Author's Note: GUYS I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Y'all were so, so wonderful in your responses to the last chapter-both in terms of the chapter itself and my fretting about a couple of reviews-and I have to thank y'all for that. The muse just fled, unfortunately, until I kicked the plot around with my best friend and realization FINALLY dawned.

Also, I know everyone talks about how the 'you're writing your story for yourself, first and foremost' mindset helps with writing but...it absolutely does. Much as I love (and appreciate!) y'all's feedback, I was getting so wrapped up in whether what I was writing was going to please everyone instead of whether or not it was something I wanted to read. Once I got my head in the right space, this chapter flowed!

As it is, I hope you'll enjoy it! I'm sure I'm going to get a couple of looks for the timelining here but oh well. It's what worked in terms of moving the story along, so I hope y'all will suspend a bit of disbelief when it comes to travel. Let's just say they have super fast horses, mmk?

(PS cookies for whoever spots the Much Ado About Nothing quote hidden in this chapter-well, it's not really hidden but STILL)

And now, onward! Here there be realizations, meddling relatives (again), and one big ole' declaration.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

To say the council had a few choice words about the situation would be an understatement.

In the days following Erchirion and Eothain's public squabble, Eomer has had to sort through no less than 10 petitions-and that's just the written ones. The arguments within the walls of the council room are even more headache-inducing.

"For the fourth time in as many days, Baldred," Erkenbrand says, sounding as exasperated as Eomer feels, "our feelings on the matter amount to a hill of beans compared to Lisswyn's and that of her family's-"

"If Lisswyn wishes to wed a man so lacking in honor, that's her own business," Dernhelm interrupts. "I am more concerned with what kind of precedent is this setting for other Gondorian visitors. 'Here, fine lords, take any of our lasses as you please and in reward we'll give you a place in an eored'."

"Here, here," one of the other men grumbles. "Prince or not, he should be taken out and horse-whipped, not made a rider of the Riddermark. Let these 'fine lords' see what becomes of them when they disrespect our traditions!"

Eomer glares, jaw tight with the effort of not pointing out how much of a political disaster that course of action would be. The room dissolves into murmurs once more-some for, some against, some torn somewhere on the middle-on how to move forward.

Mercifully, Ordlac cuts across the din, saying, "I highly doubt King Elessar would permit his countrymen to swarm the Mark looking for brides. And a more important thing to consider is that any insult given to Prince Erchirion-deserved or not-is an insult to not only his family, but Gondor itself. His actions aside, the betrothal between Lady Eowyn and Lord Faramir is a sound union, both politically and for them personally. To behave so rashly would jeopardize that."

"I will not risk my sister's happiness so that our egos can be soothed," Eomer adds in agreement. "Lisswyn is the only one with the right to call for such an extreme measure and she has already said she will not."

"Besides, it's not as if life in an eored is an easy thing," Tofrith adds, surprising Eomer. "He will start of ranked no higher than a green youth and will be treated as such. That is a humbling thing for any grown man, let alone a prince."

Which had been exactly Eomer's point in offering such a position. He mislikes Erchirion's conduct as much as the rest of them do-he still cannot fully wrap his mind around it, how a man so cautious and careful in all other things could have been this irresponsible-but Bema, what else is he to do? Lisswyn has made it plain that she intends to go wherever her husband-to-be does. If he were to banish Erchirion from the Mark and all of its environs, he would effectively sentence Lisswyn, Darwyn, and their unborn child to the same fate.

"The prince and Lisswyn have not yet made their choice on where they will live," Eothred says. "And likely will not until they've received word from Prince Imrahil or King Elessar. We are arguing over something that may not even come to pass."

The council grumbles once more, but no one dares contradict the Second Marshal.

"There are still other matters that need to be discussed," Dernhelm says.

Something in the other man's tone tells Eomer that he is not referring to crops or rebuilding houses. He can guess where the other man's thoughts are: Eothain's outburst regarding Lothiriel and himself. It makes him wish, very strongly, for both a large mug of ale and Lothiriel herself, if only for a moment of relief. As it is, he's scarcely been able to speak more than two words to her since this whole mess has begun-they've not had any semblance of privacy since Gamling had interrupted their kiss days before.

"Sire," Baldred starts, sounding less than confidant for once, "Eothain Captain's comments regarding you and the princess, as...impertinent as they were, should not make you feel obligated to the lady-"

"Obligated?" Eomer growls, unable to stop himself.

Obviously hearing the irritation in Eomer's tone, Ordlac jumps in, saying, "I believe Baldred is trying to say that just because Eothain spoke out of turn does not mean you should feel it is your duty to court her."

Eothred snorts a laugh even as Eomer's knuckles go white on the arms of his chair. Duty? It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to lose his temper. As if there is nothing about Lothiriel that is worthy of being courted for her own sake, as if he would even consider trapping them both in a marriage based on rash words instead of happiness and friendship and lo-

"Breathe, lad," Erkenbrand murmurs in a low tone, hand gentle on his shoulder, before turning his gaze on the rest of the council. "Baldred, Ordlac, your fears are unfounded. It would be a mistake to think that Eomer King feels in any way compelled to court Princess Lothiriel."

"An understatement if I've ever heard one," chimes in Eothred. "Because what you meddling windbags have managed to either ignore or deny is that our king has already been courting the princess, long before my charming nephew ran his mouth."

Anger flees in the face of embarrassment as a large portion of the council turns shocked looks on him. Bema, one of these days he really would have to fit Eothred-and likely Eothain too, for good measure-with a muzzle!

"Since when?"

"Hah! Pay up, Elfhelm-"

"Sire, why have you not spoken of it-"

"Can there even be a courtship without Prince Imrahil's approval?"

"Oh, well done, sire, she's a true beauty-"

"Enough!" Gamling finally cries. The room gradually settles, but Dernhelm stands, jaw set mullishly.

"Is there proof of such a thing?" He asks, clearly not to be deterred. "Eomer King, you are an honorable man and I well understand wanting to protect the princess's reputation, in the wake of her brother's indiscrecion and Eothain's words, but that is not reason enough to-to wed her-"

Eomer stands so suddenly that his chair clatters to the floor, startling the entire room into silence. "Honor has nothing to do with this. I am courting Lothiriel because I wish to. Because there is no other woman I would be content to make my Queen. Because I love her."

There's a beat of stunned silence.

"Hah!" Crows Eothred. "And about time you realized it, Eomer King!"

"Oh, this wedding contract is going to be even more difficult than Eowyn's," Torfrith mutters. "I am going to have to an entire roll of vellum made, perhaps two-"

"I told you those dances during Yule were not without meaning," Haleth is saying to an open-mouthed Ordlac, "and you thought he was merely being polite-"

The voices of the council fade away into mere background noise. Eomer presses his hands to the table to keep himself standing. It should not be such a surprise-he's known for months now that this was no passing fancy, no momentary infatuation. But his head swims with the realization regardless.

Of course you love her, you fool, that little voice whispers, sounding more like Theodred than ever, did you truly think something this strong comes along every day?

Erkenbrand's hand on his shoulder draws him out of his thoughts. "Congratulations, lad," the older man murmurs. "I cannot promise it'll be an easy battle, convincing all of these old foxes to accept your choice without an argument, but the love of a good woman is as a powerful motivator as they come."

"I do not-" He starts to say, a sudden wave of panic gripping him. Bema, he's announced to the entire council that he loves her, without having said the same to Lothiriel herself. "I-she may not-"

Erkenbrand's eyebrow arches. "Do you mean to say you've gone and told your council you're in love with the woman without telling her yet?"

Eomer thinks he must manage a choked yes, because then Erkenbrand is chuckling, audible over even the loudest of the council's questions. "I suppose that saying about all men being fools in love is true, then. Even for kings."

Lothiriel keeps her eyes glued to her needlework, trying to ignore the pointed whispering from across the room.

I have done nothing wrong, she reminds herself for what feels like the hundredth time since Eothain's outburst. Regardless, the sensation of guilt lingers, hovering uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.

"Elfswythe, Ceolwen! Enough dawdling. You are not paid to stand around and gossip by the fire," comes Merthwyn's voice, stern and commanding.

The whispers stop and the shuffle of feet reaches Lothiriel's ears as the serving girls hurry away, suitably chastised.

"Pay them no heed," Merthwyn says, laying a gentle hand on Lothiriel's pink cheek. "Their whispers carry no weight."

"But they are not the only ones whispering. About Lisswyn, about Erchirion, about-"

Me, she thinks, and instantly feels selfish. Oh, but it does bother her, much as she wishes it would not. It is not as if she is not accustomed to whispers-it feels as if that's all she knew in Minas Tirith's courts, both as a child and as a young woman-but to have the sensation of always being watched, talked of, happen here in Edoras is disheartening. It is made doubly worse that some of those eyeing her with wary eyes now are people she has grown to know and like. Who she thought had grown to know and like her.

Merthwyn crooks a finger under her chin, forcing Lothiriel to meet her eyes. "Listen to me, dopænid. People will always talk about things they do not understand. That's the way of the world. Princess or scullery maid, king or stable boy, we are all only human. It'll fade in time, mark my words."

"Will it?" Lothiriel asks. "My parents have been married for almost forty years and still people talk of my mother secretly being from Harad, or my father having been bewitched-"

"And have they let that ruin their happiness?" The housekeeper interrupts. At the shake of Lothiriel's head, she smiles. "Then I would suggest following your parents' example."

She cannot help but give the older woman a small smile-Merthwyn, at least, does not think differently about her-and nods. "Far be it from me to refuse the advice of the wisest woman in Meduseld."

Merthwyn tuts at her, but the flush in her cheeks tells Lothiriel that she's pleased at the compliment. "Tch. Enough flattery. Show me what it is you've been studying so intently."

Smiling more sincerely, Lothiriel offers up the project she's been working on for the better part of three days. She's not as nimble-fingered as Alycia, but there had been just enough fabric from one of her older dresses to make it. It's lightweight but sturdy, peppered with delicately stitched flowers.

"It is beautiful," Merthwyn murmurs, fingering the lace gently, "but what is it?"

"A veil in the Dol Amrothian style," explains Lothiriel. "It's traditional for the bride to wear her mother's, but as Lisswyn's mother did not have a Gondorian wedding and my own mother is so far away…" She squares her shoulders. "Whatever people may think of my brother, of me, I do not want Lisswyn to ever doubt that I am proud to have her as my sister."

And it is true. She is proud to have Lisswyn as her soon-to-be sister. But no matter how well meant, the gesture feels so very small. But what more can she do? They have not yet had word from Ada and Naneth-nor Aragorn, for that matter-even though the snows have reportedly melted on most of the well-traveled paths. Lisswyn and Erchirion are under enough pressure without her adding her constant presence to the mix. They have been ensconced in Eothred's lodgings with Wilfled and Eothain in a flurry of debating and planning. Lothiriel likely should be there, as Erchirion's only family close enough to be involved, but…

Oh, Valar help her, she is so angry with Eothain that she could spit.

Not about his understandable outrage at Erchirion's-and Lisswyn's, because they are adults, and both chose this path-actions, but at the way he'd thrown her and Eomer's courtship out into the open. As if it were some small, unimportant thing. As if it were not worthy of more consideration, of more respect, of the trust they had both put in him to keep it secret-

"-riel?"

Lothiriel blinks, coming out of her daze to find Merthwyn and Eowyn-oh, Elbereth, when had she gotten there?-looking at her.

"I am sorry," she murmurs, tucking the unfinished veil away into her bag, "I was lost in thought."

Eowyn sighs, swinging a leg over the bench and settling in beside her. "A feeling I think we have all become too well acquainted with of late."

Lothiriel squeezes her hand. Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation has set some tongues wagging that surely the White Lady's fine Gondorian lord will want to postpone, if not call off entirely, their betrothal. Which is sheer folly-she is quite certain Faramir would rather cut off his sword arm than do anything other than wed Eowyn, under any circumstances, but she cannot fault her friend for anxiety.

"Here, now," Merthwyn says, "I'll not have the two of you moping while I can do something about it."

"Moping," scoffs Eowyn, even as she leans her head on Lothiriel's shoulder. "We are not moping, Merthwyn."

"Sulking, pouting-call it what you like, Eowyn, the result is the same," retorts the housekeeper. "And I'll not stand for it."

Despite her rounded figure and kind face, Meduseld's boldweard is not to be trifled with when she's set her mind to something, and now is no exception. She corralls them into the kitchens, scattering maids and serving girls as she goes, until it is just the three of them. In the blink of an eye, Lothiriel and Eowyn find themselves both sitting before a bowl of hearty stew with a large mug of mead at its side.

"There is no heartache I know of that a fully belly cannot help," Merthwyn says.

Eowyn rolls her eyes, but Lothiriel knows her well enough to see the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. They dig into the food, slowly at first, and then with growing relish. It is delicious and it is hard to feel glum with a layer of warm food in their stomachs.

Merthwyn gives a satisfied hmph when Lothiriel thanks her. "I have been the housekeeper of Meduseld longer than you two have been alive. I think I know how to cure fretting when I see it."

"And we are all the more lucky for it," agrees Eowyn. "If only the council would try your remedy as well."

"Pff," huffs Merthwyn. "Those old blowhards have to talk themselves in circles before they are weary enough to accept my advice. Give them another day and they'll turn their attention to more pressing matters than meddling in the happiness of young people."

Lothiriel bites her lip, anxiety returning. "Do you truly think so?"

Because it would be easy, so very easy, for the council to set themselves against her. Given Erchirion and Lisswyn's situation, and her knowledge of it-well, she would not blame them for thinking poorly of her, even if Eothain's "remarks" had been overblown at best, and accusatory at their worst. Not to mention her Gondorian heritage-they were stronger allies again now, yes, but she cannot forget beautiful, blonde Dreda, and how much more suited to the role of queen she seems now. Rohirric and with a spotless reputation to boot.

"In the history of the Mark, there has never been a king or queen who has married anyone other than their choice," Merthwyn says.

"My brother is many things, but pliable is not one of them," says Eowyn with a smirk. "There is nothing the council could possibly say to make him change his mind."

Lothiriel ducks her head to hide her smile. She still has so many worries, but the sincerity of Eomer's affection is not one of them.

"I know I should not be so pleased at that prospect," she murmurs, "that I should worry about it causing a rift between him and the council, or worse, him and your people-"

"The council squabble because you are not tied to any of them enough for them to have influence over you. As for the people, Lothiriel, you are still glommung cwen, this mess with Erchirion and Lisswyn aside. And you are only human," interrupts Merthwyn. "I imagine there is not a woman alive who wouldn't be pleased to be loved by as fine a man as Eomer."

Her cheeks flush crimson. "I-we have not said-"

"Oh, Bema," Eowyn groans. "You two are hopeless."

"It is not as if there has been much opportunity to speak of such things," Lothiriel defends. "Since Eothain's outburst no one has given us a moment alone. Not even you, Eowyn."

"Which you will thank me for, when your parents ask for proof that nothing untoward has happened," she says. "I think one surprise grandchild is complication enough."

"Eowyn!" Lothiriel splutters. "I-we would never-"

"I know that," she interrupts. "And doubtless your parents will too, but it is best not to give the rumor mill any more to run with."

She deflates. "You are right. It is just...I miss him," Lothiriel says, voice tiny. "And I know that is ridiculous, and so very unfair of me to say to you when you have been separated from Faramir for so long-"

"Lothiriel," Eowyn says, exasperation and fondness at war in her voice, "you do not have to apologize for feeling this way. Emotions are rarely convenient."

Merthwyn snorts. "Would that they were. Then I would never have to encounter one of my maids crying because another one chose to wear a similar frock on the same day."

Eowyn huffs a laugh. "And I would not let wagging tongues make me worry whether or not I will marry the man I love."

"You should not worry at all," Lothiriel says, relieved to be able to voice her opinion on the matter. "Yours and Faramir's marriage has already been approved by both countries' councils and sovereigns. No matter what my parents say about Erchirion and Lisswyn, or what the council decides, that cannot be undone. And besides, I think Faramir would break every diplomatic treaty in existence, if he had to choose between them and you."

"You exaggerate," Eowyn says, but there's no missing her smile, similar to Lothiriel's own from earlier. "As if I would ask him to do such a thing."

"You would have to ask him not to," Lothiriel teases.

Eowyn shakes her head. "Ridiculous man," the love in her voice takes the sting from her words.

"Who could blame him?" Merthwyn asks. "Now, since you two are cured of your gloom, I'll have to ask you to take your improved moods elsewhere. Even I cannot keep everyone from the kitchen forever!"

Eowyn and Lothiriel rise, linking their arms together. Merthwyn tuts at them again when they press kisses of thanks to her cheeks.

Their return to the hall is mostly unremarked on, though Lothiriel feels the distinct prickle at the back of her neck that accompanies being stared at. Eowyn sets her jaw and tucks her arm tighter around hers. "When I was a girl," she says lowly, "I used to wish Theodred would marry, so that I might have a cousin of my own to follow after, the way Eomer did him."

Lothiriel blinks at the abrupt subject change before smiling. "I think you might have ended up with a different sort of cousin than you bargained for, were he permitted to wed his choice."

Eowyn's eyes flick to hers, alight with knowing. "Perhaps. But I was always envious of my friends with sisters, or those whose brothers married women they liked. Having someone like that in my life would have been a welcome relief from all of the sweating, swearing men. It did not help that for so long Eomer was uninterested in anything that was not Guthwine, Firefoot, or his eored. I did not expect to have a sister, either. But I am more than happy to be proven wrong, in that regard."

Lothiriel's cheeks pink again. "Any woman would be lucky to count you as either a sister or a friend, Eowyn."

"True," Eowyn says, unabashedly smug, "but I can think of only one who will do both."

She pushes the door to her rooms open-Lothiriel blinks in surprise, having not been paying attention to where they were walking-and then she stops, stock still.

Because Eomer is standing there, back towards them as he stares into the fire.

"Finally," he grumbles, "I came as soon as I could, like you asked, and have been kept waiting for Bema knows how long-"

"For good reason," interrupts Eowyn. "If you'd care to see why?"

"See-?"

He turns, meeting Eowyn's gaze with an arched eyebrow before he notices Lothiriel. He straightens abruptly, mouth falling open in surprise.

Lothiriel knows she is likely red in the face-yet again-but she cannot help but smile at him. I love you I love you I love you, her heart seems to beat, but she can scarcely open a conversation with that, especially with Eowyn standing beside her, grinning like a loon at both of them.

"Hello," she says instead, and immediately feels like a fool.

"Hello," Eomer replies.

"Oh, for Bema's sake," Eowyn groans. She marches over to the chair under the window, and throws herself into it with a little more force than seems necessary. "I am going to sit here and read. This book is very, very interesting-so interesting that I will likely be unaware of anything and everything going on around me. Should anything and everything need to be discussed in relative privacy."

Eomer grumbles something that sounds distinctively like meddler but he pushes himself away from the fire anyways, drifting closer to where Lothiriel still hovers by the door.

She cannot do anything other than step closer to him and something in her chest, stills, relaxes, when he offers her one of his hands. She reaches for both of them, instead, and threads her fingers through his. His hands are as warm and worn as ever and she loves them. Loves him.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you, she thinks, remembering the line from a book she'd read, long ago now, is that not strange?

"How was the council?" Lothiriel asks instead, because she is still learning how to be brave, and telling Eomer she loves him is among the most frightening-however illogical it feels-things she's ever wanted to do.

His cheeks flush, strangely, at that and worry drowns out all other thoughts. Oh, Elbereth, what if they've decided to banish Erchririon? What if they had threatened to withdraw their support of Eomer as king, should he insist on courting her? What if-

"I-they-" Eomer stutters, looking as nervous as she feels. "They have been placated for the time being."

"Oh," she breathes, relieved. "That's-that's good."

They're both silent for a moment. Eomer's hands tighten around hers and she frowns at the dark circles under his eyes, the new lines that seem to have etched themselves, overnight, in his forehead, at the corners of his mouth. "Are you well?" She asks, pulling one hand from his and pressing it against his cheek.

Some of the stiffness eases out of his shoulders. He reaches up as well, covering her hand with his before turning his face to press his mouth against her palm. "Never better," he murmurs and Lothiriel has to suppress a shiver at the sensation of the words against her skin.

"You don't look it," she says and the flushes bright red. Oh, Valar, her stupid tongue-

But Eomer is smiling, looking truly at ease for the first time in a number of days. "Sweet as ever, byrnihtu cwén."

"That's not what I-" She starts to say, but then Eomer is bending towards her. The press of his forehead against hers is familiar and exhilarating, all at once, and the words dry up in her throat.

"There is something I need to tell you," he says, voice pitched low.

"Anything," Lothiriel whispers, because she had meant what she said, days ago now-she is not afraid, so long as he is with her. No matter what the council has decided, or will decide, or what her parents will say-

"I love you," Eomer says.

Lothiriel feels as if all of the air has been forced from her lungs. It should not be a great surprise, it should not make her feel as if the world has turned on its axis, but oh, it does.

"I know we must wait for word from your parents, I know that we are not even truly courting by your people's standards, but I cannot-I do not want to deny what I feel for you-"

Oh, Valar, for all of the times for her voice to fail her! Eomer's cheeks are pinked, as he clearly takes her silence for some sort of rejection, the stupid, foolish man-

She kisses him before she can think better of it, hands on either side of his neck, trying to express with actions what she can't quite put into words. Eomer's answering kiss borders on desperation and she clings closer to him, uncaring for anything other than the press of his mouth on hers, the way his hands feel in her hair-

"Ahem," comes a pointed cough and they spring apart.

"Is there not somewhere else you need to be?" Eomer asks, voice rough. "The hall? The stables? A midden, perhaps?"

"No," Eowyn answers succinctly, eyes still on her book, "because then one of you would have to come with me, and I doubt that's truly what you want, brother mine."

Eomer actually sticks his tongue out at her and Lothiriel bursts into laughter, pressing her face into his chest.

"I saw that," Eowyn says.

"Good," Eomer grumbles, stroking a hand through Lothiriel's hair. She tips her head back to meet his eyes. "I...I haven't offended you?" He asks, nervousness out of place on his usually confident, if stoic, face.

"Offended?" She scoffs. "Eomer, why would I be offended when I-"

There is a sudden round of frantic knocking on the door, making them all jump. Eowyn is on her feet almost instantly, shoving them both to one side of the door before pulling it open. It shields them both-well, Eomer has to crouch a little, tall as he is-from view.

"Freca?" Eowyn asks, surprise obvious in her voice. "What is it?"

"Have you seen Eomer King?" The page asks. "There is a large party riding towards Edoras and Erkenbrand has bid me to find him-"

Eomer presses a kiss to Lothiriel's temple before stepping out from behind the door. His page gives a startled squeak and Lothiriel can make out Eowyn's sigh at her brother's dramatics, however unintentional they may be.

"A large party?" He asks. "Of who?"

There's no mistaking Gondor's banners, held aloft in the late afternoon sunshine, but he does not recognize a single man bearing them.

"Wonderful," snorts Eothain, from somewhere to his left, "more troublesome guests."

Eomer shoots his captain a poisonous look. He still feels no small measure of irritation regarding Eothain's callous reveal of his courtship of Lothiriel, but also knows his long-time friend isn't too pleased with him either, for not permitting him to throttle Erchirion.

"This will prove excellent practice for you," Eomer spits.

"In what?" Eothain asks.

"Holding your tongue," Eomer says. "Since you seem to be unable to do so, of late."

There's a flash of guilt on Eothain's face before it smooths into something more implacable. "As my king commands."

Eomer winces internally-Eothain is one of the few people in his life who has managed to still see him as himself, not just the King of the Mark, since his coronation. He does not want to lose that, but he cannot deny that Eothain is responsible for a large portion of the troubles he will be facing in the coming weeks. Erchirion is responsible for the other portion, but the Gondorian prince is not currently near enough for him to vent his frustration at.

Eowyn steps up beside him, the traditional mead and bread on a tray for their unexpected guests. "I wonder who Aragorn has sent," she murmurs.

"Whoever it is, I hope they are prepared to take on the entirety of the council," Erkenbrand mutters. "A fate I would not wish on my worst enemy."

Eomer stifles a groan, if only just.

The horses and riders have reached the steps of Meduseld. The first man swings himself down from a magnificent black charger. His armor is different from the Gondorian craft Eomer is familiar with, and when he removes his helmet, it is not to reveal a face he recognizes. He looks to be in his forties, with a thick beard and a bald head. He moves with a warrior's grace, mounting the stairs with ease.

For all that he is unknown to Eomer, there is...something about the man that seems familiar. Gondorian are as varied as Eorlingas, in face and sizes, but he cannot shake the feeling that he has seen this man, or one like him, before.

The man bows when he reaches them, first to Eomer and then Eowyn. "Hail Eomer, King of the Mark," he says, his Westron flavored by an accent that also seems vaguely familiar. "I am Andrethon of Pelargir, sent on behalf of Prince Imrahil and King Elessar to aid in the negotiations regarding the situation involving Prince Erchirion and the Lady Lisswyn."

"Drink, and be welcome," Eowyn says, offering him the mead. He sips deeply and then takes the offered bread as well. A handful of serving girls make their way down the steps to offer the same welcome to his men, who all appear to take it gratefully.

"I am pleased to meet you, Andrethon," Eomer says, though he cannot keep his confusion from his voice. Why would Imrahil send an unknown man to deal with such a personal matter? "Please, come-"

"Uncle!" A familiar voice interrupts.

And then Lothiriel has launched herself into the other man's arms. Andrethon catches her with ease, clearly used to such a greeting.

"Suilad, little flower," he says. "I am glad to see at least you have not caused any trouble."

Someone-likely Eothred, damn him-coughs a laugh. Lothiriel's eyes flick to Eomer's before she gives her uncle a winning smile.

"Of course I have not, Uncle," she says. "When do I ever?"

Oh, Bema, Eomer thinks as the other man's expression morphs into one of suspicion. We are truly in trouble now.

Author's Note: I won't lie, this chapter was so enjoyable to write (once I got in the mood for it). I hope y'all enjoyed the Big Moment-or should I say half of a Big Moment, since a certain someone didn't get to say it back? (Don't kill me, there's a purpose for that I promise!)

I know a few people took issue with Eomer offering Erchirion a place in a eored, and I tried to address that in this chapter with Torfrith's point of view. Technically, Erchirion hasn't done anything illegal-a dick move? Sure. Illegal? Not hardly-so banishment is a bit out of the question. Plus, Lisswyn doesn't want that, or any other sort of action taken against him, because she loves him. I realize this may not gel for everyone, but hey, it's my story! And this is how it's going to go.

The veil Lothiriel is making for Lisswyn is supposed to be Spanish lace. Obviously, can't call it that, as there is no Spain in Middle Earth, so just imagine it's Dol Amrothian.

And yes. Both Eomer and Lothiriel are Very Put Out with Eothain, for throwing them to the wolves, so to speak. Of course he didn't do it intentionally, and was very justified in his anger regarding the Lisswyn/Erchirion situation, but still. Kinda hung them out to dry. This tension will also be addressed in later chapters.

As promised, we're meeting another member of Lothiriel's family: Uncle Andrethon. He's Dejah's younger half-brother and looks very much like Amaury Nolasco. He's about 45, making him about 10 years older than Elphir, and only twenty-odd years older than Lothiriel, hence why they're fairly close. The reason as to why he, and not anyone else, has been sent to manage the Erchirion/Lisswyn situation will be revealed soon.

Vocab:

dopænid: duckling

boldweard: housekeeper