Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, friends! Christmas is a busy time of year for me, both professionally and personally, so it took me a lot longer than I wanted to hammer this chapter out.

As always, thank you for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites. I'm glad some of y'all are still with me on this crazy journey!

Also, friendly reminder that you can find me over on tumblr as theemightypen! Feel free to come ask questions, throw prompts at me (I've been filling a bunch the past couple weeks and it's been a BLAST) or whatever else you'd like to talk about.

And now, onward! We get to see a new side of Eowyn in this chapter, Lothiriel finds herself with a mystery on her hands, and Eomer gets his just rewards.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Much as Lothiriel enjoys the festivities of Yule-both at home and in Rohan-it is something of a relief to return to a more normal routine. She has missed her daily lessons with Duilin, and missed more still being able to spend time with Eowyn without ten other pairs of ears around.

Eowyn herself is infinitely more relaxed now that there are not an endless parade of feasts to manage, and that the large majority of the guests have begun to trickle back to their respective cities and towns.

"It is not as if they will not all be assembled again soon," she grumbles, watching Hildred and Gresilda exchange a tearful goodbye on the steps of Meduseld. "It feels as if the whole country is insisting on coming to my wedding."

"It is a mark of how well they love you," Lothiriel soothes.

"It is a mark of how curious they are about Faramir, you mean," Eowyn argues. "That is all I heard about, throughout Yule! As if I am not capable of knowing my own heart."

Lothiriel frowns in sympathy. "I am sure they just want to know more about the man who is robbing them of their White Lady."

Eowyn snorts. "Robbing? I am hardly a parcel. I go willingly and happily to Gondor, and to Faramir."

"You do not have to convince me," Lothiriel reminds her, "you forget, I have seen you two in person."

Eowyn sticks her tongue out at her as they turn to return to the warmth of the hall. Lothiriel merely grins, stifling a laugh as Eowyn jabs her elbow against her ribs.

"Speaking of Faramir," she says once they've seated themselves across from each other at an open table, "have you given any more thought to the potential designs of the wedding marks he sent you for Yule?"

Eowyn's face heats in a pleased blush and she pulls the corresponding letters from her pocket. "If I thought about it anymore there would scarcely be room for anything else in my head."

Lothiriel smiles, leaning her chin on her hand. "Why, Eowyn, that was positively romantic."

She frowns. "Tease all you like, but there is nothing so important to any eorlingas than their wedding marks. They are more than just tattoos, they are a statement of the love between the pair that bears them."

Wincing and sensing she has unknowingly stepped on a nerve, Lothiriel reaches out to take one of Eowyn's hands in hers. "I am sorry, I did not mean to be unkind. I understand how important the marks are."

Eowyn's expression softens and she squeezes her hand in return. "I confess, I am nervous because there is no precedent for such things in Gondor. If this is to be a blending of our two countries' traditions, should there not be a true compromise between the two?"

"You already wear Faramir's ring," Lothiriel points out, relieved at Eowyn's easy forgiveness. "It is as close as an equivalent to a wedding mark as we have. As for the marks...you will have to remind me of how their designs and colors are determined."

"The marks are not intended to be identical. They're supposed to be two halves of a whole, much like the couple themselves. Similar, of course, but unique to either person. The color is determined by the other person's home city, the pattern by important aspects of their courtship."

"Oh, how lovely," Lothiriel says wistfully. "That explains Eothain's mark very well."

"Yes, he is very proud of it," Eowyn agrees. "So much so that I think Wilfled is tired of him showing it off at every opportunity."

"He cannot help himself," she laughs. "I expect you will find Faramir to be of a similar mind."

Eowyn flushes again at the thought, pushing the sketches towards Lothiriel. Faramir has always been better with words than with drawings-Boromir, for all his gruffness, had been the better artist-and she suspects he had asked for aid from an outside source. For the three options of marks are beautiful, each with slight variations in design and color.

"Would Faramir's mark be red, for Aldburg?" She asks aloud.

"Hm," hums Eowyn. "It could be, as that is where my father's family is from. But I think the green of Edoras would suit him better."

"Green, then," Lothiriel says, "and with perhaps a few flowers in the upper band. To symbolize your meetings at the Houses, and of-"

"Healing. And rebirth, and a nod to Vana, all at once," Eowyn agrees, expression more than a little dreamy.

"He will love it," she says, squeezing Eowyn's hand, "though I suspect not as much as he loves you."

Eowyn laughs, ducking her head. Her expression turns slightly melancholy as she eyes the drawings, however. "Happy as I am now, I cannot deny that I once thought none of this possible."

Lothiriel frowns, keeping her hand tight around her friend's. She knows, in part from Faramir and mostly from Eowyn herself, the depths of the despair that had gripped her before Pelennor, how little value she had placed on her own life. It hurts her, to think of Eowyn feeling so alone, but if she had not felt such pain, if she had not conquered it, would she have ever they have ever met? Would she have ever seen that the fleeting glory to be found in battle was not the prize she long dreamed it to be?

"I wish you had not had to suffer, Eowyn," she says, trying to choose her words with care, "but I believe I admire you even more for having conquered such darkness, and being able to find happiness anew."

Eowyn's grip only grows tighter. "It is just so strange. How much a year can change things."

Lothiriel can only agree. A year ago, she had known next to nothing of Rohan. Boromir had still been alive, Denethor still ruling Gondor with a vice-like grip, the shadow of Mordor creeping ever closer. Sitting around the fire, now, it seems as if the events of the War are a distant memory, surreal in their darkness, their despair. And yet, who would they be if none of it had happened?

"Strange is the right word for it," Lothiriel murmurs. "But not always for ill. It makes me wonder what another year will bring."

"Yule, 3020," Eowyn says. "I will be a woman wed."

"Blodwyn will be over a year old, perhaps learning to walk."

"Your nephew will have likely grown half a foot!"

"Duilin will have finally perfected his coltsfoot brew."

The happier vein of imaginings brings the cheer back to Eowyn's face, and her eyes sparkle dangerously as she says, "Perhaps you will be looking over wedding marks of your own-"

"Eowyn!" Lothiriel cries, hiding her cheeks behind her hands.

"Or perhaps not," Eowyn teases. "My brother is not a patient man, and I would not be surprised if he tried to finagle my wedding into becoming a double one-"

Lothiriel dissolves into laughter at the sheer unlikelihood of such an event taking place. The level of scandal it would cause would be unheard of. Poor Ada's eye would twitch for days at the thought! A proper Gondorian betrothal lasted at least six months, and they were still technically only courting. Likely even unflappable Aragorn would likely take some issue with such a sudden event, no matter how much he cares for Eomer.

She is still wiping tears from her eyes when another familiar voice says, "Dare I ask what is so amusing?"

Oh, Elbereth.

"You may ask," Eowyn answers, "but we shall not tell you."

"Cruel women," Eothred says dramatically, loping around the table to sit beside Eowyn. "We have just come from a council meeting and could use some cheer."

Lothiriel wills herself to remain still and calm as Eomer settles in beside her, though she suspects from Eowyn and Eothred's grins that she has failed to do so. She cannot help the tremor of heat that snakes up her spine when he turns to offer her a lopsided smile. If she thought she was aware of him before, it is even worse now, having kissed him.

"I cannot blame you for wanting to keep secrets from Eothred," Eomer says, ignoring the marshal's squawk of outrage, "but surely I have proved myself trustworthy?"

It does not help that his hand finds hers under the table. His fingers are warm when he laces them through hers and she has to stifle a gulp at the sensation of his thumb stroking tantalizingly over her index finger.

"I have three brothers, Eomer," she finds herself saying, voice miraculously steady, despite the disconcerting feeling of warmth pooling in her stomach. "Forgive me for not putting much trust in any man's ability to remain tight-lipped."

Eothred gives a loud, "Hah!" as Eowyn grins. Eomer, however, simply continues moving his thumb in a terribly distracting pattern. "Not even me?"

Lothiriel can feel the blush in her cheeks increase to a near painful degree of heat; Valar, it is if he does not care that his sister and friend are directly across the table!

"Well-" She starts to say, if only to get him to stop his assault on the suddenly hypersensitive nerves of her hand, when someone clearing their throat behind them causes her to jump in surprise.

"I hope I am not interrupting anything," Duilin grumbles. "But you are late for our lesson, girl, and I dragged my old bones through the snow to come find you."

"Oh, Duilin, I am sorry," she says. "I lost track of the time-"

"Among other things," he grumbles, obviously glaring down at where Eomer's hand is in hers under the table. Eomer merely arches an eyebrow, giving the healer a defiant look. His fingers remain firmly clasped around hers. She is not sure which is the unstoppable force and the other the immovable object, only that they were both acting like children.

Lothiriel closes her eyes. Counts to ten. Wills herself not to sigh.

Men!

She tries to ease her hand from Eomer's in as a discreet manner as possible-Eothred winks at her, so she supposes she has not succeeded-before rising to take Duilin's arm.

"You should have sent someone to look for me, stearcmód láréow," she says. "I know how badly the cold hurts your joints."

He softens at that. "Bah. I am not an invalid and the fresh air suits me."

"As does meddling," Eomer says in a low tone.

Lothiriel meets Eowyn's exasperated stare with one of her own. "I will see you at dinner, Eowyn?"

"Yes," Eowyn agrees, "and hopefully surrounded by a better-mannered crowd."

"You wound me, Eowyn!" Eothred cries but Eomer flinches under his sister's steely gaze.

Feeling a slight twinge of pity, she reaches forward to give his absurdly long hair a tug, smiling when he turns to give her a surprised look. "Behave, insufferable man."

His grin is no less dangerous than the one he'd given her upon sitting. "As you wish, byrnihtu cwén."

"Sæpigu dysigas," Duilin mutters.

"I am sure I don't know what you mean," Lothiriel says serenely, though she knows very well that her teacher has just called both her and Eomer sappy fools. "Should we begin the journey back to your shop? I remember you mentioning needing help grinding herbs..."

Eothred lets out a low whistle as they watch Lothiriel retreat, a placated Duilin at her side. "Bema, she could have the entire council managed within a month!"

"Yes, and Eomer as well," Eowyn says with a grin. "Though he appears managed already."

Eomer shrugs. "It is no hard thing to do the bidding of a beautiful woman."

"So that is why you have such a hard time agreeing to the council's suggestions," Eothred drawls, leaning on his hand. "Perhaps if we replaced them all with Lothiriel, there would be no quarrels."

While the idea of multiple Lothiriels is an...appealing one, to say the least, Eomer frowns at the mention of his council. They had not wasted any time asking about any of the women he had danced with on the last night of Yule, Lothiriel included.

"All suitable choices, to be sure," Ordlac had said, "and no lack of beauty in the bunch either!"

Dernhelm and Baldred had both puffed up proudly at that.

"Still, you must make your choice and soon, Eomer King," Tolfrith had reminded him. "For Eowyn travels to Gondor to be wed in four months time, and the Mark will be without a Lady of the Golden Hall."

"And an heir," someone had grumbled.

The council had begun to offer their opinions in earnest-some supported Dreda, others Hildred, still more gave names of women he is not sure he has even met, but a surprising number threw Lothiriel's name out more than once. Eight, to be exact.

"The Gondorian Princess?" Baldred had scoffed. "She comes from a great blood-line, yes-"

"With impeccable connections," Ordlac had interrupted. "Let us not forget she is cousin to the Steward of Minas Tirith, and daughter of the ruling Prince of Gondor's greatest trading port."

"-and is pretty enough-"

"Rumored to have Elf blood…" Another member, Elfhelm had chuckled. "After seeing her and Queen Arwen side-by-side, I would not doubt it!"

"-and has been shown to be good-tempered and intelligent-"

"Are you attempting to make a point as to why the lady is an ill choice?" Eothred had asked. "Because thus far, you have not named one bad quality."

Baldred had scowled at the marshal before turning to meet Eomer's gaze. "But sire, she is not of the Mark! It is more important than ever that we strengthen the people's faith in the line of Eorl, in our country, instead of introducing a...foreign entity."

"The people of Edoras call her glómmung cwén and she already has an admirable grasp of Rohirric, Baldred," Erkenbrand had snorted. "She is hardly unwilling to learn. You might as well say what you mean: you would rather Eomer King wed Dreda, Dernhelm's daughter, or your own."

That had set the men murmuring once more until Gamling had noticed his irritated stare and called for silence. "I thank you all for your council," Eomer had said, willing himself to sound sincere, "but the ultimate choice will be mine and mine alone."

He had expected his black mood to linger, but upon finding Lothiriel and Eowyn in the great hall, laughing at one another across the table, it was hard to be anything but pleased. Even better yet to sit beside Lothiriel, to watch her flush at the press of his hand, to remember what her lips had felt like-tasted like-in the crisp cold of his grandmother's garden-

"Eomer!" Comes Eowyn's voice, pulling him from his memories. "Are you listening to me?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?"

"No," she says, succinctly. "I asked if you would like to take a ride. The snow is not so heavy today and-" She stops abruptly, shifting the parchment around on the table.

And there is not much time left for us to do so, goes unspoken, but Eomer hears it nonetheless.

"Firefoot could use some exercise," he says. "I assume Windfola could as well?"

"The stable boys have been complaining of her restlessness," Eowyn confirms.

"And we have been complaining about yours!" Eothred crows, earning a swift smack in response. Eomer stands and offers Eowyn his elbow before she can do more permanent damage to his marshal.

"One day, he is going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and the Mark is going to find itself at war again," Eowyn grumbles.

"Eothred is not that much of a fool," he counters. "Uncle would not have made him a marshal otherwise."

They're silent on their walk to the stables, though not uncomfortably so. It is a quality both of them have always enjoyed in the other; neither is prone to filling empty space with unnecessary words. But, as they mount their respective horses-Firefoot is quite literally chomping at the bit, while Windfola does a happy trot once they've cleared the gates of Edoras-he cannot help but notice that Eowyn looks...sad. Melancholy, even. It is a look he has not seen on her face since those terrible nights in the Houses of Healing, when she had been dreaming beyond his reach.

He motions for his guard-trusty Caedda, who is one of the only men from his former eored who does not seem to think he has become soft upon becoming king-to drop back to give them privacy.

"Something is troubling you, sweostor," he says, once the other men are out of earshot.

Eowyn offers him a brief smile. "It is a silly thing."

"Anything that makes you that quiet," he dodges her outraged kick, laughing as Windfola gives a disgruntled huff at the sudden jerk of her reins, "cannot be silly."

She rolls her eyes at him, a little bit of the melancholy lifted from her expression. "But it is."

"Still," Eomer insists. "I would hear it. Pain shared is pain halved, not doubled."

Eowyn's gaze sharpens. "That is a Dol Amrothian phrase."

"As is the person I heard it from," he says, feeling gratified when she laughs. "But Eowyn. If something is troubling you, I would know."

She sighs, running a hand over Windfola's neck as they continue their easy pace along the winding road leading from Edoras into the Wold. "I will miss this. The Mark. Edoras, the stables, our people-"

"I do not make the list?" Eomer asks, teasing.

It has the desired effect, because Eowyn rolls her eyes again, shaking her head. "You are at the very top, as you well know."

"I am glad to hear it," he says. "But that is a natural thing. It is not silly in the slightest to worry about missing your home, all you have known until now."

"Everyone talks of a bride's excitement, her joy," Eowyn interrupts, as if he hasn't spoken. "As if it is an ill omen to feel anything less than incandescently happy. And I fear...I fear I will fail. Fall short."

"I doubt you are the first bride to feel like this," Eomer says. "In truth, if you did not feel this way, I would be worried. It is no small thing you are doing, Eowyn. You will be a wife, yes, but also a princess amongst the Gondorians, the third most high-ranking lady after Arwen and Lady Dejah. If that is not a daunting prospect, I do not know what is."

"You are so helpful," she says in a dry tone, "to remind me of what it is I should be afraid of."

"That is not what I meant," he says. "Only that I know you to have more than half a brain in your head to be worried. It is not a shameful thing to know fear, Eowyn."

"As if you can speak from experience!" She scoffs. "You, who have led our eoreds into battles for years, you, who did not flinch at even the Mûmakil-"

He pulls Firefoot to a stop, muttering an apology to the stallion before reaching over and taking Windfola's reins from Eowyn's hands. She glares at him, but he needs her to understand, needs to see her face when he says what he is about to say.

"Eowyn. I knew fear when Wormtongue supplanted Theodred in uncle's heart. I knew fear every time I left Edoras, knowing that I was leaving you with him and his machinations, his poisonous words. I knew fear when Gandalf found us, halfway across the Mark, and told me of Helm's Deep. I knew it again when the Nazgul descended. And I knew it most of all when I found you on the fields of Pelennor."

Her eyes go wide. "Oh."

"It is not wrong to fear. If you worry about something coming to pass, it only means that you care deeply about it. And there is no shame in that."

Eowyn is quiet for a moment, fiddling with the end of her braid. "I do not think I ever apologized to you. For going into battle."

Eomer winces. "Eowyn, you need not-"

"I am not sorry I did it," she interrupts, "I am not sorry, for I do not know if I ever would have freed myself from my despair if I had not. But I am sorry for frightening you so. For not doing the duty that Uncle asked of me."

Eomer sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He had been angry with her-how could she have risked her life so rashly? How could she have gone into battle knowing it would likely spell her doom?-but all of that anger has been bled away by her happiness, her return to the bold, strong woman she has always been, in place of the brittle creature of longing the War had made her.

"It is the past," he says, reaching over to take one of her hands in his. "I only ask that you do not do it again. I am sure Faramir would agree with me."

Eowyn laughs, slightly. "Yes, I think he would. Though I am insisting on keeping my sword."

"You would scarcely be a shield-maiden without it," Eomer agrees. "But Eowyn. No more fear. You will make a wonderful wife. And a wonderful lady of Gondor."

Eowyn's expression finally brightens fully, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "But second to another lady of Gondor in your eyes, I think, brother."

"Not second," he argues, "I hold you both in equal regard."

Eowyn scoffs. "I do not think you can classify your feelings towards Lothiriel as anything remotely 'brotherly', especially not after that third dance during Yule-"

"Eowyn," he hisses.

Laughing, she pulls Windfola's reins from his hands. "Come now, King of the Mark! First rider back to the gates gets to sit beside the Lady of Dol Amroth at dinner!"

He will have to hear about how he cheated the rest of the day, but it is worth it, to hear Eowyn's happy laughter on the wind, to feel the crisp winter air against his face after so much time indoors.

And, of course, being guaranteed getting to sit beside Lothiriel instead of across from her is no small reward, either.

"-and we'll need more marjoram, as the weeks after Yule have a spike in people with unsettled stomachs-"

"And likely more cloves, for all of the headaches," Lothiriel adds, smiling at the Master Healer. "I can write to my mother, to see if Dol Amroth can spare any of our supplies."

"Hm," Duilin hums. "But how would the Mark pay for such things? Eorlingas are proud, and do not respond well to perceived charity. Not even from you, glómmung cwén."

Lothiriel frowns. Thinks for a moment. "But they would accept trade? As the villagers in the West-mark did with the Dunlendings?"

"Just so," Duilin says, a note of pride in his voice. "You have been paying attention, girl."

"On occasion," she says, distracted, mind a-whirl with possibilities. What does the Mark possess that Dol Amroth would want? Horses are too valuable to Eorlingas to trade-there is some sort of sacred bond between horse and rider, and to trade a horse for something as paltry as herbs would be horribly insulting. Precious metals are in no short supply, in Gondor, and most of their trade was with Dwarves on that front, anyways. People of the Mark would have no use of silk from Harad. But Umbar's spices and herbs, already being traded in Dol Amroth...perhaps they could be traded in turn for-

"The furs," Lothiriel says. "The furs the Dunlendings gave Eomer-"

"The ones that line your courting cloak-" Duilin says, just to be contrary.

"Yes, those," she agrees impatiently. "There are number of merchants, both in Dol Amroth and in Umbar, who would consider such material rare finery."

"Furs from the Dunlendings, herbs and spices from Umbar," murmurs Duilin. "And how would Gondor and Rohan benefit?"

"As intermediaries," Lothiriel says, thinking of her father's long-fought for shipping routes, the much needed peace Elphir and Alycia's marriage had brought at least her city and Aly's home island. Their marriage had been for love, yes, but not entirely without more far-reaching benefits. "Dol Amroth already trades with Umbar, Rohan-or at least the West-mark-with the Dunlendings. Establishing the trade routes would take work, to be sure, but it would also create work. Possibly even opening the door for more opportunities in the future. To encourage such cooperation across four cultures is-"

"Queenly," he says.

Lothiriel blinks. She looks up to find Duilin smiling at her-the warmest expression she has ever seen, the intensity of it making her blush-and he shakes his cane in her direction. "You should tell Eomer of your idea, Lothiriel. And ensure that the council knows just who it comes from."

She opens her mouth to protest-she will not pitch this idea as bait, as a way to convince the council that she is worthy of Eomer's courtship! It is simply the most beneficial course of action, one that will help her people, the Mark's people, people in far-away Umbar and the weakened Dunlendings-

Before she can say a word, there is a frantic round of knocking on the door to Duilin's shop.

"Are you expecting anyone?" She asks. Lothiriel had been late for her lesson, it's true, but not so late that the afternoon's appointments were due.

"Injuries rarely plan themselves, girl," Duilin huffs, "best see who it is."

His knees truly are bothering him, with the cold, so she bids him to sit before hurrying over towards the door. The knocking has only increased. It makes her anxious; whoever is waiting must be in dire need, to be announcing their presence in such a harried manner! She lifts the bolt, pulls open the door, and-

"Lisswyn?" She says, in surprise.

Lisswyn's usually serene and sweet face is neither. She is nearly white-whether from pain or fear, Lothiriel cannot tell-and Lothiriel cannot help but give an exclamation of worry.

"L-Lothiriel," she stutters, "oh, I had not thought-I should come back later-"

"You will do no such thing!" Lothiriel cries, plucking her friend by the wrist and dragging her inside the shop. She pushes Lisswyn down into the nearest chair, hurriedly collecting as many blankets as she can find to cover her with. Duilin hobbles over and takes Lisswyn's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hm, shock, I think," he murmurs. "Have you had a fall, Lisswyn? Is Darwyn well?"

"I have not fallen," she says, sounding slightly more steady. "And Darwyn is with Wilfled. But I do need to speak with you, Master Healer. About a...a private matter."

Lothiriel blinks as both of their eyes-Duilin's shrewd brown, Lisswyn's teary cornflower blue-flick in her direction.

"Oh," she says, dumbly. Quickly, Lothiriel fumbles for her cloak, trying not to knock over vials in her haste. "I...I can wait outside?"

"No need to stand around in the cold," Duilin answers. "Consider our lesson over for the day, Lothiriel. Occupy your free time before dinner any way you see fit."

And she abruptly finds herself booted out into the snow, with one last glimpse of Lisswyn's apologetic face as the door shuts behind her.

The snow is falling faster than it had in the morning, but her cloak-her marvelously warm, too-beautiful-for-words cloak-keep her warm, even as her thoughts race. Lisswyn is as even-tempered as Erchirion, not prone to her brother's more dramatic outbursts, nor her sister-in-law's towering rages. For Lisswyn to be so unsettled is...worrisome, in more way than one.

I should have stayed, Lothiriel thinks, dimly aware of the snow crunching beneath her boots, I should have insisted on being of some use-it is likely she will be my sister before the next year is out, perhaps I could have offered her comfort-

"Careful, glómmung cwén!" Comes Leofa's familiar voice.

She looks up, blinking in surprise. She had nearly walked right into the stable doors in her distraction! Mercifully, they're shut, to better keep the horses warm, and the only witness to her near accident is the beaming Leofa, who blushes as she offers him her thanks.

"Oh, it's nothing, my lady!" He insists. "Couldn't let you damage that pretty face of yours!"

"Leofa," the Master of Horse-Herubrand, Lothiriel thinks his name is-says in a warning tone.

The boy blushes. "Have you come to see Niprehdil, my lady?"

She had not, but now that she thinks about it, it has been some time since she's spent more than a few passing moments with her horse. Leofa eagerly shows her to the mare's box, blushing even more when she smiles her thanks.

Niprehdil pushes her nose into Lothiriel's hand, clearly impatient for attention.

"I have been very remiss in taking care of you, haven't I?" Lothiriel says. "I am sorry, meldis. I have so much to tell you…"

Before Elphir had wed Aly, Niphredil had been her best secret-keeper. Naneth had often been so busy, running the city in Ada's absence, Elphir by her side, and Erchirion and Amrothos had often been with the calvary and fleet, respectively. Lothiriel had had friends, of course; daughters of minor lords of the surrounding cities, even a few of the more successful merchant's daughters...but Niprehdil had been who she had chosen to share her deepest secrets with. Her annoyance with Amrothos's attempts to grow a beard, her passing fancy for one of Erchirion's friends, her pride at being allowed to go with Naneth to the Houses...there was no better listener than her mare.

Feeling a little foolish, but mostly happy, she starts to brush down Niprehdil's already immaculate coat, telling her about Yule, about her quarrell with Erchirion, about the cloak she still can scarcely believe belongs to her.

"He kissed me, Niprehdil," she whispers, face pressed to the horse's neck to both hide her blush and muffle her voice. "And it was...wonderful. Nothing at all like Landion, do you remember him?"

She takes Niprehdil's snort to be one of agreement. "He was so forceful! But Eomer…" at this, she sighs.

Niprehdil butts her nose into Lothiriel's hand again and she laughs. "Yes, I know. Entirely starry-eyed. Naneth would be pleased."

A sudden gust of cold air makes her peek her head out of her horse's stall; the doors of the stable have opened, revealing a flushed Eowyn and Eomer, both dismounting from their respective horses.

They must have gone for a ride, she thinks, giving Niprehdil's mane one last brush before stepping out to greet them.

Eowyn's face is alight, all earlier worry gone, and she steps closer to kiss both of Lothiriel's cheeks."Say 'thank you', Lothiriel," she says.

"Thank you," she parrots, a little bemused. "What exactly am I thanking you for?"

"For allowing my dirty cheat of a brother to beat me during our race," Eowyn says, ignoring the pointed look Eomer gives her, "the prize was getting to sit beside you at dinner."

Lothiriel is absurdly-and entirely-pleased at the thought, but chooses to tap her chin, giving Eomer a thorough once-over. His hair is wind-ruffled, color high in his cheeks, dark eyes alight with happiness and no small measure of amusement. In short, far, far too handsome for her peace of mind. "Hm. If he cheated, should he earn such a reward?"

Eowyn laughs even as Eomer frowns at her. "I did not cheat. It is not my fault that Firefoot simply has a longer gait than Windfola."

"Uneven stakes from the start!" Lothiriel cries, pressing a hand to her mouth. "How shall we deal with such treachery, Eowyn?"

"I will leave that up to you," Eowyn says. She turns back towards the doors, clearly intent on leaving them alone. "Better be quick about it, though. Erchirion will be suspicious if you are both late to dinner."

"Eowyn!" The cry in unison, but she merely laughs as she exits the stables. Muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'meddlesome sister', he takes Firefoot's reins from one of the stable boys and leads the stallion back to his stall. Lothiriel follows along, watching as Eomer swats his horse's mouth away from his pocket.

"Greedy fiend," he admonishes.

"After a gallop, I would think he had earned at least an apple," she says.

Eomer turns his head to look at her. "You would reward him for cheating?"

She rolls her eyes, stepping closer to both of them. Eomer tenses and a sick sensation swoops in her stomach-she had been teasing, she knows they had not cheated-

"Lothiriel, take care," he says, "Firefoot is not usually welcoming to strangers-"

As if on cue, the stallion turns his head, sniffing Lothiriel curiously. She remains still, a little worried-she had overstepped her bounds with one of Elphir's war-horses once, and almost received a nasty bite in return-but then he leans his head over her shoulder. He is much sturdier than Niprehdil, and broader too, but she strokes his neck all the same.

"What a handsome lad," she croons, stroking the dappled skin.

"Should I be jealous?" Comes Eomer's voice. She peeks out from under Firefoot's almost smothering affection.

"Decidedly not," Lothiriel says. "Like horse like rider."

Eomer snorts. "I am not sure that is a flattering comparison." But he pets Firefoot all the same.

Eventually she wiggles out from under Firefoot's neck, laughing as he noses her hair in search for apples. Eomer rescues her before the horse can make a mess of her hair, producing an apple from his saddlebag. She steps back to watch them-a more in sync pair she has never seen-and cannot help but smile.

"A more faithful friend I could not ask for," Eomer finally says. "He has seen me through many trials."

"Niprehdil is the same for me," she admits. "I used to tell her all my secrets, as a girl."

"I still tell Firefoot my secrets," he says. "When I can."

"About what?" She asks, before she can think to stop herself.

Eomer's smile is a warm, slow thing that makes her throat go dry. Suddenly, she's aware that between the stall's doors and Firefoot's body..they are hidden from view. Eomer steps closer, crowding her up against the wood behind her. It feels as if her heart will beat out of her chest, the earlier sensation of hyper-awareness when he had taken her hand in the hall returning ten-fold.

But she is not afraid. Not even when Eomer braces himself with his arms on either side of her head. She should feel small, boxed in, even, but instead she feels...anticipation. Desire, if she's being honest with herself. They are not touching at all, but the weight of his stare is as heavy as caress and twice as potent.

"What," and she has to swallow as his eyes drop to her lips, "secrets do you tell him, Eomer?"

Impulse tells her to tilt her head to the side, and pure instinct is what keeps her from gasping when he leans down and presses a kiss to her jaw. Then her chin, her forehead, her cheeks-

"How long I have wanted to do this, for one," he says.

She somehow has the presence of mind to stretch upwards, on the tips of her toes, to better be able to wrap her arms around his neck. The kiss is gentle at first, a warm brush of lips, but then Eomer's arms fold around her, one hand at the back of her neck and the other against the base of her spine. She's pressed as close to him as she possibly can be, and her entire body feels more flame than flesh. The sensation only increases when Eomer coaxes her mouth open, the kiss shifting from gentle warmth to heat, heady and bright.

He hums, low in his throat, and something hot and almost painful lances through her stomach and below.

So this is what it is to want and be wanted, Lothiriel thinks. She likes it.

Firefoot gives a sudden whicker, startling them both. They're both breathless, still pressed close together, and she can only give a soft, helpless laugh when he rests his forehead on hers.

"We seem to be making a habit of this," she murmurs when she finds her voice.

"You'll not find me likely to complain," he says, dipping his head for another gentle kiss. "But Eowyn is right. Your brother would have something to say if we both arrived looking so…"

"Disheveled?" Lothiriel offers. "Disoriented? Debauched?"

Eomer's eyes seem to darken and she can feel her pulse jump to meet the calloused finger that slides along her neck. "Debauched seems too strong a word."

She swallows, reaching up to catch his hand in hers. Thinking, suddenly, of the first time they had been in the stables. It seems so long ago, and yet, not, all at once. Regardless, she brings his hand to her mouth and brushes a kiss to his knuckles. Drawing from some inner well of mischief she has only ever suspected Amrothos to possess, she meets his gaze, tilts her head to the side, and says, "Does it?"

Eomer groans, pulling his hand from hers and sliding it back into her hair for another kiss: brief, warm, and utterly, utterly thorough.

"Cwealmbealu," he says.

She merely smiles. "I would hope not. That would be treason."

He huffs a laugh before stepping back to a more respectable difference. His eyes drift over her-more appraising than anything else, but Lothiriel still fights the urge to shiver. "You'll pass," he says, after a moment.

Lothiriel wrinkles her nose. "Pass for what?"

"A proper lady," Eomer says, grinning when she swats him. "A Rohirric one, anyways, with that piece of hay in your hair."

She shakes her head and removes the offending object. "Insufferable man."

"And yet you are still here," with that, he gives her a gentle nudge towards the stall's doors. "Go to the hall, Lothiriel. And do not forget my prize for beating Eowyn."

She is still grinning like a fool when she reaches the hall. Eowyn motions her over, making sure to spare enough room on the bench for both her and the race's winner.

"You are lucky you are prone to blushes, Lothiriel," she whispers, "for no one will think to ask why your cheeks look as if they've been painted with roses."

Lothiriel shoves her shoulder, anxiously scanning the table for Erchirion-if anyone were to suspect the true reason for her giddiness, it would be her brother-and frowning when she cannot place him.

"Where is Erchirion?" She asks.

"He's taking his meal in his room," Merthwyn answers. "Said he didn't feel well."

The niggling feeling of unease from earlier creeps back into the pit of Lothiriel's stomach. It cannot be a coincidence that her brother claims illness on the same day Lisswyn should appear at Duilin's with some sort of emergency. A gentle touch at her elbow brings her attention to Cwenhild, who is peering at her.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"I am well," she says, resolving to talk to Erchirion in the morning. Surely, it can wait until then.

Author's Note: Bum bum bum! Had to cut this chapter a bit short, as it was already a full page longer than nearly every other chapter of this story (but hopefully worth it for y'all!)

So I decided to delve a little bit deeper into Eowyn's mindset-I know in the books, Tolkien described her as being "healed" in spirit by Faramir-which I love! And believe!-but I also know from personal experience that long-held anxieties and mental health struggles don't just POOF away overnight. So, yes, I think Eowyn definitely has her vulnerable moments, and I can't think of two people she trusts more (excepting Faramir, who is miles away) than Eomer and Lothiriel. I apologize if anyone finds this out of character for her, but once the words started flowing, it felt too natural to stop!

As for Eomer and Lothiriel-oh, my favorite pair. So happy! So smitten! What could possibly go wrong! (Hint: to quote Luke Skywalker, "This isn't going to go the way you think!")

Terms:

Sæpigu dysigas: sappy fools

Cwealmbealu:Death of me