however, looks unimpressed. "You could do worse than finding a good man from Gondor, Dreda. They are every bit as brave and strong as any eorlingas."

"And as handsome," another of the women-this one younger, with thick blonde curls and a smattering of freckles across her nose-giggles. "We admire your brother very much, Princess Lothiriel."

She blinks in surprise. Oh, Lothiriel knows Erchirion to be handsome, but he is so quiet, so unassuming, that many women have overlooked him in the past, preferring Amrothos's obvious charm, or Elphir's status as future Prince. But her other brothers are not here now, and she cannot begrudge anyone for thinking well of him. "There is much to admire about him," she finally says, offering the girl a small smile. "Though I must confess, I am very biased."

The girl grins, introducing herself as Hildred, daughter of Baldred. "If your cousin is anywhere as handsome as him, I can understand how he captured Eowyn's attention!"

"Although, we were told," the first woman-Dreda, with her long sheen of golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a curious twist to her mouth-says, "that your cousin does not resemble you or your brother overmuch."

While that is certainly true enough-Faramir is fair, his copper hair more suited among the Rohirrim than his own people-Lothiriel senses that the woman does not mean it as compliment. "He does not. His hair is an almost red, and he has more freckles than I suspect he knows what to do with."

"No wonder you took such a fancy to him, Eowyn," Hildred says with a giggle. "You have always liked red hair."

A thought dawns and Lothiriel turns to blink at a rapidly-blushing Eowyn. "No."

"Yes," Eowyn admits, laughing slightly. "There was a time when I thought no man more handsome than Eothain."

The whole room laughs anew at that and Lothiriel cannot help but imagine a tiny Eowyn, staring longingly after a younger Eothain while Eomer watches on in horror.

"And what of you, my lady?" The third woman-plump, with blonde hair darker than the rest, with a wide smiling mouth-asks, sincerity in every line of her body."Have any of our kinsmen managed to capture your fancy?"

She opens her mouth to answer-not to tell the truth, per se, because she knows very well how quickly gossip can spread-when Dreda cuts across her with a laugh. "Gresilda, you cannot be serious! I am certain the men of Rohan hold little interest for a princess of Gondor."

Lothiriel can feel her face heat-for once, not in embarrassment, but in anger. "What do you mean by that?"

Dreda blinks innocently. "Oh, nothing, my lady! Only that you and your countrywomen must be used to a different sort of man than we have in the Mark. Men of Gondor are said to be so...refined. Well-behaved. Men of the Mark are many things, but one would be hard-pressed to call them mild. I would think the difference to be unappealing for a lady such as yourself."

Lothiriel can feel her eyebrows edging towards her hairline. Dimly, she's aware of Eowyn's thunderous look to her left, Merthwyn's obvious irritation to her right, but all she can truly focus on is Dreda's sickeningly sweet expression.

She means to challenge me, here and now, to insult all of Rohan! Lothiriel realizes. She cannot fathom why-this is the first time she's met the woman, after all, and she cannot even think of having heard her name before now. But it will not stand. She cannot let it.

"You are right," she agrees, fighting to keep her tone even, "mild is not a word I would use to describe your kinsmen. I have met many men of the Mark, both here and in Minas Tirith. All have shown their quality to be of the highest sort. Brave. Strong. True. What does refinement matter when compared to such things? Any woman-Gondorian or otherwise-would be hard-pressed to find better qualities in a man she hopes to call husband."

The room gives a murmur of agreement, and a number of warm smiles directed towards her.

"Well said, my lady," Merthwyn says.

"Someone must have captured your fancy, to earn a defense like that," Dreda drawls. "The question is: who?"

Lothiriel keeps her face as blank as she can, though her traitorous cheeks betray her once more by flushing crimson. Eowyn spares her the trial of answering, saying in a sharp tone, "I do not think it would require Lothiriel fancying a man of the Mark for her to acknowledge and honor that they are brave and good."

"The princess' heart is her own business," agrees Mistress Theodburga, fixing Dreda with a stern look. "I doubt you would like to be put on the spot about where your fancies have laid over the years, Dreda, Dernhelm's daughter."

That finally knocks the smug look from the other woman's face and she ducks her head, shifting her attention to the flowers in her lap. "Forgive me, my lady. I was only curious."

Lothiriel believes that as much as she believes that Hobbits have a second stomach, as Pippin tried to convince her so long ago now, but she can scarcely say so if she intends to avoid another confrontation. Eventually, the ladies break off into smaller groups, weaving the flowers into crowns and talking amongst themselves.

"Pay Dreda no heed," Eowyn says in a low tone, the jerkiness of her fingers giving away her anger. "She has always thought too highly of herself, and has wanted the title of queen since we were girls."

That gives Lothiriel pause-before the War, Theodred, not Eomer, had been in first in line for the throne. "Just the title, no matter whom she would have to marry to earn it?"

Eowyn snorts. "Just so. I suspect it would not matter if it were Saruman himself on the throne, she would still want the matching crown."

Still, Lothiriel feels unsettled. "But no doubt the crown holds more appeal than ever, as it is not Saruman who is king, but Eomer. A young man, and a brave one-"

"Who has feelings for you," Eowyn interrupts her, reaching over to take one of Lothiriel's hands in her own. "Dreda may covet all she wishes, but there is little she can do to change that."

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at that, tightening her fingers around Eowyn's. "What would I do without you, Eowyn of Rohan?"

"Fret yourself into an easily avoidable situation," she teases, grinning at Lothiriel's huff of laughter, "as I would likely horribly offend some Minas Tirithian noblewoman without you."

"Oh, I hope you will do so even if I am present," giggles Lothiriel. Eowyn makes an affronted noise, hitting her in the nose with a free flower.

The rest of the day passes rather quickly. Lothiriel cannot mind her aching fingers when she and the other ladies look over the fruits of their labor. They all murmur the prayers to Vana over the assembled crowns, and it is with no small amount of pleasure that she can just see Dreda's surprised expression as she repeats the words in nearly flawless Rohirric. It is a petty thing, a small thing, to feel such pleasure at shocking someone she scarcely knows, but she feels it nonetheless.

I am no mere interloper, Lothiriel finds herself thinking, and Bledgifu's disapproving face floats in her mind's eye as well, lined up beside the pinched expression Dreda currently wears, I could belong here.

Eowyn's hand is warm in hers, and the gentle chuck Merthwyn gives her under her chin as she pushes a particularly beautiful crown of flowers into her hands makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she already does.

As a marshal of the Mark and a member of the royal household, Eomer is long used to being prepared to look his best on the final day of Yule. He has strong memories of Theodred emptying a bucket of water over his head, both to cure his sleepiness and the lingering smell of one-too-many ales from the night before. He has dimmer ones of his mother grumbling as she pulled a brush through his tangled hair-"Just as unruly as your father's!"-as Eowyn giggled behind her hands, and said father lounged lazily on the floor.

He would prefer either thing to this.

It feels as if every inch of him has been scrubbed, his hair combed through so many times he suspect half of it may have remained on the brush, and been forced into his most formal tunic and breeches.

Erkenbrand enters once he's fully dressed. He takes one look at his expression-likely verging towards murderous-and bursts into laughter.

"It is not funny," Eomer grumbles, slouching into the nearest chair, ignoring his squire's horrified squawk of protest. "Why must I be trussed up like some sigeléan?"

"Tonight is the last night of Yule, Eomer King," the older man answers, once his mirth has subsided. "Not to mention that there are a number of eligible ladies that the council would like you to take into consideration present…"

Eomer sits up, abruptly. "What?"

Erkenbrand eyes him cautiously. "You knew this, sire. Both Baldred and Dernhelm's daughters have come to Edoras to be presented to you, and I imagine there is no shortage of other ladies that would be more than happy to claim a dance."

"Oh, helle," he blurts before he can stop himself. How could he have forgotten? How many Yules had he watched Theodred fend off a veritable gaggle of eligible ladies, all eager to get to know the Mark's elusive and reserved Crown Prince? But Theodred had never courted anyone-well, not anyone the entirety of the Mark could know about-and certainly would not have had not had to compete with Gondor's more rigid courting standards if he had. Adding in the matter of his and Lothiriel's courtship being a relative secret...Bema, how was he to handle this?

Erkenbrand's expression is a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Your sweetheart will understand that you have obligations as king, Eomer."

Eomer blanches-how had Erkenbrand known? "I do not know what you mean," he says instead, hoping his tone is even enough to hide his surprise.

The older man rolls his eyes. "I do not know who she is, Eomer, but I can think of precious little other reason you would be so reluctant to dance with some of the most eligible and beautiful women the Mark has to offer."

Relief fills him. "You have not been on the king's council for years for nothing, Erkenbrand."

"Aye, I've been known to have a brain or two in my head," he chuckles. "And with that in mind, I would save the hlíepen for the lady of your choice."

He's right, of course. The hlíepen is nearly always comprised of unmarried couples, ripe for courting, given its rather...intimate nature. Lifts, the press of partners' bodies from hip to shoulder... Erchirion would likely have his head, not to mention Duilin...but the thought of their irritation pales in comparison to the thought of having Lothiriel so close. In the Mark, the dance is merely a statement of interest, a whiff of potential, but in Gondor it would likely be seen as nothing short of an outright declaration of courtship.

Luckily, they are not in Gondor.

"She must be something, to get you grinning like that, sire," Erkenbrand says, something of a question in his voice.

Eomer is suddenly reminded that he was one of Theoden's most trusted advisors, one of his oldest friends. What Eothain is-and has been-for him, Erkenbrand was once to his uncle. That alone has been enough to trust him with the weight of Head Councilor, to turn to him when the rest of the council has made him angry enough to want to order them all outside for a moment's peace...and it is why he smiles now. Why he knows Erkenbrand is asking from a place of concern, of affection, and not of one of politics.

"She is," he agrees.

"Bema bless you both, then," the older man says, giving his shoulder a sound thump. "It is high time this country has a Queen again. Though you will forgive me for thinking her unlikely to be more gracious than Elfhild Queen."

Eomer had scarcely known his aunt-she had died not long after his own mother, trying to bring another child into the world-but all of the Mark knows of her sweetness, her charm.

And her frailty, too, he thinks, though not unkindly. Elfhild had been frail-prone to illness, likely to be weary after short amounts of exertion. Many had not thought her to be the right choice for his uncle. But they had loved each other truly, and Theodred had been strong, a true Crown Prince. A great leader of men and an even better friend. It is still strange, to think him gone. It has been nearly ten months since he had fallen at the Fords, and sometimes it does not truly feel real.

That he will never muse Eomer's hair again, or swing Eowyn up into a one-armed embrace. That he will not help till the fields, come springtime, nor see Eowyn wed, nor Eomer himself. He wonders, not for the first time, what Theodred would have made of Lothiriel.

He can almost picture him as he had been in life: narrower shoulders than his own, darker of hair, a scar on his cheek from his first encounter with the Dunlendings just visible behind his beard, dark eyes wise and familiar in the firelight.

There must be something about those Gondorians, eh, geswigra? Eowyn, you-

And you, Eomer thinks.

Theodred would have shrugged, grinning. He had never been good at hiding things from Eomer. In his mind's eye, his cousin's face grows more serious, sadder.

I suppose it's best it falls to you to carry on the line of Eorl, you and your brynhitu cwen. Bema knows how you managed to find someone as stubborn as you are-don't look at me like that, bríwþicce, you know it's true-but I am glad of it. I am glad you have found happiness. I am glad Eowyn has found her peace.

We could have had both, Eomer thinks. Our happiness, our peace...but you and Uncle, too.

Theodred's expression turns wry. Perhaps. Though I doubt you would have had as much success convincing your princess's father of that, as a Marshal of the Mark, as you will as King. Do not pity us, Eomer. Live your life. Know that we are proud of you. Westu hal, Eomer King.

"-mer King?"

Erkenbrand's voice pulls him from his daydream and Eomer has to blink for a moment to come back to himself, eyes feeling suspiciously damp.

"Are you well?" Erkenbrand asks. "They are expecting us in the hall soon."

With one last look at the empty chair across from him, Eomer stands. "Let us go, then. Bema knows what Eowyn would do to me if I were to delay the start of the dancing."

How there is any ale at all after twelve nights of revelry Lothiriel will never understand, and yet there are a large number of barrels visible around the hall, and no few number of vats of wassail either. There are large groups clustered around each one, and a space cleared in the middle of the hall that's clearly intended to become a dance floor. Eowyn and Eomer stand are just visible in one of the corners, and she cannot help but give both of them a happy wave. Eowyn looks lovely in a gown of deep green, and Eomer matches her, the color equally eye-catching against his darker skin. He meets her eyes and offers her a slow, warm smile-Valar, that alone makes her breath catch.

Erchirion-her escort for the time being, looking handsome in the customary navy blue of Dol Amroth-follows her gaze and grins. "Can I expect you to behave tonight, little flower?"

She arches an eyebrow at him, trying and failing to hide a blush. "I am sure I do not know what you mean, Erchirion."

"No overindulging, no trodding on anyone's toes, and," at this he winks, "no more than three dances with a certain gentleman."

Lothiriel's had smiled at the first two requirements, but now finds herself frowning mightily. "Oh, Erchirion, that is not fair!"

"Fair or not, it is tradition," he admonishes, tapping her nose with a finger. "And more than Ada or Naneth would deem appropriate, were they here."

"They are not here," she grumbles, "and even Elphir was granted more leeway."

"Elphir was also in official negotiations for Alycia's hand during their first Yule together," Erchirion reminds her. Something pulls his attention from her and Lothiriel turns her head; unsurprisingly it's Lisswyn, arriving with Wilfled and Eothain, who all beam at the sight of them.

"Bema be good, glómmung cwén," Eothain crows, pulling Lothiriel's hands from Erchirion's to better look her over. "I think your brother will be run ragged, keeping the stallions away from you tonight!"

Lothiriel blushes, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "You exaggerate, Eothain."

"The red does become you, Lothiriel," Lisswyn assures her, in her gentle way. "Mistress Theodburga has outdone herself."

Lothiriel smooths her hands over the red velvet, feeling abruptly nervous. She has never worn a dress in this shade before, nor in the cut. It leaves her shoulders very nearly bare and dips almost scandalously along her collarbones. It is Rohirric in every way, and while she had felt confident when her maid had laced her into it earlier, it feels...overwhelming, suddenly. As if she is trying too hard.

"Come," Wilfled says, seemingly sensing her anxiety, "the first dance is starting soon! You'll have no time to worry about men walking into wooden beams upon seeing you if your feet are distracted."

That startles a laugh out of her throat even as Erchirion nearly chokes on his ale behind her, and Lothiriel allows Wilfled to tuck her hand into her elbow and lead her towards the dance floor. Eowyn joins them not long after.

"The first dance is the tumbian," she explains, as if she has not informed Lothiriel of this at least three times a day since the beginning of Yule. "You place each of your arms over the shoulders of the ladies next to you, and then-"

"We spin in a circle," Lothiriel recites. "Three times one way, four times the other."

"And you must be careful to remember your cynehealm," Wilfled says. "If it falls from your head, whichever man picks it up earns the right to the next dance."

Lothiriel blinks in surprise, suddenly more aware of the larger ring of men surrounding the semi-formed circle of women. "Oh," she says.

Eowyn merely grins, nudging Lothiriel with her elbow. "You may cheat a little, if you like. You would hardly be the first to try to ensure your cynehealm lands at the feet of a man you'd like to encourage."

Wilfled snorts. "You should make him sweat a little, though. See that Eothred claims your first dance, or even one of the other riders. It's more fun that way."

Lothiriel shakes her head at her friend's mischief. "Would Eothain find it funny if you were to do such a thing to him?"

"I suppose we will find out," Wilfled laughs, slipping one arm around Lothiriel's shoulders and another around a recently-reappeared Lisswyn's. "Quickly now, the music is starting!"

Lothiriel scarcely has time to throw her other arm around Eowyn's shoulders before the sound of drums and strings begins. There's a loud cheer-from both circles-and then they begin to move. Lothiriel is shorter than both Eowyn and Wilfled and has to strain to keep up with the pace but she hardly minds. How can she, when their dear faces are alight with joy, with happiness? The first switch in direction catches her off-balance, but they hold her fast, both grinning as she laughs an apology.

She's too caught up in enjoying herself to realize that a number of cynehealms have disappeared from the other women's heads. It's not until Wilfled throws her own head back that she realizes the flowers are still in her own hair. Trying to pick Eomer out of the crowd of men-some already crowing about having caught a crown-is near impossible. Fleetingly, she wonders what would happen if she were to not throw her cynehealm at all-but that choice is taken from her when she misses a step, nearly tumbling backwards if not for Eowyn's strong grip.

She's one of the last to lose her flowers, and the circles dissolve into a mass of men and women, all trying to find the appropriate cynehealm or its owner.

Wilfled's has been claimed by a blushing youth-Freca, Lothiriel thinks his name is-who stammeringly tries to pass off the flowers to a laughing Eothain. Eothain waves his own prize in the boy's face: apparently, Eowyn's cynehealm had tumbled directly into his outstretched hands, through no fault of his own. Erchirion, unsurprisingly, is holding Lisswyn's flowers, and they're both flushed rosy with pleasure at the prospect.

Lothiriel finally spies Eomer, who is looking down at the crown in his hands with a frown. She feels her heart give an uncomfortable lurch: it is not her cynehealm of red and white he holds, but a different one, with the yellow of winter jasmine and orange calendulas.

"There's no reason to look so cross, glómmung cwén," interrupts a familiar voice. Lothiriel turns to find Eothred's smiling face. Her cynehealm is held between his weathered hands. "Surely I am not such a terrible prospect, for a dance partner?"

She huffs a laugh. "Of course not, Eothred. I suspect I'll be the envy of the entire hall."

He snorts at that, gently settling the flowers back on her head. "I think you have us flipped, my lady, but I thank you all the same."

A sudden murmur from the crowd claims both of their attention: the owner of the cynehealm Eomer holds has revealed herself. Something thick and heavy sinks into Lothiriel's stomach as Dreda steps forward, blushing prettily under the eyes of the hall. Of all of the ladies present must it be her?

"Lothiriel," Eothred says suddenly, startling her into turning her eyes from the other woman. The older man looks as serious as she's ever seen him, so the sudden press of his thumb and finger around her chin startles her. "Easy now, lass. That's nothing to fret over, mark my words."

She flushes, even as they both settle into the positions for the next dance. "Am I so obvious?"

Eothred's face pulls into a grin. "I suppose it's possible that a blind man would have missed it-" His voice cuts off when she pinches his hand. His expression sobers again. "No man would choose fool's gold after knowing the real thing, my lady."

Lothiriel can only smile helplessly at the compliment. "You are too kind, Eothred."

His grip tightens on her hand for a moment before he smiles again. "Kind, eh? Not troublesome?"

"The two are not mutually exclusive," she teases.

He abruptly lifts her in response, and her startled shriek of laughter draws the eyes of nearly half the hall. "Come now, glómmung cwén," he says, settling her back on her feet, "let's give him something to fret about, hm?"

Eomer is not sure what he likes less about this situation: the fact that he had not caught Lothiriel's cynehealm or the fact that Eothred had.

"Eomer King?" Comes a musical voice.

Looking down, he finds Dreda peering up at him, hand extended.

Right. The dance.

He passes her cynehealm back to her, waiting patiently-or mostly patiently-as she settles it back on her head before offering her hands to him once more. They've known each other since they were children-Dernhelm had been a marshal with his father-but he has not seen her since they were scarcely more than teenagers. At the time, Eomer had been too preoccupied with earning his uncle's praise, and Dreda too infatuated with Theodred to take much note of each other.

She is a beautiful woman: long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a slim figure, all well set-off by the deep blue of her dress.

But she cannot hold a candle to Lothiriel. Lothiriel, with her cheeks flushed pink, the thick waves of her hair free around her shoulders, shoulders bared by the blessedly daring neckline of her dress, the red tantalizingly warm looking against her skin-

Lothiriel, who is currently being held aloft by a grinning Eothred.

Jealousy is not something Eomer has ever be accustomed to feeling, but he feels it now, bitter as bile in his mouth.

"We have to start the dancing, sire," comes Dreda's voice again, pulling his attention back to her.

Abruptly, he feels guilty. It is not Dreda's fault that he did not catch the cynehealm he wanted, nor is it fault that his marshal knows entirely too well how to irritate him. "You are right," he agrees, taking one of her hands in his.

Dreda's face lights up as they dance; it is clear she enjoys it, and even more clear that she enjoys having the eyes of the hall on them.

"My father told me of your venture to the West-mark, and your treaty with the Dunlendings," her nose wrinkles daintily at the word. "I trust those...savages have remained true to their word?"

Eomer is grateful for the times that Duilin drilled all of the dances of the Mark into his head, because he somehow remembers the steps even while he reels from the question. He cannot blame her, truly, for having such a thought: a year ago, he would have said something similar. But having met Dera, having seen what the children of the tribe had suffered...it is not so simple as it had been before. "They have more honor than you think," he says, wincing at how harsh he sounds. "It is a good thing, to put our past grievances aside. After so much loss, the Mark needs every ally it can find."

Dreda blinks rapidly before offering a slightly tremulous smile. "Of course. I meant no offense to our...allies."

They're both silent for a moment before Dreda speaks again, looking slightly less wary. "It cannot be easy. Taking on the role of king at a time such as this."

He huffs a laugh. "A truer statement has never been said, my lady."

She brightens considerably at that. "It need not be so difficult. Even after Eowyn leaves to wed her Gondorian lord...there are many who would help you bring the Mark into a new age of prosperity and peace."

At that, he arches an eyebrow. "I do not doubt any of our kinsmen, Lady Dreda."

Her eyelashes flutter. "Perhaps that is because I do not refer to them. Well, not our kinsmen. It is among the women of the Mark you should turn to for comfort, for council."

A Queen, he realizes, with a second thought following quickly after, she means herself.

In another life, Dreda would have made an ideal Queen. Beautiful, well-spoken, with a good lineage to boot. Her father, for all of his grumblings, is a good man, a good leader.

But here and now, there is only woman Eomer can imagine sharing the burden of ruling with. The joys of spring, the heat of summer, the fall harvest, and the ice of winter. And as suitable as Dreda may be, it is not her that he wants beside him during feasts, or curled beneath the furs of his bed to hide from the cold.

"Perhaps," is all he can say, and he can see the dismissal in his tone is not lost on Dreda.

She offers him a polite curtsey once the dance is through, slipping away to join a group of women who all giggle at her approach and cast him curious looks over her shoulder.

He can just make out Eothred, sweeping into a low bow in front of Lothiriel, who is shaking her head at him. Eomer scarcely takes two steps in their direction before another lady-Hildred, Baldred's daughter-has blocked his path, beaming up at him.

"Would you dance with me, Eomer King?" She asks.

Eomer opens his mouth to protest, but she does not give him time to answer, instead plucking at his hand and leading him back the way he came. And that is how it goes for the next three dances: he's scarcely finished with one partner before another is presenting themselves. Some, he recognizes-Eowyn cuts in, just once, and laughs at his pinched expression-others he doesn't. But the fact remains: none of them are Lothiriel.

He sees her every so often, being spun to and fro by yet another eorlingas. Eothain twice, Erchirion once, and helle, even that bastard Grimslade, who has no business being near a lady half as fine as Lothiriel, let alone Lothiriel herself.

Alarm doesn't truly set in until after the seventh dance, when Eomer realizes he cannot see Lothiriel at all. The sudden sharp pain of wood against his ankle makes him nearly stumble. Looking down to find the source, he finds Duilin, who frowns mightily up at him.

"Idiot boy," he grumbles.

"Duilin, not now," Eomer groans.

"Fine," the older man snaps. "Then I won't tell you that if I were a visiting princess, looking to escape from over-eager dance partners, that I would go out into Morwen Queen's garden for some fresh air. I won't tell you that Erchirion has long since been distracted, and that likely no one saw anyone leave the hall since the twelfth barrel of ale has been opened."

Eomer can only gape at him as the Master Healer shoves a familiar bundle into his hands: Lothiriel's cloak. "I also won't tell you that this cloak was left behind by its mistress, who is likely needing it now."

He can scarcely stutter out a thank you before Duilin is all but kicking him towards the door that leads to his grandmother's garden. The cold is jarring in its intensity and he frowns at the thought of her-with her well-known aversion to the cold-standing outside without a cloak. Someone, likely Merthwyn, had thought to leave a few torches outside, and he hears the slightly muffled conversation of one or two couples as he wanders the path.

Finally, he spots her. The garden overlooks the back side of Edoras, the Ered Nimrais rising into view with its snowcapped peaks.

Despite his earlier irritation, he cannot help but smile as she shivers against the cold, face turned out towards the view.

"Forget something?" He asks.

She jumps nearly a foot, whirling around to look at him. Despite the cold, her cheeks are still flushed pink, just barely visible in the dim light of the closest torch. He holds the cloak out to her.

"Oh, thank the Valar," she sighs, reaching out to take it. "I thought I might freeze, but I was not ready to fend off Eothred's invitations to dance again."

Eomer frowns. "He should know better than most when to leave a lady be."

"Perhaps," says Lothiriel. They fall silent as he comes to stand beside her, both soaking in the quiet of the garden after the raucousness indoors.

"Did you-"

"How did-"

They both stop, offering each other amused looks as they try to talk over each other. Eomer motions her on to speak first. Lothiriel turns to face him, cocking her head to the side as she does so. "How did you find me?"

"Duilin," he admits, gratified when she laughs. "He spared me having to search every room in the keep, at least."

"So considerate," she teases. Her expression dims a little. "I had not thought you would notice me gone."

Eomer frowns, guilt swooping hotly in his gut. On instinct, he steps closer, crooking a finger under her chin. "Doubt some other thing, Lothiriel."

He can feel her tremble, slightly, and when she opens her mouth to talk again, the full softness of her bottom lip brushes against his thumb. "Did...did you enjoy the dancing?" She asks in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

He has to swallow once, twice, before answering. "Well enough. Though not as much as I could have."

"Me either," Lothiriel admits. Something in her eyes makes him think of her boldness the night they'd exchanged cloaks. His hand slides of its own volition to her neck, thumb stroking lightly over the rapid pulse at her throat.

"I believe I owe you a debt, my lady," he says, willing himself to sound calmer than he feels.

"A debt amongst royalty is no small thing," she answers, the tremble in her voice taking the seriousness out of her words. "How shall you repay it?"

"In the Mark, a debt is paid back three-fold," Eomer says. "And as the debtor sees fit."

With that, he leans just enough to press his lips to her forehead. Then further down, to brush a kiss to each cheek, smiling just slightly at the sudden grip of Lothiriel's hands at his doublet. He leans back enough just to meet her eyes-which proves not to be a good idea, because they are blown wide in the low light of the torch, her cheeks flushed, and-

Well, he doubts anything short of another War could have stopped him from kissing her in truth then. Her lips are soft, and warm, and part with the small sound of a gasp. He pulls back-or tries to, but then Lothiriel's arms are around his neck, pulling him down, closer to her height, and her lips are on his again. She tilts her head to kiss him more thoroughly, her mouth opening willingly under his and Bema, why had they waited so long?

He has to stifle a groan when her nails scratch lightly against his neck, and she makes a sound not far from a whimper when he tugs gently at her bottom lip with his teeth.

Slowly, he tries to lessen the kiss's intensity-Bema knows what Erchirion would do to him if he were to find them like this-but Lothiriel makes an adorably grumpy noise and kisses him anew, her hands anchored rather firmly on either side of his neck.

"Swete," he finally manages to say, pulling back to press his forehead to hers. "Cwealmbealu."

Lothiriel takes a shuddering breath, her fingers flexing slightly. "I-I am sorry, I did not mean-"

Eomer kisses her again, just once. "Do not apologize for that."

She laughs, softly. "Fine, then."

They linger for a moment, Lothiriel tucked comfortably against his chest, his cheek pressed to the top of her head, until the conversations of other people nearby become more audible.

"We should return," he says, regretfully. "I do not think this would fall under 'appropriate wooing' by Gondorian standards-"

She stops him with a finger to his lips, smiling. "I think I prefer Rohan's standards."

And how can he not kiss her again for that?

Lothiriel is the one to pull back now, blushing as she attempts to smooth her hair back into place. "But you are right. It's a miracle no one has thought to look for either one of us."

A miracle Eomer suspects they have Duilin to thank for, but he offers her his arm regardless. "I have only one favor to ask."

"Lucky for you, I am feeling particularly generous at the moment," she says, nose tilted upwards as she tries-and fails-for haughtiness.

"The next dance," he murmurs, feeling strangely nervous, as if he has not spent the last ten minutes with his mouth pressed to hers, "will you-"

Lothiriel gives a quiet laugh, squeezing his arm. "The next dance, and the one after, and the one after that."

Yule, Eomer muses, really is a good time of year.

Author's Note: ;)

Dreda, for those curious, looks something like Annabelle Wallis, of Tudor fame.

(Friendly reminder that I am available over on tumblr at theemightypen if anyone needs to come yell/talk/ask questions)

Terms:

cynehealm: crown of flowers
sigeléan: trophy, prize
hlíepen: to dance, to leap-in this instance, I've made it the name of a specific Rohirric dance
geswigra: cousin
tumbian: to dance, to tumble-a different Rohirric dance. If there are any Poldark fans reading this fic, think of that one scene where Demelza is dancing at Jim and Jinny's wedding.
swete: sweetheart
cwealmbealu: death, death of me