Author's Note: Hey guys! So March was a really, really crazy month for me, both personally and professionally, so this update got put on the back-burner for a little while. Thank you for all of the sweet reviews-they really do mean so much.

(That being said, messaging me telling me how I "owe" you an update or commenting on my other stories about updating this one: not cool! Much as I love this story, I do have other things going on in my life. I promise! I also promise this story will NOT be abandoned before it ends-but sometimes it's a little slow going!)

Anywho, here we go again: in which Erchirion and Lisswyn finally get married, Eowyn oversteps, and Eomer has high hopes for the future.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Eomer will give Erchirion credit-he doesn't look nervous.

Even with the eyes of the whole of Meduseld on him, he remains even-keel and unflinching. Though, it should be said, it is a much smaller gathering than Yule had been. And certainly smaller than the wedding of a Prince of Gondor to a well-loved lady of the Riddermark should be. But given the obvious mistrust that some of the councilors and not a few of Eomer's riders are eyeing Erchirion with, it is no surprise that it is so sparsely attended in comparison. Still, Eomer cannot fault him for a lack of bravery.

A lack of common sense is another matter, but given that the whole affair has been settled without unnecessary bloodshed or an irreparable diplomatic incident, Eomer supposes that can be forgiven.

In time, anyways.

Eothred, at least, appears at ease with his soon-to-be nephew. He reaches out to smooth Erchirion's collar once more, murmuring something that makes the usually stoic-faced Gondorian smile. It is a marked difference from Eothain, who has been glaring daggers at the prince at every opportunity, and had only been persuaded to stop by a swift smack of Duilin's cane to his ankle before being sent to retrieve the bridal party from his and Wilfled's home.

If that is the largest tussle of the day, Eomer will be pleasantly surprised.

His admittedly dour thoughts are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Eofor, whose reddened face is wedged between the hall's doors.

"She's ready!" He cries.

That, at least, garners a chuckle from all in attendance. Even the Pelargirian contingent, who have been visibly perplexed by the few Rohirric wedding traditions they've witnessed so far.

The eyes of the hall are now fixed on the doors-Eofor has been yanked back out of view, likely for a scolding from his mother-and the air of the room shifts from wary waiting to genuine excitement. The overall mood continues to visibly improve, with audible, happy murmurs beginning as the first members of the bridal party begin their trek into the hall.

Wilfled, Lisswyn's friends, and cousin are welcome sights, smiling prettily as they all but drift up the aisle towards a now fidgeting Erchirion, but they cannot truly lay claim to Eomer's attention.

No, that is currently focused on his sister, who looks as serene and proud as he has ever seen her. The crown of flowers in her hair will likely be replicated for her own wedding just a few months from now. It is a bittersweet sensation-the knowledge that their time together in Edoras is slowly drawing to a close-but he cannot regret that her own personal happiness is so near at hand. Eowyn meets his gaze with a small smile that sharpens quickly from fondness to mischief.

Oh, Bema, he thinks. What could his bealuhýdigu sweostor possibly have done now?

The answer becomes readily apparent when she flicks her eyes over her shoulder, towards-

Eomer's sharp inhale is plainly audible, garnering a concerned look from Erkenbrand. But who could blame him? Someone-Eowyn, most likely, considering her now smug expression-has woven Vanablēda into Lothiriel's hair. It is a traditional display, usually worn by maidens when they come of age, an indication that they are open to the potential of courting and want Vana's blessings upon them and their future spouse. It is something Lothiriel would have worn were she an eorlingas by birth years ago. That she is wearing it now-

Duilin elbows him sharply. "For Valar's sake, stop gaping at her in plain view of the entire hall! Pretty as she is, it is not her wedding day, Eomer King."

No, it certainly is not. For if it was, Eomer can only hope it would be him waiting to receive her, him able to reach out and take her hands the way Erchirion is taking Lisswyn's, looking at her with such obvious affection and-

Are those...tears?

They are. Erchirion, for all his earlier calm, is openly weeping. Eomer could not say why, but something in him relaxes at the sight. For all of the prince's bold words and ill-guided actions, there is no denying the sincerity nor the depth of emotion on his face now. Even Eothain looks less hostile about the situation, pressing Lisswyn's hand into Erchirion with a smile that is only slightly pinched.

The sage begins the traditional words-in the Common Tongue, to accommodate their Gondorian guests-but Eomer is only giving them a quarter of his full attention. The rest of it is focused on Lothiriel, who is watching the proceedings with an almost dopily happy smile. Eomer's heart gives a ridiculous lurch at the sight.

Duilin's elbow hits his ribs again. "Subtly is clearly not your strong suit, Eomer King," he mutters.

The healer is right, but Eomer cannot bring himself to care. Not when Lothiriel looks so happy, with Vana's blossoms in her hair.

There is a muffled cough to his right and Eomer turns his head slightly to meet Andrethon's look. The Gondorian's eyebrow is arched in a rather formidable expression. Ah. Perhaps he should take more care.

"So you will listen to him but not to me," Duilin grumbles. "Years of my life spent serving the House of Eorl, and this is the respect I get-"

"Now who is being rude?" Eomer asks in a low tone. "Quiet now, Master Healer, lest Wilfled have both of our heads for disturbing the ceremony."

"Wilfled and your brynhitu cwen, more likely than not. Wouldn't that be a sight-"

It is Duilin's turn to receive a sharp admonition for his whispering, in the form of a swift pinch from a frowning Merthwyn. "Continue talking and it will not be their wrath you need fear, but mine."

Eomer gulps as Duilin gives a quiet grumble, but neither dare contradict her. They are both embarrassed at being caught, and so it is no hard thing to settle back into respectful silence. If nothing else, it makes it easier to truly focus on the event at hand, instead of staring at Lothiriel like a lovesick fool.

Lothiriel has to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the sight of Eomer and Duilin united in their mutual mortification. She does not know what had caused them to whisper to each other like a pair of naughty schoolboys, only that it had drawn no small amount of attention, with Merthwyn being close enough at hand to scold them for it.

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat-Wilfled, who offers her an unimpressed expression-has her blushing anew, and forcing her to turn her attention back to the ceremony.

It is, untraditionally, being performed in the Common Tongue, as a courtesy to the Gondorians present. But this does very little to dim its sincerity, its sweetness. She cannot help but give a happy sigh at the sight they make: Lisswyn's hands wrapped securely in Erchirion's as they stare into each other's eyes with overwhelming joy. Her brother's cheeks are still wet with his earlier tears. It is...strange, to see him so open, so readable, but not a bad kind of strange. If Lisswyn can bring him such happiness, Lothiriel does not think anyone should begrudge him showing his emotions, least of all her.

The sage pauses the ceremony to wave someone forward. It's the mearcung oræfta-Cenric, she thinks-who holds two rolls of vellum in his hands. The room is filled with appreciative gasps and murmurs when they're unrolled to display Lisswyn and Erchirion's wedding marks. Not only for their beauty and obvious symbolism-Lisswyn's is a veritable wreath of flowers, with a long-necked swan peeking its head out from between some of the petals, whereas Erchirion's is more masculine in nature, with the now-familiar looping designs of Rohan interspersed with the same flowers-but the colors. Erchirion's is nothing shocking, the same deep red of any man who marries a woman of Aldburg, but Lisswyn's...Lisswyn's is a deep, bold, beautiful blue. It will be unlike any wedding mark that has come before it, for even Thengel King's wedding mark had been a dark grey in honor of Morwen Steelsheen's home city and striking eyes.

And it may not be the last in that shade, she thinks and blushes at the thought. But if all that she hopes for comes true, another eorlingas will bear a wedding mark in that same blue. She dares a quick glance in Eomer's direction-

It's a mistake, but a good one, because he's looking right back at her, hand loosely pressed to his upper left arm.

Lothiriel has to swallow, thickly, against the sudden press of tears. Elbereth, how she loves him! She shifts, just slightly, reaching to brush her own hand against her right arm, and has to to bite her lip at the intense, purposeful way his eyes track the movement.

Mercifully, it is easy enough for anyone watching to mistake her tears as ones of happiness for Lisswyn and Erchirion. Wilfled certainly does so, looking much less stern as she passes her a well-worn handkerchief so Lothiriel can attempt to mop at her eyes in a somewhat dignified fashion. The sage's next words pull her full attention back to the ceremony.

"Lisswyn, daughter of Lissgifu, and Erchirion, son of Imrahil. You have come here to be bound before the eyes of all of Meduseld, of your family and friends. May Vana bless your union, Bema keep safe your home," at this the sage pauses, blinking at the additional blessing Lothiriel and Erchirion had asked to be included, as a nod to their own traditions, "...and Elbereth guide your paths. Now, repeat after me…"

Lothiriel has skimmed the traditional Rohirric wedding vows in books Duilin has had her read. But hearing them spoken aloud, in Lisswyn and Erchirion's reverent voices, with the echo of the surrounding crowd behind them in the more rolling-Rohirric sends a shiver up her spine.

"You cannot possess me for I belong to myself

But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give

You cannot command me, for I am a free person,"

Lothiriel blinks in surprise at Erchirion's sudden-but not stuttering-switch to Rohirric. She had not known that he had been practicing! It is a surprise to Lisswyn, too, whose eyes glisten once again with happy tears. The people nearest the dais must hear it as well, for even the most grumpy-looking face softens at her brother's efforts.

"But I shall serve you in those ways you require

and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.

I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night.

And the eyes into which I smile in the morning,"

She can feel Eomer's burning gaze on her and dares another look. A mistake, again, and both good and bad all at once. Good, because the sheer heat there is plain as day, but bad for that as well, because now is scarcely the time and place for her to think about that particular aspect of marriage. She hastily wipes at her eyes again, feigning tears to hide her surely flushed cheeks.

"I pledge to you the first bite from my meat,

And the first drink from my cup.

I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care,

And tell no strangers our grievances.

This is my wedding vow to you.

This is a marriage of equals.

Oh, what wonderful vows! A marriage of equals. As Naneth and Ada's is, as Elphir and Alycia's. As Faramir and Eowyn's will surely be. The traditional Gondorian vows are not nearly so clear on that front, though certainly no less filled with love in the right circumstance.

There is a slight pause as the sage makes a motion of blessing over both of their heads and then Erchirion's hands are cupping Lisswyn's cheeks. They beam at each other, neither one entirely dry-eyed, and then-

Lothiriel has always wanted happiness for her brothers. Years ago, as a child, she had cringed and grimaced through Elphir and Alycia's wedding, because the thought of Elphir being a grown-up had seemed silly, and the idea of kissing nothing less than repugnant. She does not feel either thing now. Only relief and joy, watching them kiss. Wedded at last, beyond all chance of parting, save the parting that all Men must take.

"Lufubriddas," Wilfled murmurs, mouth quirked in a mischievous expression, "though not the only ones at this wedding, I think."

Lothiriel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a little embarrassed. She should have known Wilfled's sharp eyes would have seen the true reason behind her blush, and if Wilfled has, it is very likely that-

"Oh, no missing that," Eowyn agrees, drifting closer to them as Erchirion and Lisswyn make their triumphant way down the rapidly assembling line of well-wishers, "though I cannot blame Eomer, not with the Vanablēda in your hair-"

Lothiriel blinks at the unfamiliar word. "Vanablēda?"

Wilfled's mirth dims at her obvious confusion even as Eowyn nods. "Of course. It is as bold a statement as any."

"Eowyn," Wilfled says, sounding stern in a way that is usually only directed at her children, "did you ask Lothiriel's permission?"

"My permission? But-"

"Why? They are as good as betrothed anyways, and there is no better way to quiet down the council than Lothiriel's open acceptance of Eomer's suit-"

Lothiriel nearly falls off the next step, drawing gasps from both of her friends and a few of the other people around them.

"My lady, are you well?"

"Lothiriel?"

The betrayal she feels is, perhaps, disproportionate to the action. Eowyn had meant well! And she is right, in a way; it is no longer a secret, she and Eomer's courtship, and the eorlingas are a straight-forward people. Seeing proof of her regard for their king is something they will appreciate, respect.

But Eowyn might have asked! Or told Lothiriel what they meant before she placed the flowers in her hair!

She meant well and you know it, one part of her thinks.

But the other half can only remember Eothain's careless remark, the easy way he'd thrown their carefully tended secret to the gossip-mongers and onlookers. That it would have eventually come out is true, but the choice was taken from her. From Eomer. This feels too similar, no matter the intent.

"Lothiriel?" Eowyn asks again. "Are you-"

"I am fine," Lothiriel snaps. Guilt wells up almost immediately after at the look of confusion on Eowyn's face.

Now is not the time, she thinks, this day has been hard fought for and I cannot ruin it with my poor temper.

"I am fine," she says, forcing a hopefully passable smile to her face. "I missed a step; that's all."

Wilfled is still frowning and Eowyn looks ready to poke holes in her obvious lie, but one of the serving girls appears, fretful about the seating arrangements, and whisks her away before she can do so.

"Lothiriel," Wilfled starts to say, voice cautious and soft in a way that's very unlike her, "it was meant kindly-"

"I know," she interrupts, patting her friend's hand with her own. "I know."

The feast itself is splendid. Merthwyn had outdone herself, fulling holding to the belief that full bellies were happy ones-and knowing how easy it was for eorlingas to overindulge in the mead they're so well-known for.

Erchirion and Lisswyn sit at the center of the central table, Darwyn perched between them, looking like the perfect tableau of domestic bliss.

Lothiriel smiles, despite the sour sensation still lingering in the pit of her stomach. Wilfled had been pulled away by a chattering Eofor, Uncle Andrethon is fielding well-wishes from assorted eorlingas, and Duilin has been bustled off by Merthwyn to the nearest bench to rest his surely-aching knees. The hall is far from quiet, but there must be something in the way she's holding herself that is less than forthcoming, for no one approaches her.

Well, almost no one.

"You know," comes a familiar voice, deep and fond, "I believe you look far too solemn for a wedding feast."

Eomer, she thinks, with no small feeling of relief. "It is a serious occasion," she answers, keeping her eyes on her brother and his bride even as he steps up beside her, "is it so wrong to look the part?"

"It does when it means you are troubled," is his forthright response. Lothiriel knows she is easy to read, but no one outside her own family has ever been quite so quick about it as Eomer.

For that reason, among a host of others, she cannot keep the truth from him. She turns to face him. Her heart thumps, foolishly, wonderfully, at the sight of him, handsome and steady in his feast attire. The urge to step into the circle of his arms and press her face against his broad chest is stronger than ever; surely this pinched, mean, sour feeling would fade, if he were to hold her?

But they are in a very public place. Eothain's outburst, Andrethon's presence, and the blasted Vanablēda in her hair make such a thing impossible.

"Lothiriel," Eomer murmurs, "what is wrong?"

"The flowers," she blurts, because where lying-albeit badly-to Eowyn and Wilfled an hour prior had felt necessary, the thought of lying to Eomer, of all people, is particularly unsettling, "The Vanablēda-I-I did not put them in my hair myself."

Eomer blinks before looking out across the hall in Eowyn's direction. "Eowyn's doing, I presume?"

"Yes," Lothiriel says. "And I know she meant well, that it was meant to help me, help us...but I…"

She bites her lip to stop herself from spewing her irrational anger. It is not wholly justified, she knows, and Eowyn had been trying to do a kindness. She had! And she cannot say something as silly and selfish as I am angry with your beloved sister for trying to be kind and helpful to Eomer.

Eomer's gaze is focused and intense on her face, as if he can will the real reason behind her discomfort her out of her mouth. Suddenly, he has her hand in his, pulling her gently but firmly behind the nearest carved pillar. Lothiriel squeaks, slightly, in surprise and alarm.

"Eomer," she says, warningly, "if my uncle sees-"

"Damned Gondorian courting rules," he grumbles. "But we are still in the hall and it is your brother's wedding day. If that does not afford us a few moments of privacy, I do not know what would."

"It wouldn't in Gondor, to be sure."

Eomer's lips twitch. "My lady, I do not know if you have noticed, but we are not in Gondor."

That startles a laugh out of her. It is a relief to do so, to feel as happy as she had entering the hall in the morning. The gentle brush of Eomer's worn knuckles over her cheek softens her laugh into a small but sincere smile.

"There," he says, "now you look yourself again. Now, swete, can you tell me plainly what so upset you?"

She sighs, pressing her cheek further into his hand for comfort. "I do not mind the flowers. Not really. It is just...they are so significant, and Eowyn did not ask-"

Eomer hums, something like apprehension on his face. "Is it their meaning that is causing you disquiet or that Eowyn put them in your hair without permission?"

Lothiriel's brow furrows. Is it not obvious, that it is the manner in which the Vanablēda were thrust on her that has upset her? How could she mind their meaning? She is open to courting, she does wish happiness and love and peace for the only man she would accept, the man currently cradling her cheek in his hand, with patience and worry in his eyes-

Oh, Valar, she thinks. Eomer believes it is the Vanablēda themselves that have upset her, not Eowyn's mild trickery!

"Eomer," she says, reaching up to cover his hand with her own, "I would have happily put the Vanablēda in myself. I am not upset at what they say about us to your people. Only that it was done without my knowledge."

He visibly relaxes at that. She cannot help but huff a disbelieving laugh. It is her turn to reach and take his much loved face between her hands, stroking his bearded cheeks. "How can you think otherwise? Eomer, I love you. I just did not like something being declared for me, again, without my say so."

The gentle ahem still manages to startle her into dropping her hands and Eomer sends a poisonous glare over her shoulder to the unfortunate Gamling. Still, he reaches for her hands again, lifting them to his mouth to kiss them defiantly.

"I am sorry she sprung them on you, then," he says, breath gusting warm over the backs of her fingers, "but I cannot say I am sorry to see them, if you do not mind their meaning. I-I do not think I have ever seen anything as beautiful as you were, coming into the hall with them in your hair, smiling bright enough to put the sun to shame."

Lothiriel swallows even as her cheeks pink in a blush. "You told me once you were not very good with words," she murmurs, "I deem you a liar, Eomer, son of Eomund."

He chuckles, softly. "Perhaps I lacked proper inspiration before now. But I will help you take them out, if that will set you at ease."

"No," she says, quickly. "For that will certainly upset Eowyn and make people far too curious about why they went missing. And they are too pretty, too important, to waste."

"Hm," Eomer says. "Then, perhaps…"

Gently, he reaches out and pulls one of the blossoms from her hair. It looks absurdly delicate in his hands, but she cannot think it unsafe there. Not when she knows the measured strength behind those hands so well. He reaches up to tuck it behind his ear and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh, if breathlessly so. It will likely fall out during the first dance of the evening, but the meaning is clear: she is not alone in what she feels. There is no better gesture he could have offered her.

"I so wish," she manages to say, "we were not in the hall."

Eomer quirks a brow at that. "But your uncle-"

"Is watching us, along with others. Which makes the very pressing need to kiss you incredibly inconvenient."

Eomer huffs a soft groan and squeezes her fingers tightly. "Cwealmbealu."

"So you keep saying."

"Because it is true, brynhitu cwen. But you are right: there are too many eyes on us. I do not want to give Andrethon any cause to prevent us from dancing together."

"A wise choice," she sighs, still a touch regretful. It has been ages since she has been able to kiss him properly. Still, there is nothing for it; their whispered conversation has already gone on long enough and Gamling is looking decidedly exasperated from what she can see of him out of the corner of her eye.

She reaches up to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear when Eomer's hand is suddenly around hers again. He presses a kiss to the delicate skin at her wrist, eyes hot as coals as she gives an audible swallow.

"They will not be watching us all night. If you find that that...need lingers."

The breath feels squeezed from her lungs. "I think it will keep," Lothiriel murmurs.

Eomer smiles, face softening but eyes still hot. "Good."

"Ahem," coughs Gamling, again, and Eomer releases her hand.

Once again, Lothiriel is glad to be so prone to blushes, if only because no one will ask her its cause.

Erchirion claims Lothiriel for a dance not long after they've made their way out from behind the shielding base of the pillar. Which is just as well, for Andrethon offers Eomer a stony expression from across the hall-at least until he sees Gamling behind him, clearly having fulfilled the necessary role of chaperone.

Eomer does not think he has ever hated a word as much as that one.

Eothain lopes over to him-they are still not truly at ease with one another, not yet, but it has been better this week than the one before. A pattern Eomer expects to continue, especially in the face of Lisswyn's obvious and sincere happiness.

His captain presents him with a mug of ale and a smile, before blue eyes focus on the Vanablēda tucked behind his ear. The smile quickly becomes a smirk. "Very fetching, Eomer King."

"King or not, I can and will still thrash you," Eomer says mildly.

Eothain scoffs. "Vanablēda in his hair and still he threatens violence at a wedding feast! What would your brynhitu cwen have to say about that, eh?"

"That you should not tease him so," comes Lothiriel's voice. Erchirion is at her back, both flushed red from dancing, "and that you have been summoned by your sister for a dance. Everyone knows there is no better guarantee for violence at a wedding feast than refusing a request from the bride."

Eothain grumbles playfully, but sets his mug down on a nearby table and follows the Dol Amrothians back towards Lisswyn. Both pairs of siblings look like matched sets: Erchirion and Lothiriel dark-haired and graceful in the firelight's glow, contrasted to Lisswyn and Eothain's riotously red-hair and much more solid steps. But all look happy. After the mess it took to bring this wedding to be, Eomer supposes they cannot ask for anything more than that.

"There you are," says Eowyn, appearing beside him with her own mug of ale. "I have not seen you since the ceremony!"

"There was something I needed to do. Eowyn, you should know-"

"Aha!" She cries, interrupting him with a triumphant finger directed at his left ear. "I see you charmed Lothiriel out of some of her Vanablēda. Excellent, I'd hoped you would."

Eomer sighs. This will be more difficult than he thought. "Eowyn. Do you truly think it was wise not to have told Lothiriel their meaning before putting them in her hair?"

"What do you mean? Surely neither of you mind them?"

Eomer doesn't, not at all, but it was clearly not so easy a thing for Lothiriel. He can guess why-the strict norms surrounding a maiden's conduct in Gondor do not match up with the more open courting routines of the Riddermark. Any maiden of age wearing Vanablēda in the Mark would be normal, accepted. But for a Gondorian princess-no matter how well she has learned their culture, embraced certain aspects of their life-cannot be so open in admitting her affection. Especially in the wake of Erchirion's own scandal, Eothain's careless remarks, and Andrethon's disapproving stare everytime they toed the line of Gondorian propriety.

"Their meaning, no. But Eowyn, consider: Eothain already opened up questions about Lothiriel's reputation. I know you meant well. And perhaps if Erchirion and Lisswyn's courtship had been more traditional, Lothiriel would not be so unsettled-"

"Unsettled? She seemed perfectly fine-"

Eomer arches an eyebrow at that. Lothiriel is, by all accounts, truly terrible at lying. And if he had been able to pick up on her discomfort from across the hall, Eowyn likely had as well.

Eowyn purses her lips. "Perhaps not perfectly fine, but surely she would have told me if she were upset?"

"I think she would rather have drank an entire bottle of morgendranc than said anything to upset anyone today. Including you."

Eowyn's pinched expression only worsens. "Well, she need only have said! I was trying to help, to make it easier for her-for both of you-to gain the support of the council-"

Eomer sighs and wraps an arm around his sister to stop her rant. "I understand that. And she does too, but I think the way our courtship was revealed has made her…"

"Techy?"

"Sensitive," he corrects, with a stern look of his own. "You have learned enough about Gondorian propriety to understand why."

A little bit of the stiffness goes out of her shoulders. "Stupid Gondorian propriety," she mutters.

"On that," Eomer says, clinking his mug against hers, "we can agree, sweostor."

Dancing lightens both Eowyn and Lothiriel's moods and for that alone, Eomer is grateful. He is also grateful to be sitting, having been forced into a dance by not only both of them, but Wilfled and Rosefled and even a blushing Merthwyn as well. Happy as he is to aid them, he is happier still to have a moment to rest his feet.

And at the sensation of Lothiriel's slender, ever-chilly fingers in his, but no one besides her need know about that.

Eothred, of course, is eyeing them with a worrisome glint in his eye, but is mercifully occupied by a softly snoring Blodwyn in his arms. Darwyn is standing on the bench beside him, studiously watching her mother and her bridegroom dance-to something Gondorian, Eomer thinks, by music alone.

"What's the matter, mitting?" Eothain asks her, tugging on a slightly-rumpled red braid.

Her frown is severe, out of place on her otherwise cherubic face. "M'tired."

Lothiriel muffles a soft laugh into her free hand.

"Ah, but I thought you were a grown lass, ready to dance the night away?"

Darwyn's frown only deepens. "Am a grown lass! Just tired, too."

"Darwyn, Eofor is bigger than you and even he is ready for bed," Wilfled wheedles, drawing the little girl's attention to where her older cousin is snoring away with his head in his mother's lap. "Shall we all go to sleep?"

At this, the girl's lip quivers. "No. Want Modor to take me."

The entire table shares a wary look. It is no shocking thing that Darwyn wants her mother, but it is also Lisswyn and Erchirion's wedding night. The only bed they will likely want to concern themselves with is their own.

"Your modor is busy, min heorte," Eothred says gently. "Cannot Eothain ēam take you, instead?"

"No!" Cries Darwyn, voice rising in pitch and distress. "Want Modor or-"

"There now," Erchirion says, "what seems to be the trouble?"

"Papa," Darwyn says, face crinking in a clearly relieved smile, "m'tired."

"Ah," he says, scooping her up as if the entire table isn't openly gawking at him. "I see that. Well, we'd best see you off to sleep, gwinig."

"And Modor too?"

"And Modor too," agrees Lisswyn, drifting up to slip one hand into her husband's and stroke Darwyn's back with the other. Darwyn gives a long yawn, nestling her head against Erchirion's shoulder, which earns him a sweet and chaste kiss from Lisswyn. She meets their amazed stares with only the slightest blush. "I trust you all can keep everyone distracted until we've gotten her settled?"

Eothain offers her a jaunty salute before hefting himself to his feet and offering Lothiriel a hand. "Come now, glommung cwen. I haven't much practice in being an older brother, but I have heard tale that dancing is often involved."

Lothiriel smiles, giving Eomer's fingers one final squeeze before standing. "Luckily for you, I am very well-versed in being a little sister."

"Guard your toes," warns Erchirion. "There's nothing Lothiriel likes more than looking like the graceful one, for once."

Eothain, for the first time in weeks, does not frown at Erchirion. Lothiriel does, though Eomer thinks he sees the hint of a smile in her eyes as she loops her arm through Eothain's and they march off towards the middle of the hall. The rowdy music Eothain requests quickly draws more people into the fray, allowing Erchirion, Lisswyn, and Darwyn to slip out unnoticed.

Eothain and Lothiriel make for terrible dance partners, laughing too hard at whatever the other is saying to manage the steps well-likely due in part to Eothain stopping every few moves to clutch at his toes. Much of the Vanablēda linger in the dark mass of her hair, lovely as ever, though Eomer prefers her flushed and smiling expression to the worried one she'd worn earlier. Though he does not love her less for her bouts of seriousness, of worry. He doubts anything could make him love her less.

"It's funny, isn't it," Wilfled murmurs, quiet enough not to disturb Eofor's slumber.

"What is?"

"Loving someone so well. There's nothing that can prepare you for it, no matter what the léoþwyrhtan say." At this, she reaches over to grasp Eomer's hand. "I am glad for you, Eomer. We both are."

"I know," he answers, "and I know Eothain did not mean any harm in opening his exceedingly large mouth."

Wilfled huffs a laugh. "And yet I find that I love him despite his flaws. Another thing no poet will warn you of. But I do not worry for you or Lothiriel on that front. She is sensible enough to know that and I think you will be pliable enough in her little hands to be the same."

Eomer flicks a bit of ale at her and Wilfled laughs, looking for a moment like the girl he and Eothain had met all those years ago in Aldburg, with dirt smudged on her cheek and bits of hay in her hair.

Eofor is woken by their laughter and yawns, sitting up with bleary eyes. "Modor? Is there still food?"

"Truly his father's son," Eothred snorts from down the table. He stands, Blodwyn still happily curled in the crook of his arm, and claps a hand to his great-nephew's shoulder. "I'll see them home, then?"

Eofor goes with little resistance, just in time to have his hair ruffled by Eothain as he escorts Lothiriel back to their table. "Come now, gesinge min," he says, extending his hand to Wilfled, "grant your sore-toed husband a dance."

"I did not step on his toes once!" Lothiriel protests.

"If anything, he probably stepped on yours in his theatrics," concurs Wilfled, though she rises to her feet regardless.

Eothain grins, cheeky and unabashed as ever, and maneuvers her into a dip-followed quickly by a kiss-as they go.

Lothiriel settles back in beside him, shaking her head. "What a pair they are," she says.

Eomer can only hum his agreement, nudging his nose against her temple in a gesture of gentle-and chaste, he is no fool-welcome. Still, the smile she offers him in response is too lovely for his peace of mind when combined with the memory of her earlier words about the very pressing need to kiss him.

She must read something of his thoughts in his expression because she sighs and presses her cheek against his shoulder. "I think it will have to keep a little while longer."

She is right, for he spies Erchirion and Lisswyn managing to slip back inside without anyone noticing their short absence. It matters very little, for they've scarcely been back in the hall for five minutes when the customary bedding begins: just a harmless bit of teasing, from the men and women alike, as Lisswyn turns a rosy pink from the safe shelter of an equally flushed Erchirion's arms.

"To Erchirion and Lisswyn!" Cries one of the Gondorians, one of the youngest of the bunch and the least fazed by the Rohirric traditions.

"May you be blessed with many sons-"

"Bit late to wish them that, they may be halfway there already!"

"Pipe down, Freca-"

"Bema above-"

"- and fertile fields-"

"-horses aplenty-"

"-and many years of happiness," finishes Andrethon, clearly wary of letting anyone more intoxicated finish the toasting.

They're heralded from the hall by a flurry of cheers and flowers; one last show of Vana's blessing and the mercifully increased goodwill that has grown throughout the course of the day. Lothiriel gives a happy sort of sniffle as they go, her cheek still pressed to his shoulder. Bema, how easy it would be, to wrap an arm around her-just for comfort! Nothing more!

At least not in such plain view of the hall, he thinks.

The feast is slowly winding down now, but Lothiriel makes no attempts to move, or to call over any of their remaining friends to talk. Duilin and Andrethon are only a few seats over and perhaps look a little sour at their close proximity, but if it were truly out of line, one of them would say something. Of that Eomer has no doubt.

She makes another little sound-different than before, more neutral than happy-and he blinks in surprise to find Lothiriel asleep against his shoulder. Bema, but she is still beautiful, face lax in sleep. The smattering of freckles across her nose are plainly visible, this close, as is the gentle, pink bow of her upper lip, parted slightly against the fullness of the bottom one. The desire to kiss her is as strong as ever, but it is tempered by the equally strong one that aches to carry her to bed, to tuck her in amongst the furs and watch her slumber on. For hours. For days. For years, if she'd let him, impractical as that would be.

Though he cannot deny the idea of her in his bed is not wholly innocent. Who could blame him? He is only a man, and a man in love at that, and she has never shown any resistance to his kisses, his obvious interest. Certainly not now, not with so much at stake, but one day, when it is their wedding feast drawing to a close, when damned Gondorian propriety no longer matters and no one will be able to say a word about the King and Queen of the Riddermark sneaking off for privacy-

"Sire. Eomer King."

Eomer blinks and can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks at being so obvious.

"Yes?" He says, forcing himself to turn back to meet Gamling's long-suffering expression.

"You should wake her," his longtime friend says. "No doubt her uncle will have something to say about this-"

"Yes," comes Andrethon's voice, drawing a muffled groan out of Eomer, "he does. And it is this: let her sleep."

Gamling blinks. Eomer blinks. Duilin, who is doing a terrible job of pretending not to eavesdrop, actually drops his cane with a clatter. Somehow, said clatter does not wake Lothiriel.

"My lord?" Asks Gamling, in obvious confusion.

"For now, anyways. I expect Lady Eowyn will be along to collect her shortly. And besides, I was young and in love once. There is hardly anything scandalous about resting your head on the shoulder of someone you love, in such plain sight."

"Pelargir truly is a strange place, to grow such a man," grumbles Duilin. "I think I would have liked to live there."

Andrethon grins, clapping the older man on the shoulder. "And we would be glad to have you, my friend."

Reassured that he is not at risk by being skewered-either verbally or physically-by an irate Gondorian lord, Eomer leans his cheek against the crown of Lothiriel's head. Her hair is as sweet smelling as ever, made sweeter still by the lingering Vanablēda.

One day, he thinks, daring to nudge his nose against her temple again, and earning a sleepy mumble, one day.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: They're finally hitched, folks!

So this chapter took extensive re-writes (hence why it took so long) because I just could NOT get the tone right. I think I finally settled on what I wanted on the third re-do, and I hope this finished version does Erchirion and Lisswyn justice. (One day, I'll probably do something from one of their points of view, but it's HARD to show how in love they are from outsider sources, y'all! Especially when said sources are ALSO gross idiots in love and a little hyper-focused).

The wedding vows are supposedly based on "traditional Irish vows" though my resident expert on all things Ireland (thanks a million, Niamh) says they sound more like a translated/Hollywood-a-fied version. They do, however, come verbatim from Morning Through the Shadows by Marla Fair (available on Amazon and actually in my cart ATM).

Now, on the vanableda: honestly, both Lothiriel and Eowyn are both in the right and the wrong. Yes, Eowyn should have asked permission or told Lothiriel what they meant. But Lothiriel is, as Eowyn puts it, being a bit "tetchy" in direct result to Eothain's earlier outburst throwing her and Eomer's carefully tended courtship out in the open. They'll be fine, folks, but this will be revisited in the next chapter.

On Darwyn calling Erchirion "Papa": I pulled from the movies a bit in this one. There's definitely at least one Rohirric girl who refers to her father as "papa" and given that asking an almost three-year-old to pick up Sindarin enough to call Erchirion "Ada" or "Adar" seemed a little far-fetched, this seemed a suitable alternative. Also, neither Erchirion nor Lisswyn wanted her to call him "Faeder", as that's what she would have called Widfara.

As for our favorite idiots in love: it was so nice to write them together again, y'all. I really do love these two dorks and I've missed sharing them with you.

Vocab:
bealuhýdigu: meddling
Vanablēda: blēda means blossoms, Vana is obviously the Queen of Flowers per Rohirric lore and religion
mearcung oræfta: ceremonial tattoo artist, essentially (and yes, this is the same guy that did Eomer's king's marks like 8 million chapters ago)
Lufubriddas: lovebirds
min heorte: my heart
ēam: uncle, specifically maternal uncle
léoþwyrhtan: poets