Author's Note: Guys, so so sorry for the long delay! I've had a nasty case of strep throat for the past 2 weeks and it made writing impossible. So this chapter is a bit longer to make up for the long wait! As always, thank you so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites.

You can also find me over on tumblr at theemightypen; I've been doing some prompt fills and whatnot and it's been super fun!

And now, onward! In this chapter you'll find a discussion of dowries, a prince in a serious pickle, and the healing power of hugs-well, sort of.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Merthwyn eyes her curiously when she arrives in the kitchens to retrieve her brother's breakfast.

"You realize we have serving girls for that, Lothiriel," she says.

Lothiriel laughs but takes the tray all the same. "I do. But I am well-versed in my brother's tendency to revert to a childlike state when he is ill, and I do not want to force any one less experienced to deal with that."

"A wise woman and a kind one," the housekeeper chuckles. "Although I feel I would be remiss in not telling you that it is not just your brother who becomes a man-child when sick."

"Eothred?" Lothiriel guesses.

"Of course. And Gamling as well. Even a certain king is known to behave less like a man grown and more like a petulant child when afflicted with a head cold."

Lothiriel cannot help but smile at that particular image: Eomer, curled in his bed, frowning mightily at a bowl of soup. "I can only imagine."

"I can imagine you'll one day see it for yourself," Merthwyn retorts, grin widening when Lothiriel blushes. "Away with you, Princess! Tend to your brother. I'll make sure no one interrupts."

The warmth of the kitchens and the warmth of the meal in her hands stays with her, even as she moves down the cold corridor towards the rooms Erchirion has been given. Her first knock receives no answer, but she's been expecting that. Erchirion, for all his quiet calm, hates being sick more than anyone in their family. Elphir, she suspects, welcomes it, as a valid reason to recuperate and escape from princely duties for a few days. Amrothos milks it, moaning about his early demise all while scarfing down as many pastries as Alphros can sneak him. But Erchirion? He hates what illness reduces him to. Scowls at every concoction Naneth makes for him, grumbles until even Alycia refuses to spend time with him in his rooms.

Her second knock is also unheard.

"Erchirion, it's me," she finally says. "Stop being such an infant and let me in."

Still no response.

Huffing at his childish display, she pushes the door open. Despite the lateness of the hour-it is well past dawn-the curtains are drawn. The only light comes from a low-banked fire. Erchirion's bedding is strewn about the room, an odd sight. Even in sickness, it is not like him to be anything other than tidy.

"Erchirion?" She asks, unable to spot him. The same sensation of unease from the night before slithers to life in her stomach again.

"Here, Lothiriel," comes her brother's voice, strangely hoarse.

Which would make sense if he is unwell, Lothiriel reminds herself. She comes around the chair his voice had come from. Facing the fire, Erchirion looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, eyes red, hair mused.

"You really are sick!" She cries, setting the tray down on a nearby table before pressing a hand to his forehead. "Valar, Erchirion, I thought you and Lisswyn had merely quarrelled and you needed time to cool off-"

"I am not sick," he says dully, "and we did not quarrell."

His forehead is not hot to the touch, but his eyes are glassy. Not unwell, then, but not entirely himself either.

"What is it, then?" She asks.

He leans back in the chair, pulling his face from her grasp. Nods, jerkily, at the small table near the chair. Lothiriel drifts closer, and recognizes both her father's handwriting and the seal of the House of Dol Amroth.

"Read it," says Erchirion.

My dear son,

While your mother and I are overjoyed at the news that you have found a lady that you think well-suited to become your wife, we cannot, in good conscience, give you our blessing. We have never met the Lady Lisswyn, and while your sister's letters have also been full of positive reports about her, that is not the same as knowing her. You will recall that we did not give Elphir and Alycia our permission to wed either until both your mother and I had met her. It is not only for our sake, but for yours, that we ask you to take our advice with caution.

This is not a permanent forbiddance to marry your lady, Erchirion. If she is as fair, kind, and well-taught as you claim, we would be proud to have her join our family. I merely ask that you consider the short timespan that you have known her, and the challenges she will face in coming to a country and city that is not her own, far removed from all of her kin.

As Lothiriel has mentioned that she is a close family friend of Lady Eowyn's, I imagine she will be part of the retinue that will escort her to Emyn Arnen to wed Faramir. When we are all reunited, we will be sure to get to know your lady, and with the Valar's blessing, happily announce your betrothal at that time.

I know this is not the answer you were looking for, my son, but it is the only one I can give you.

Know that we love you, even if we must disappoint you in this.

Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth

"Oh, Erchirion," Lothiriel says, setting the letter down and stepping closer to wrap her arms around her brother. He presses his face into her stomach and she frowns while she strokes his hair. "I know you must be disappointed, but it is not so ill a thing! It is merely a delay. Naneth will adore Lisswyn. Ada will be charmed instantly upon meeting Darwyn-though I suppose she might be too young to make the journey-"

"You do not understand," comes Erchirion's muffled voice.

Her hand pauses. Tugs a little, until his eyes meet hers. "What don't I understand?" There is anguish in his face, mingled with guilt. Her heart starts to pound. But still he stays silent until she lets go of him. Kneeling, she takes his hands in hers and squeezes them. "'Chirion, please, you're frightening me."

He pulls his hands from hers, hiding his face away. "There can be no delay."

Lothiriel blinks. Horror and realization dawn. "Oh, Elbereth, Erchirion, you two are not already married, are you?"

Erchirion barks a laugh at that, but it is a bitter sound, an unhappy sound. "No. Would that we were."

"What do you-" Oh. Oh. Lisswyn's tears, her visit to Master Duilin's shop, Erchirion's usual composure lost over the idea of something as mundane as a delay. "Erchirion, no."

"Yes," he says, hiding his face in his hands again. "You are to be an aunt, Lothiriel."

Lothiriel presses a hand to her mouth. A child. Oh, Valar, how could they have been so careless?

Erchirion flinches when she says as much. "It was not...it was an accident-"

"An accident that you-you-lay with a woman you are not wed to?" Lothiriel asks, shooting to her feet. "I can think of many terms that would apply here, but 'accidental' is not one of them!"

Erchirion glares at her. "What would you have me say? That I-we-made a mistake?"

"This goes beyond a mistake!" She cries. "Sweet Elbereth, Erchirion, do you understand what you have done?"

This surpasses any worries she could have dreamed about the court not accepting them. Now, no matter if they married a week from now or five months hence, the taint of bastardry would linger on their child. Erchirion would be whispered to be either a fool, who fell prey to the machinations of a conniving peasant, or an irresponsible rake who took advantage of Lisswyn's awe of his princely status. Lisswyn-oh, Valar, Lisswyn-would be judged the court over as an easy, simple, loose woman. Her only saving grace, perhaps, would be the fact that she was married before and has another child, proving that Erchirion had not robbed her of her innocence.

"It changes nothing," he interrupts. "Once we're married-"

Lothiriel wants to shake him. "You are an idiot if you truly believe that."

That puts shock into his face-she has never spoken so harshly to him ever, not even in their argument weeks before. "What do you mean?"

She resists pulling at at her hair, if only just. How is it that her brother-her smart, kind, sensitive brother-can be so blind? So unaware of the consequences that this will bring down on his head, on Lisswyn?

"I will tell you," Lothiriel says, and her voice sounds strange, even to herself. "Because you could not wait, because you and Lisswyn failed to take precautions like any other sane, rational people would-"

At this, Erchirion's mouth opens but she holds up a finger, feeling more like her mother than ever.

"-Lisswyn will face the worst sort of scorn imaginable from nearly every Gondorian noble I can think of. It will not matter that she is kind. That she is beautiful. That she is proven to be able to bear children, both by Darwyn's birth and the birth of your child. That she is skilled in running a household larger than even Ada and Naneth's in Dol Amroth. She will be judged to be a whore, a scheming peasant woman who seduced a Prince of Dol Amroth so that he might wed her. They will be forced to welcome her, on the surface, as your wife and a Princess of Dol Amroth, but she will be without friends, without respect!"

Erchirion's face is red as he shoots to his feet. "You are letting your fears overrule you again, Lothiriel-"

"I am not. What I am describing happened not ten years ago. Do you not remember when Lord Celphen wed Lady Bereniel? She was a seamstress, and visibly showing at the time of their wedding. Uncle Denethor almost did not recognize the marriage, even though Lord Celphen is one of the most admired warriors of the age! It took years of Lady Bereniel endlessly proving herself-through hosting balls, learning the 'proper' way of speaking-to gain even a modicum of the court's acknowledgment!"

"Aragorn and Arwen are Gondor's sovereigns now," Erchirion argues. "Do you think the courts will be permitted to continue-"

"Aragorn and Arwen have been King and Queen for a handful of months!" She cries. "You cannot be so foolish to think that that is enough time to undo ages-worth of prejudicial notions!"

His expression darkens. "Rohan's standards are not so harsh. It is common enough for babes to be born not three or four months after a couple is wed-"

She gives an incredulous laugh. "You cannot be serious. Even by the Mark's standards, this is nothing short of scandalous! You and Lisswyn are not even betrothed! How do you think Eothain will respond to this? Or Eothred? They would be well within their rights to call you out in front of the entirety of Edoras. You are a prince, with all of the responsibilities that entails. If word of this reaches Father, or Aragorn, this could become a diplomatic dispute between our countries!"

"You exaggerate-"

Lothiriel wills herself to remain calm. "No. You are being willfully blind to the depth of what you have done. The consequences of your actions are not limited to just yourself and Lisswyn, Erchirion! This could complicate Faramir and Eowyn's wedding, if not their betrothal itself. It will upset nobles in Rohan and Gondor. It will tarnish Ada and Naneth's reputations-if you are the responsible son, and still so reckless, what does that mean for Amrothos? What lord will permit their daughter to marry the brother of someone so impulsive, so-so-selfish!"

She can see that she has shocked him, hurt him, even. Part of her-the part that had always gone running to him the minute he had returned from any campaign, the little girl that remembers hours spent pouring over old tomes with him in the dusty recesses of Dol Amroth's great library-longs to comfort him, to say she understands. But the other part-the part that has watched their father cultivate his reputation of wisdom and sensibility with such care, that has seen what her mother and Alycia have borne in a court that does not know what to make of them-cannot bend.

"I am going to meet Eowyn for her lesson for the day," Lothiriel finally says, attempting to keep her voice level. "I hope you will think on what I have said."

"Lothiriel-" He starts to say.

For the first time in her life, she does not heed her brother's entreaty. She walks to the door and closes it swiftly behind her.

The coldness of the hall greets her. It feels nothing compared to the ice in her stomach.

Eomer can feel his irritation increasing as another councilor stands to offer his opinion on Eowyn's dowry. Traditionally, a dowry was a family matter. If the War had never happened, if their father had never been cut down by Orcs, it would have been the two of them and his mother, perhaps Theoden and Theodred as well, determining what goods and lands would become his sister's upon her wedding.

But their family has dwindled down to just Eowyn and himself, and apparently the council does not trust him to do it on his own.

"It is not a lack of trust,"" Erkenbrand protests when he voices his thoughts. "You are king now, Eomer. And Eowyn is to wed the Steward of Minas Tirith. Her dowry cannot be anything less than what she deserves."

"And they do not think I would give that to her?" Eomer asks, incredulous. He has been accused of many things when it comes to his sister-over-protectiveness, pigheadedness-but no one could ever say he does not know her worth.

"No, sire," interrupts Ordlac with a smile, "but we think you may not be aware how much you truly have to gift her and her future husband with."

It is, in fact, far more than he ever dreamed.

Their family's seat in Aldburg gives both he and Eowyn the right to a large portion of the shellfish found in the lake, as well as access to acres of wheat and barley, and no small number of horses. Their mother's lands-a gift from Theoden at the time of her marriage-are some of the most well-kept and least damaged in all of the Eastfold. There is some jewelry, too, that had belonged to their grandmother Morwen, and has gone unworn since Elfhild Queen's death nearly three decades ago.

"Helle," he curses, in surprise. The council chuckles at that, all of them grinning approvingly as he sorts through the records. "How is it that there is so much?"

"The House of Eorl has not seen a wedding since your parents' own, sire," Baldred answers. "As such, there's a bit of a...surplus."

"Though I would caution against giving all of the bounty to Lady Eowyn," rumbles Torfrith. "There is your own marriage and bride-price to think of, after all."

Eomer wisely chooses to ignore Eothred, who he can see smirking out of the corner of his eye.

"It is Eomer King's prerogative to give his sister whatever he deems fit," Erkenbrand says. "We are not here to question his judgment, merely guide."

In the end, it does not take very long at all to decide what will make up Eowyn's dowry. Their mother had been Theoden King's much-loved sister, just as Eowyn is to him. It seems only fitting that all of the lands that had once belonged to Theodwyn would now be passed to her own daughter. The council gives half-hearted grumbles when he insists on a number of the royal stallions part of the dowry, but he wins them over with his reasoning.

"Eowyn will still be a lady of the Mark in her heart, no matter where her husband is from," he explains. "Bema knows the stables of Minas Tirith could do with some Rohirric horseflesh. And besides," at this, he grins, think of Faramir's reaction to one of the Mark's oldest traditions, "I would not have my future nieces and nephews taught to ride on anything less than the most magnificent of friþhengest."

There's a long round of cheering at that.

He glances again at the scroll detailing Morwen Queen's jewelry. Eowyn has never been one for flashy pieces-the golden circlet Theoden had had made for her when she had come of age will undoubtedly go with her to Gondor-and he suspects she is already more happy with the ring Faramir has given her than she ever would be with a strand of pearls or earrings encrusted with rubies. Still, they are well-made, and should stay with the female line of Eorl. And given what he remembers of Lady Dejah's own jewelry, and Lothiriel's necklace-he touches it absentmindedly where it lies mostly hidden under his jerkin-it would seem that jewelry is a mark of status in Gondor's courts. It would not do to send Eowyn to become a lady of Gondor ill-prepared.

In all, there are roughly twenty pieces of jewelry, ranging from necklaces to earrings to bracelets. Most are gold and inlaid with precious stones; likely Dwarven made. But a few pieces are silver. Eomer is admittedly rather ignorant when it comes to jewelry-it's not as if he has ever been prone to wearing it, let alone purchasing it-but he does know that Eowyn favors gold, both because of her coloring and because of its commonality amongst Rohirric pieces. The silver...he doubts she'll make much use of it, even with the change in her wardrobe to accommodate Emyn Arnen's colors.

Unbidden, the image of Lothiriel in his grandmother's silver jewelry floats in his mind's eye. He already knows she prefers it, and that the color would stand out far more against the dark waves of her hair than it ever would in Eowyn's golden hair. Silver jewelry for glómmung cwén...it strikes him as particularly fitting.

"All of Morwen Queen's gold jewelry should go to Eowyn," he says.

Torfrith frowns from over his quill. "Just the gold?"

"Well, he should keep something for his future queen, eh?" Says Eothred, looking disturbingly smug. Eomer has no doubt that his marshal knows exactly why he'd specified just the gold.

"But surely Morwen Queen's jewelry should be reserved for the future Queen of the Mark, especially the gold," chimes in Dernhelm. "Your own crown is gold, sire-"

"I do not think it will take much to acquire more jewelry for Eomer's bride," Erkenbrand interrupts. "These pieces are family heirlooms. I think it is wise to split the wealth."

The majority of the council voices its agreement and Eomer lets out a sigh of relief; if pressed, he can think of no way of explaining himself that would not put his and Lothiriel's somewhat clandestine courtship out in the open.

"Lord Torfrith, if you'll read back the final dowry for review, I think we shall be finished," Baldred calls.

The older man clears his throat, lifting the parchment closer to the light. "Upon her marriage to Faramir-son of Denethor, Steward of the King of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien-Eowyn-Eomund's daughter, White Lady of Rohan, sister of Eomer Eadig-"

Eomer frowns a little at that. He doubts his sister would be pleased by being known only through the men in her life rather than her own accomplishments.

"Torfrith," he interjects. "Are we not forgetting one of Eowyn's titles?"

The older man blanches a little. "It does not seem fitting to have 'Slayer of the Witch King' in a marriage contract, Eomer King-"

"Bah," scoffs Eothred, "she is as much that as she is Eomer's sister or Eomund's daughter! Add it in, Torfrith, lest we face the White Lady's wrath."

He shoots Eomer a wink at the conclusion of his speech, grin widening as the older man grumbles as his quill moves across the paper.

Torfrith gives a long-suffering sigh before starting again, "Eowyn-Eomund's daughter, White Lady of Rohan, sister to Eomer Eadig, Slayer of the Witch King-will be, upon her marriage, granted the following as her dowry. Seven of the finest stallions from the king's stables, ownership of her mother's lands in the Eastfold, rights to grain produced in Aldburg's fields, and all of the gold jewelry of Morwen Queen. This property and goods will be retained by the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen for as long as they are wed, and pass on to their eldest son-"

"Eldest child," Dernhelm interjects, surprising Eomer. "It should read 'eldest child', Torfrith. Let it not be said that any daughter of Eowyn of Rohan will be left wanting."

"But traditionally lands and horses are passed to sons-"

"And if there are no sons?" Dernhelm asks. "I have only daughters myself, Lord Torfrith. Forgive me for not standing with tradition this once."

As blatant as the man has become of late in his efforts to promote Dreda as an option for queen, Eomer cannot help but feel a rush of gratitude towards him.

"I agree," he says.

That settles the matter, though the scribe looks more than a little disgruntled as he adjusts the parchment. Eowyn's dowry-and its phrasing-thus agreed upon, all Eomer has to do is sign it before it's neatly packaged, soon to be sent to Faramir, Aragorn, and Imrahil for review. It will be weeks before they respond with their proposed bride-price, though Eomer has no doubt it will be more than generous. Likely too much so, if the surprisingly unsubtle hints in Imrahil's latest letters have been anything to go by-as if the Prince of Dol Amroth had any other reason to ask about the state of the Mark's grain supplies.

The rest of the council meeting is uneventful. There are the usual complaints, the same points made regarding the approaching spring-all things Eomer has heard a thousand times over, by now. So he does not feel guilty about letting his mind wander to more pleasant things.

He expects he will find Lothiriel's blushes endearing until the end of his days, but it is different, somehow, seeing the flush in her cheeks after he's kissed her. Knowing that it was him responsible for how happy, how warm and soft she'd looked, that she trusted him enough, desired him enough to let him kiss her in the stables, to twine her fingers into his hair as she didn't care that someone could easily find them. That she is certain enough of what she feels for him to push the limit of Gondorian propriety-certainly passed what Erchirion would deem "appropriate wooing"-

"Eomer King?" Comes Baldred's familiar voice.

Stifling a curse, Eomer focuses his attention back on his councilor. "Yes, Baldred?"

"If you have no objections, we can conclude the meeting for the day," he says.

Something like giddiness sweeps through him. He certainly has no objections. For one, he'd like to tell Eowyn about the details of her dowry himself, if only to watch her face when she learns that she's to receive seven prize stallions. But being free this early in the day also gives him time to make his way to Duilin's shop in time to escort Lothiriel back to the hall for dinner. That, at least, falls well within the bounds of 'appropriate wooing'.

"I have none," he says, smiling as the councilors all begin to rise. "My thanks again to you all, for giving Eowyn the dowry she deserves."

"To Lady Eowyn!"

"And to Lord Faramir," Eothred adds. "That he might endeavor to be worthy of her!"

The echoing 'ayes' follow Eomer out into the hall.

"Lothiriel, are you feeling well?" Eowyn asks for what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes.

Lothiriel forces a passably pleasant expression to her face. "I am fine! Just a small headache. I promise."

Eowyn frowns, clearly sensing the lie, but apparently willing to let it go for now. "You might as well go ahead to Duilin's then. I am sure he will have something to help you."

She opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it just as quickly. It is not a headache bothering her, but a heartache, and Lothiriel knows herself well enough to know that if Eowyn even begins to try to root out the cause behind it, she will be unable to lie to her. It is not her secret to tell, not really, and she has very little desire to drag her friend into the mess her brother has made for himself. Especially when she should be focused on happy things, like her impending wedding and how far she has come in terms of Gondorian housekeeping.

"You do not mind cutting your lesson short?" She asks, just to be sure.

A wry smile pulls at the corners of Eowyn's mouth. "I think I will survive. Somehow."

Despite the overwhelming worry lingering behind her breastbone, Lothiriel cannot help but huff a laugh. "If you are certain."

Eowyn waves her away with a hand. "I will find something to occupy myself with, Lothiriel. Go. See that Duilin gives you something for your head."

Despite Eowyn's good humor and the warmth of her cloak, Lothiriel can feel her mood drop with the temperature as she trudges through the lingering snow to Duilin's shop. The weight of Erchirion and Lisswyn's secret is a pressing, choking thing. She had forced herself to act as normal as possible in front of Eowyn-she will not put that burden on her, not for anything-but it was Duilin that Lisswyn had gone to the day before. If reason serves, he also knows the truth.

The look he gives her upon opening his door only confirms it. Duilin looks as grave as she's ever seen him. He eyes her closely and must see something in her face that gives her away.

"I see he's told you," is his opener. "Come inside, girl. What we have to discuss should not be said where it might be overheard."

Torn between relief and dread, she steps in. Duilin bustles around the shop while she settles herself, reemerging with a bottle of something that looks highly alcoholic.

"This is not the sort of talk that requires tea," he declares. "Full glass first."

She drinks down whatever it is he pours-the taste is awful, but it burns away some of the creeping, niggling anxiety in her stomach. For that, Lothiriel can only be grateful.

"So," Duilin says. "You know the reason behind Lisswyn's outburst yesterday."

Lothiriel sighs, taking another long sip to steel herself. It tastes little better the second time, but it helps to loosen her tongue. "Yes. Valar, Duilin, how could they be so-so-"

"Stupid?" He offers. "Reckless? Selfish, irresponsible-"

"Any of those would fit," she interrupts, knowing he will continue on if she does not stop him. "I said as much to Erchirion."

"Good," Duilin snorts.

"They have put everyone in a terrible position. Themselves, their child, my parents, Eowyn and Faramir-"

"You and Eomer," he adds.

She blinks in surprise. Oh, Elbereth. She had not even thought about what this would mean for them. Eomer, as king, would be the one that Eothain would go to for justice, if he felt that Lisswyn was being slighted or mistreated. He cannot afford to appear biased...And there would certainly be ramifications in Gondor as well. Ada would call both her and Erchirion back to Dol Amroth immediately upon finding out about the child. There would be so much going on, and so little time to mention Eomer's intent. And who is to say her parents would even support the match? They know nothing of their courtship. Not to mention the council's reaction to finding out about Erchirion's...actions and the courtship at the same time. Who in their right mind would support the idea of her as queen, with such a scandal surrounding someone so close to her?

Lothiriel does the only thing she can think of: she swears. Violently, in both Rohirric and Sindarin.

Duilin looks impressed. "I am glad the gravity of the situation has not passed you by."

"I had not even-that is the least of their troubles," Lothiriel protests, feeling selfish. There is a child to consider. An innocent life! What are her and Eomer's feelings compared to that?

Important in a different way, a little voice whispers. Precious in a different way, too.

"What are they going to do?" She asks. "Every option I have thought of still leaves someone at a disadvantage. A wedding would be easiest, but it would still be suspicious. A prince of Gondor does not just get married on a whim, no matter how in love he is, and then when the babe comes…"

The master healer is silent for a moment. He swirls his glass in his hand. Strangely, he will not meet her eyes. That is very unlike Duilin-Lothiriel does not think she has ever seen him be anything less than direct and honest.

"You have thought of something," she says, tentatively

He nods. Shifts in his chair. His obvious disquiet only serves to make Lothiriel's earlier anxiety come roaring back. "I do not like it, but I cannot deny its practicality," Duilin finally says. He stands, abruptly, moving to one of the tables to grasp a box of herbs. He holds it out to Lothiriel with a serious expression.

Mugwort, tansy, bitter melon, she reads. Their meaning-and their use-dawns on her with a swift sensation of nausea.

"No," she gasps. "Duilin-no, we cannot ask that of them."

"I do not want to," he says. "I have only ever given these herbs to women who have asked for thim, with full knowledge of what their purpose is. But I cannot deny that it would be...simpler."

Lothiriel shuts the lid to the box with a forceful snap. "Simpler, perhaps, but cruelest of all. They will never agree to such a thing and I do not blame them! The child-their child-is an innocent."

An innocent and almost as certainly, already beloved. Lothiriel cannot imagine making such a choice. Oh, Naneth has told her of patients in the Houses before, frightened young women and tired wives, who have relied on those herbs. But they had made that decision themselves, out of necessity or desire. Lisswyn would never-how could she? Her child, the child of the man she loves.

Duilin raises his hands in a placating motion, looking as old and weary as Lothiriel has ever seen him. "I do not suggest it for cruelty's sake, Lothiriel. But Erchirion and Lisswyn have put themselves and many people that they care for in an impossible situation. They are not betrothed, which in the Mark would excuse an early babe. To my knowledge, Erchirion has not made his courtship known, not even to Eothain and Eothred, though they are not fools and know when a man takes interest in a woman such as Lisswyn. A man's honor is of utmost importance for the eorlingas and your brother's actions thus far have been...lacking."

She knows this. But it does not make it easier to stomach. "There must be another way."

"Oh, Erchirion will wed Lisswyn no matter what else happens," Duilin says. "There is no way around that. It is lucky that he does love her and she him, in that regard. Otherwise their marriage would be considered áwierigung."

Cursed, Lothiriel thinks. It makes her shiver. It makes her want to march back up to the hall and shake Erchirion until his ears ring, for being so damnably stupid. The sudden press of Duilin's gnarled hand on hers makes her lift her head to meet his gaze.

"They are grown people, Lothiriel. For better or for ill, they will have to find a way out of this mess on their own. You can prepare as much as you can for what they choose to do, but it is not for you to worry about."

"Someone must," she argues. "Someone should-should help them-"

Her throat feels tight, hot tears suddenly bubbling forth. Angry as she is with her brother, all she wants-all she has ever wanted-is to see him happy.

"You are only human, nefene. It is not possible for you to right every wrong, or protect all those whom you love from their own stupidity. Even future queens are not without moments of imperfection."

That pulls a half-laugh, half-sob from her throat. Half-laugh, because of course her teacher would choose such a moment to tease, and half-sob because the future feels so very uncertain.

He chucks her under the chin, gently. "Chin up. You know the rules of the shop."

"N-no tears that are not pain-induced," she recites dutifully.

"Just so," Duilin agrees. "We might as well make use of your time with something other than fretting."

They pass the next hour in companionable, if not entirely comfortable, silence. A knock at the door pulls Lothiriel out of the reverie sorting bandages has put her into. Duilin hobbles to the door and she cannot help but tense; after all, the last time someone had arrived unannounced, it had been the beginning of this entire disaster of a situation.

This time, however, the person behind the door is a welcome sight.

"Eomer King," Duilin greets. "Have you need of my skills?"

"Not at this time, no," Eomer says, amusement clear in his voice. "But I do plan on offering my own to your apprentice."

Lothiriel stands, hastily tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. Duilin turns to offer her a smug grin.

"And what kinds of services would those be, sire?"

Oh, Valar. She can feel her cheeks pink and she cannot help but swat the master healer as she draws closer.

"An escort back to the hall," answers Eomer, unfazed or unwilling to acknowledge the innuendo. "I was told by a reputable source that that is well within the boundaries of 'appropriate wooing'."

"I suppose I must grant my approval, then," Duilin says. "If the lady is willing."

"Willing and grateful," Lothiriel says, feeling better than she has all day, just by seeing him. Eomer's grin is a beautiful thing, and despite the worries of the day, the still lingering anxiety over Erchirion and Lisswyn, her heart gives a lurch at the sight of it.

Duilin waves them off with a parting pat to Eomer's shoulder and a kiss to her cheek.

Belatedly, Lothiriel realizes she will be even less likely to lie successfully to Eomer than she would Eowyn, should he sense something is amiss, but she has already pulled the door shut behind her and stepped out into the chill of the evening.

Lothiriel slips her arm through his with an audible sigh. Pleased as he is to see her, she seems...off. Not as drastically as she had during her quarrel with Erchirion, but still. Not quite herself.

He reaches over with his free hand to cover hers where it rests in the crook of his elbow. She looks up to meet his gaze with a small smile, and-

Ah.

"You've been crying," he murmurs. It's not a question.

"I-it's nothing," she says, eyes flicking away from his.

"Lothiriel," Eomer says. "I know you well enough to know you do not cry for nothing."

She shakes her head. "Fine. It is not nothing, but I...please, Eomer. It is not my secret to tell."

That gives him pause; she would trust Duilin with such a thing, but not him? But that is neither right nor fair. It isn't her secret, and he knows how much she values being trusted with such things. To push her to tell him will upset her and perhaps put her in an uncomfortable situation with whomever the secret does belong to.

"Fine," he agrees, albeit begrudgingly. "But you will tell me if there's anything I can do."

Lothiriel turns wide eyes on him. She blinks, once, and flushes when she realizes she's caused them to stop in the middle of one of the lanes leading back towards the market. Abruptly, she slides her hand into his and gives him a sharp tug. Far from unwilling, Eomer lets her lead him around the corner of one of the nearby houses.

"You are helping already," she says in a low tone, dropping his hand. "But I...I can think of one thing that might help more."

"Anything," he says, reaching to smooth a thumb along her cheek.

Lothiriel smiles, impossibly soft and tender-looking, before stepping closer and wrapping her arms around his waist, hiding her face away against his chest. What else can he do but hold her?

As if by habit, he strokes a hand through her hair, smiling against the crown of her head when she makes a small, pleased noise.

"If this is the sort of help you require, consider me always willing to provide," he says after a few minutes.

Eomer feels, rather than hears, her huff of laughter. She tips her head back to meet his eyes. "Hm. I think I will find myself in need of a lot of help. Daily. Hourly, if possible."

He groans, leaning down to steal a brief kiss. "Cwealmbealu."

Lothiriel laughs. "I cannot decide if that is better or worse than 'prickly princess'-"

"Worse," he assures her. "Decidedly worse."

She leans her head back against his chest. "Thank you, Eomer," she finally murmurs after a moment of silence.

There is something in her voice that makes him wary-it is...too serious for the lighthearted turn their conversation had taken. "Are you sure you are well?"

Lothiriel gives a nod, tightening her arms around him before releasing him. "I am sure. But enough about me. How was the council today?"

It is an obvious and pointed change in topic. But Eomer does not have the heart-nor, frankly, the desire-to force her to talk about something she doesn't wish to.

"It went well," he says, offering Lothiriel his elbow again. "We managed to successfully determine Eowyn's dowry."

Her face lights up at that, her interest genuine and sincere in a way that makes warmth bloom in his chest. He'd always hoped, in the back of his mind, that any woman he would wed would at least be polite and friendly towards Eowyn. But Lothiriel's affection for his sister goes past politeness and friendliness. It only raises her higher in his estimation, to see how much she cares for one of the people dearest to him.

It's what prompts him to press a kiss to the back of her knuckles when they're less than ten paces from Meduseld's doors.

Lothiriel, unsurprisingly, blushes. "Eomer…"

"Not appropriate?" He teases.

She elbows him in response.

Much to his surprise, Erchirion makes no comment when they arrive in the hall together, clearly without a chaperone. In fact, he barely lifts his eyes from his plate unless he is directly spoken to. The prince is prone to quiet contemplation, yes, but this borders on...well, brooding.

Abruptly, Eomer knows that whatever secret Lothiriel is keeping has to do with her brother. He also knows, inexplicably, that it is not a pleasant one.

Bema áhilpeþ mec, he thinks.

Author's Note: So I realize this chapter was a doozie, on a number of fronts, so I will do my absolute best to break it down so y'all can see where I'm coming from.

Erchirion and Lisswyn: As many of you guessed, there's a problem here and it's spelled B-A-B-Y. Not only are they dealing with an unwed pregnancy-which is a No-Go in Gondorian society-but also with EXPLICIT direction from Imrahil and Dejah about not getting married without the family's blessing. As touched upon in an earlier chapter, in Rohirric tradition, the only permission you need to get betrothed/wed is the lady in question's. But, as Erchrion is 1) not from Rohan and 2) you know, a PRINCE, this makes things a lot more complicated for them. The reaction Lothiriel described in Gondor's courts is fairly common based. Conversely, as Duilin touched on, in Rohirric society, this wouldn't be anything to blink at if Erchirion and Lisswyn were betrothed. Betrothals are pretty much tantamount to marriage in Rohan, so it's not uncommon for babies to be born...quite a bit closer to the wedding than that would be acceptable/permissible in Gondor. But. Erchirion and Lisswyn AREN'T betrothed-he hasn't technically even given her any courting gifts, at least from Eothain and Eothred's standpoint, so this is. A giant mess, from top to bottom.

Eowyn's dowry: Ok so I am not a historian, but given the research I did do on dowries, I wanted to make sure Eowyn had a pretty damn good one. She's Eomer's only living family, his beloved little sister, and she's marrying the second most important dude (and a Grade A Babe) in Gondor. The bride price-aka the money/goods/etc a groom's family gives the bride's for the "loss of her fertility" for their family (ew) will be touched on in later chapters.

Duilin's suggestion: I wavered on whether or not to include this at all, because a few people seem to be misunderstanding Duilin's character as a crotchety old man who doesn't respect Eomer. 1) Duilin loves Eomer, but he is a crotchety old man and like many crotchety old men, has a bad habit of jumping to conclusions. 2) I realize that abortion is and has been a polarizing issue. I do not mention it lightly and certainly not for shock value. But Duilin's logic is based on the fact that if there is no baby, there would be no potential diplomatic disaster, otherwise known as Eothain murdering Erchirion for not doing right by Lisswyn. And the ramifications he and Lothiriel worry about-that it might affect Faramir and Eowyn's betrothal, as Erchirion is Faramir's direct relative, and you know, a prince-not to mention what it means for Lothiriel and Eomer, who are in a much more precarious position as no one in Gondor knows about their courtship. Duilin is not some evil baby-killer, and neither are the women that Lothiriel mentions that her mother has told her about.

To be clear, this fic is neither praising nor condemning abortion. I have never had one and personally, would never have one. But that's my body and my choice, as it should be for every other woman in the world.

Eomer and Lothiriel: Another make-out scene didn't seem to quite fit the mood here, and I wanted to show that they're still growing in their emotional intimacy along with the physical.

Terms:
friþhengest: stallion, horse
áwierigung: a curse, cursed
cwealmbealu: death of me
Bema áhilpeþ mec: Bema help me