Author's Note: Long time no see, readers! These past few months have been very, very busy, and as much as I love this story, it's had to take a back-burner to real life pursuits. I've traveled both domestically and internationally, started a new job, moved apartments, and dealt with a not-so-great break up-so Too Wise was a little lower on my priority list than I'd have liked for it to have been. That being said: I will not abandon this story! Please don't worry about that-it's been a labor of love for so long now that I can't imagine ever putting it on hiatus. It just might be a little longer-though hopefully not as long as this last break-between chapters.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The hall is fairly subdued the next morning, with many an eorlingas moving slowly from too much revelry the night before. Lothiriel is glad of it, for it gives her the chance to sit beside her uncle in relative peace for the first time since the whirlwind of wedding planning had begun in earnest.

Lothiriel intends to ask him if he enjoyed the festivities, but he speaks before she can, asking, "Pleasant dreams, little flower?"

She can only blink in surprise in the choice of topic. "None of note."

"Hmm," Andrethon hums, a worryingly mild look on his face. "I would have thought they'd be guaranteed, given your choice of pillow at the end of the feast-"

"Uncle!" She cries, laughing a little despite her mortification.

"I suppose it is a good thing we will leave the Mark before the next week is out, if you are already comfortable enough to use your horse-lord as a perch-"

Lothiriel's good spirits plummet. She had forgotten, somehow, that she will have to leave when Andrethon does. Her sudden remembrance must be plain on her face, for her uncle clasps her hand gently, his expression gone soft and serious.

"It is for the best, Lothiriel. Erchirion and Lisswyn will soon depart for their new home in Aldburg. Even if you were not conducting a secret romance with the King, I could hardly leave you in Edoras alone."

She nods. He is right-of course he is. Even without Eomer and her's halfway courtship, Ada and Naneth would never permit her to remain here without some sort of chaperone and guard. And it is not so permanent a thing, the looming separation. Eowyn's wedding is scarcely three months away, now, and they will all see each other again then.

But what if Ada refuses, she thinks, what if he does not approve of us wanting to marry so quickly after Erchirion and Lisswyn, what if someone tells him and Naneth about the Vanableda, what if-

The tap of a worn finger to her nose pulls her from her unhelpful worrying. Andrethon shakes the same finger at her.

"None of that. You will worry yourself into a tizzy and that is something I would enjoy even less than lovesick moping on the journey home."

Lothiriel frowns at him, too affronted to keep fretting. "You sound like Duilin."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Your teacher is an interesting man."

She rolls her eyes, a fond smile pulling at her lips despite the lingering sense of annoyance. "He is. They all are-interesting and wonderful and dear. I am glad to go home, to see our family, but...I cannot deny that Edoras feels like home too, now."

Andrethon hums. "Hm. You know, your mother said something very similar to me about Dol Amroth. A long time ago."

"Oh?"

"Of course, she was already betrothed to your father at that point, so there was a great deal less fretting involved-" He dodges her half-hearted swat with a wry smile that is very much the same as Naneth's, "but it makes me glad to hear it, little flower. Your parents love you no less than mine loved your mother. I cannot see them denying you this, though you may have to learn a little patience."

"Patience?"

"You are a Princess of Gondor. He is the King of the Mark. A wedding of that magnitude will take time to plan."

"Oh," she murmurs. She had known their betrothal would likely be long, given the length of Eowyn and Faramir's own period of waiting, but she had not thought of the wedding planning! She had been imagining months, not years!

"And," Andrethon adds, something worrying back in his tone, "after Erchirion's rather rushed nuptials, there will likely have to be additional time to ensure that there are no...other scandals."

Lothiriel's face flames scarlet-it would appear he's finally been told of Eothain's rather uncouth slip of the tongue. "Uncle!"

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "It is not me who would suggest such a thing. You and Eomer have been behaving well. For the most part."

"Now you truly sound like Duilin."

"If that means I am speaking sense, then so be it," Andrethon says with a grin. He gives her hand a final squeeze before standing, stretching as he goes.

"Where are you off to, Uncle?"

"An overdue meeting with my men in the stables to discuss the route we will take home. And are you not about to be late for your lessons with the Lady Eowyn?"

Lothiriel tugs at the end of her braid. Yes, she is. She's been putting it off intentionally, in fact, for her frustration regarding the Vanableda has still not faded as much as she would like it to.

"I will go soon. I just-it is-I fear we will quarrel-"

"And avoiding it will help? Wounds left to fester will not heal," her uncle quotes.

"And now you sound like Naneth."

"That, little flower, is an even better compliment than sounding like your formidable teacher. And I am, again, right."

Lothiriel has always thought of her uncle as sharp-witted and kind, but now she thinks she may be seeing the brother her mother has always known, at least as teasing and meddlesome as her own. But well-intentioned. That, too.

"I know," she agrees with a sigh.

And she will talk to Eowyn...after she packs. Just a little.

Eomer wakes earlier than is his usual wont. The lingering sensation of Lothiriel's head on his shoulder and the floral scent of her hair had made sleep impossible. He'd spent the better part of the night jolting out of dreams he dares not think more on, for fear of Eothain-or worse, Andrethon-reading them in his face, and thus finds himself finished with his missives a good hour earlier than usual.

It is, for once, all good news: the snows have begun to melt in Snowbourne, furthering winter's slow recession. The Dunlendings in the West Mark have caused no trouble in the village. Perhaps most heartening, significant progress has been made at unblocking the Dimholt Pass.

And it is this good news-along with the auspicious absence of most of his council-that allows him to sneak down to the stables to give Firefoot some long overdue attention. The stallion nickers at him as he approaches and Eomer can hear the reproach there.

"Friðest, friónd gedréfedlíc," he says, running a hand over the horse's neck. "You've hardly been neglected."

The stomp of Firefoot's foot indicates what he thinks about that, but it's easy enough to placate him with an apple and a few strong pulls of a brush through his mane. From down the length of the stable, Eomer can just make out the low murmuring of a few of the Gondorians, clearly starting preparations to ready their own mounts and supplies for the long journey home.

The sound makes him frown. For one, they're all speaking in Sindarin, its gliding tones a stark contrast to his own mother tongue. Secondly, their presence here means that their departure is rapidly approaching, and along with it, Lothiriel's own.

It is ridiculous, the amount of disquiet he feels at the prospect of their parting. The roads between Edoras and Dol Amroth are safer than they have been in years. She will be with her uncle, a seasoned warrior, and a host of Pelargir's best soldiers. She will be well protected, of course she will, but he cannot shake the fear that something could go wrong. To have this sort of happiness is not something he ever dared dream of, before or during the War. The fear of losing it-losing Lothiriel-is suddenly all too real.

Firefoot, attuned to as mood as ever, nudges him with his mighty chest, startling a laugh out of him. Stop that, the horse's dark eyes seem to say.

"Oh, that is easy enough for you to say," he murmurs. "Your top concerns are whether your feeding trough is full and the number of days between now and breeding season."

"I do hope that's your horse you're talking to."

It's only years of watching what happens when a horse-even so fine a mount as Firefoot-is startled that keeps Eomer from making an undignified noise of surprise. He turns his head to shoot a fierce glare in a now grinning Andrethon's direction. Bema, will there ever be a time when the man doesn't catch him unawares?

"I am hardly the first to do so," he grumbles.

Andrethon holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, Eomer King. I only meant that those...particular concerns would be odd for a male of the human variety to have."

Eomer snorts. The older man drifts subtly closer, clearly aware of the danger Firefoot could pose if he were to test him. Unlike his easy acceptance of Lothiriel, the stallion eyes him with cold curiosity before tossing his head and returning his attention to his food

"It would seem your horse is not overly fond of me."

"He's not overly fond of most people," Eomer admits, giving Firefoot's neck a brusque pat.

"Interesting. Lothiriel said he was gentle as a lamb with her."

Eomer can feel heat creeping up his neck again. Firefoot has always been able to read his feelings towards a person with an almost uncanny accuracy. Thus it is no wonder that the stallion reacted so favorably to Lothiriel, and is more than a little wary of her uncle. He likes Andrethon well-enough, true, but he resents him just a touch too, for making these last days with Lothiriel so...stilted. Proper, in the most Gondorian sense of the word.

There's no proper way to say that, in either a Gondorian or Rohirric manner, but judging by the knowing glint in Andrethon's eyes, he surmises he's guessed at the reason for both horse and master's irritability.

"He may come to like me better, after I've spoken my piece."

Eomer suspects they're not talking about Firefoot any longer.

"Oh?"

"I've come to understand that courting is done a little bit different on this side of the mountains. And as much as Dol Amroth is not as...stuffy as much of the rest of Gondor, my brother-in-law and sister will still have expectations before you can have expectations, sire."

Eomer barely resists the urge to grit his teeth-part of Andrethon's meaning is clear enough, but the rest-what expectations could Imrahil and Dejah have, if he is not permitted to begin "officially" courting Lothiriel without their express permission?

"Meaning?"

"Since you cannot present your suit in person, you'll need to write a letter. They'll have my own thoughts on the matter, and certainly Lothiriel's as well, but Imrahil will need your intentions, in writing, if you truly hope to succeed in winning her hand."

I've already won her heart, he wants to snap, is that not enough?

But Andrethon is giving him this advice in an attempt to help him. He can recognize that, no matter how gratingly it's given. Surely he would not do so, if he did not approve?

"This...letter," Eomer murmurs, stepping away from Firefoot lest the stallion pick up on his irritation more than he already has, "what should it contain, exactly?"

"I've been told that you know Imrahil fairly well. I'd begin with whatever you believe will convince him of the sincerity of your affection for Lothiriel, for he will accept nothing less than that as a reason to see her wed." At this, the older man's expression softens a little and he claps a hand to Eomer's shoulder. "There can be no doubting it, for those of us who have seen you together recently. But from what my niece and nephew tell me, you two were not so...amicable before Imrahil returned to Dol Amroth. He will need proof, more than I can give him, that you speak truly."

"Lothiriel's own word will not be enough?" Eomer asks. Imrahil and Dejah alike have always seemed to value their daughter's mind, her opinions. Why should it be different now?

"I am sure it would have been, without the scandal of Erchirion's own courtship and wedding. But with recent events in mind, I think Imrahil will fear that you seek to marry her only as a favor to him, or in an attempt to safeguard her reputation."

Not for the first time-and certainly not the last either-Eomer damns whatever pompous ass that came up with Gondorian propriety.

"And I would think that Imrahil would know me well enough to know I would never consider taking any woman to wife who I did not-who I-"

"Love," Andrethon finishes for him, smiling now. "Yes, I suspect he does know that. But Eomer, you must consider...he, and my sister, have always put their children's happiness first. Lothiriel's perhaps more than her brothers. She could have been wed many times before now, to lords whose lands would have improved Dol Amroth's position in Gondor. Or to great warriors who could have aided in their attempts to keep the Corsairs from our lands. Perhaps one of them would have made her a fair husband-somehow I doubt it, from what little Dejah has told me of the various petitioners over the years. But they would not have her wed for anything less than what they married for: a good match, a loving match. You need only show them that it will be so to earn their blessing."

Bema help him-how can he possibly put to paper, to his friend and would-be-mother-in-law, what it is he feels for Lothiriel? He can scarcely get the words out to her without feeling like a stuttering youth in the first blush of love.

Andrethon pats his shoulder again. "It is no easy task, I grant you. But I cannot imagine you do not think her worth it."

Eomer snorts, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "Worth this and any other task they would ask of me. I suppose there's no hoping they'd simply ask me to prove my skill as a rider or as a swordsman instead?"

"Any man could do that," the older man says, gaze gone serious again, "but only one has managed to win her heart. Forgive those who have guarded it since her infancy for wanting to be sure it will still be well protected in another's keeping."

Now, Eomer suspects they are not only speaking of Imrahil and Dejah, either.

A sudden call of "Lord Andrethon!" cuts across their conversation, and Eomer startles. He had forgotten, almost, that they were in public, with more of an audience than just Firefoot.

"I will leave you to your preparations, my lord," he says. "It seems I have a letter of great import to write."

Lothiriel's uncle bows in farewell, and Eomer returns it thoughtfully, his mind already turning to his letter. Would it be untoward to ask Lothiriel's help? And if not, should he find Eowyn? Surely his sister could soften his blunt tongue a little, even if her own tended unhelpfully sharp at times.

Lothiriel has just successfully wrestled the heaviest of the winter dresses Mistress Theodburga made for her into her trunk when a loud smack announces the opening of the door behind her.

Behind it is a scowling Eowyn, whose fierce expression only sharpens at the sight of Lothiriel's grimace at her sudden appearance.

"If you were upset with me about the Vanableda," she says, as forthright as ever, "you should have just said so."

Well. At least it will not fall to Lothiriel to bring it up.

"Yes," she agrees, because Eowyn is right in that, "I should have. But forgive me for not wanting to seem anything less than happy on my brother's wedding day. He and Lisswyn deserved that, at least."

"And I do not deserve honesty?"

"Do I not? For I certainly do not recall you explaining their meaning before putting them in my hair."

Eowyn has the sense to look at least marginally guilty before her face falls into frustrated lines once more. "What good would it have done to tell you? You would have only refused them!"

"You do not know that-"

"I do, because I know you. You are still so concerned with Gondorian propriety-we are not in Gondor, Lothiriel! And if you are to be Queen of the Riddermark, you must learn to accept all of our traditions, even the ones that make you uncomfortable-"

Lothiriel lets the lid of her trunk fall closed with a loud crack, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Even if," for she dares not say when, because there is no surer way she knows to guarantee something not occuring than assuming it will, "I marry Eomer, I will always be from Gondor. From Dol Amroth. I cannot erase that part of me. Just as a part of you will always belong to Rohan, even when you become Princess of Ithillien. And it is not a lack of respect or appreciation of your traditions that made me uncomfortable. We have spent too much time discussing proper decorum in Gondorian society for you to be unaware of how I must conduct myself. Appearing to all but accept Eomer's suit when my parents do not even know he is considering paying court to me is nothing short of a scandal."

"No one in Gondor will know of it-"

"Someone could easily tell my uncle of the flowers' meaning. Or any of his men-and they would not keep the truth from my parents. Nor would I want them to! There has been too much secrecy already, with Erchirion and Lisswyn's courtship. They do not deserve to hear of me acting out of line-"

"You have hardly-"

"But that's just it, Eowyn! Surely I have made clear by now, how much even a word of misconduct can taint a woman's reputation in Gondor!"

"But that doesn't matter here," Eowyn shoots back. "Rohan is not like Gondor. My putting the Vanableda in your hair is the most open sign of approval I could have given you. As my brother's future wife, as the country's future Queen. Can you not see that?"

Lothiriel sighs, touched despite her frustration with her friend's actions. It means more than she can express that Eowyn is so in favor of her. But Valar, can she not understand, the thin line that Lothiriel must tread, if she is to win her parents' approval for her and Eomer?

"I can. And I-I thank you for that. Your support and friendship are very dear to me. You know that. But we must still be cautious, subtle, even, because of the rules that Gondorian propriety demands-"

"My brother has been wearing the symbol of your city around his neck for months now. I do not see how that is any less bold than the Vanableda."

Lothiriel's face pinks-Elbereth, she hadn't thought anyone had noticed the necklace! It is small enough and often hidden away by Eomer's tunics. But Eowyn has the sharpest eyes of anyone she knows, save perhaps Naneth. Of course she would have seen it.

"It is not the same. Not entirely. And the necklace I gave knowingly, whereas the Vanableda were placed without my consent."

Eowyn looks guilty again. "I...should have asked. I can admit that. But Bema, Lothiriel, you act as if loving Eomer is some crime that you will be punished for!"

"It's not that!" Lothiriel cries. "I-Valar, Eowyn, it is that I love him so much that I do not know what I would do if my parents were to refuse us! That is the reason for my hesitancy, my shyness. They are lenient in most things, but after all that has happened with Erchirion and Lisswyn, I do not want to give them any reason to suspect Eomer or I of any misbehavior. We must do this properly!"

Eowyn's brow furrows. "You love him. He loves you. That should be enough to convince them to give their blessing. It was enough for Eomer, to approve of Faramir for me!"

"Yes, well, lucky for you that the pair of you did not need Eomer's permission to court! Had Faramir not been the head of his own family, no force in Middle Earth could have spared him from censure!"

That knocks some of the annoyance from Eowyn's expression. "What?"

"Oh, Faramir has always bucked under the mantle of Gondorian propriety. Uncle Denethor and Boromir despaired of him ever marrying. What Gondorian lord would promise their daughter to a known rule-breaker, Steward's son or not? Had either of them witnessed you two kissing on the walls, you might have become a widow before you were a wife!"

"Rule-breaker?" Eowyn echoes. "My Faramir?"

Lothiriel smiles, despite herself. "He's very good at hiding it, when he chooses to. No doubt he wanted to make the best impression possible, on you and Eomer, but he was the direct cause of a good portion of grey hair in both my uncle and cousin."

"How?"

"I know most of the stories secondhand, of course-Elphir was the only one of us old enough to have been present for Faramir's youth-but I think one of the most memorable was when he gave one of his tutors a missive excusing him from his lessons for the day, saying Uncle Denethor had signed it."

"And had he?"

"No. Faramir had."

Eowyn bursts into laughter and Lothiriel is helpless to stop from joining her.

"I cannot believe he never told me about this ...and that you did not, either!" Eowyn finally manages to gasp, wiping at her eyes.

"I am sure he will not be overly pleased with me for having done so, but I also know there is very little I could do to ever make you think poorly of him." At this, Lothiriel pauses, giving the end of her braid a nervous tug. "Just as I hope you do not think poorly of me?"

Eowyn's expression morphs into one of extreme exasperation, though fondness is there in equal measure. "Lothiriel. Even now, after all you've taught me about your country's traditions, I cannot say I understand why Gondor has such...rigid courting rules. Or why propriety seems to be valued more than happiness. And I can admit that I should have asked you about the Vanableda. But you are my friend. My soon-to-be cousin, my eventual sister-I may want to hang you by your toes for these bouts of shyness, but I could never do anything less than love you."

Lothiriel's shoulders slump with relief. "I am glad to hear it. Though I would rather remain with my feet on the ground instead of hanging from Meduseld's rafters."

"Lucky for you, I can think of no small number of people who would object to me doing such a thing-my brother chief among them," Eowyn retorts, grinning as she crosses the room to examine Lothiriel's attempts at packing. She lifts the lid of the trunk and snorts at the disorder within. "Bema, these dresses will be ruined if they travel all the way to Dol Amroth in this state! Let me show you how to properly pack them."

Still, even as Eowyn fusses over the proper way to fold the heavy woolen skirts, Lothiriel cannot help but worry that her forgiveness is not so thorough as it seems. Of her own, she is a little more sure-Eowyn had meant well, no one has yet informed her uncle of the Vanableda's meaning, and she has always been prone to over-cautiousness. She would have liked to be informed of the flowers beforehand, true, but Eowyn has admitted her wrongdoing there-so there is little point in letting such a hurt fester, when they are to be parted so very soon.

"Oh!" Cries Eowyn, interrupting her thoughts. "Lothiriel, this dress is lovely! Why have you not worn it?"

In truth, she'd forgotten she'd even brought it with her. The semi-sheer overgown is a soft silver, contrasted against the deep, Dol Amroth blue of the damask underneath. It had been a gift for her eighteenth birthday from Alycia, and there had been no other dress she treasured half as much until Mistress Theodburga had crafted her Yule dress from beautiful ruby wool. It is strange to see it now; she scarcely feels like the same person who wore it in her family's castle by the sea.

"Lisswyn told me that blue dresses indicate a willingness to be courted, which I was not willing to be, at the time," she murmurs, running a hand over the bodice. "And then winter came and I was close to freezing already, even in my thicker gowns. Besides, this is more suited to a formal event than everyday wear."

"A formal event indeed! You should wear it when you stand with me for Faramir and I's wedding." At this, Eowyn hesitates, looking up from the gown with a hesitant expression. "That is...if you are still willing to stand with me?"

Ah. It would seem she is not the only one wanting true forgiveness. She takes Eowyn's hands in her own and squeezes tight. "Don't be silly, Eowyn! There is nowhere else I would rather be than at your side on your wedding day."

Eowyn smiles, relief obvious. "Good! I doubt I could find anyone else on such late notice who could keep me from breaking Gondorian propriety by kissing Faramir before the ceremony is over!"

"I hardly think I am enough of a deterrent to keep you from doing so!"

They laugh again before turning their attention back to the rest of Lothiriel's belongings, and her heart feels very light.

Eowyn is not in her rooms.

Eothain had asked for a reprieve from his duties for today, knowing he would likely over-indulge at Erchirion and Lisswyn's wedding.

And Eomer would rather be dragged over hot coals than ask Eothred for advice in this.

Which leaves him with only one person he trusts to help him cut to the heart of the matter.

"Come in, boy, you're letting out the warmth of my fire!"

Smiling despite Duilin's irritated tone, Eomer does so. The healer's hut is as cozy and familiar as ever. Eomer sinks into the larger chair beside the fire with a sigh. Duilin eyes him suspiciously.

"And here I thought I'd only have to deal with lovesick sighing from the girl. Use your breath for something more productive, Eomer King, and tell me what troubles you."

"I aim to write a letter," Eomer says, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "To Prince Imrahil and Lady Dejah, to explain that I wish to marry Lothiriel."

Duilin's grin is nothing short of gleeful. "Then it needs to be a very good letter indeed!"

"The best I've ever written. But Bema, Duilin, I do not know where to begin!"

"That you love her is likely as good a place as any. That you seek to court her-do not mention marriage, Gondorians are touchy about that word, and from what I can tell the Prince is wily enough to read between the lines on that account-because of that fact. Establish that this is in no way a response to Erchirion's own rushed nuptials. Perhaps include a line that hints at the fact that you have cared for her for some time now, for it is best to leave no room for doubt when it comes to your reason."

"You make it sound so easy," Eomer grumbles.

Duilin pokes at the toe of his boot with his cane. "Of course it isn't easy, boy. I doubt you'll ever write a more important letter, even as king! And I expect you'll want to send it off with the Gondorian contingent, eh?"

Eomer nods. Delaying will do little to help his case or his penmanship.

Duilin thrusts a few sheets of parchment into his hands, followed by a quill. "Best start writing then. No time like the present."

He softens the command with a mug of ale a few minutes later. The parchment, however, remains frustratingly blank besides the customary greeting of To Prince Imrahil and Lady Dejah of Dol Amroth…

Bema, how do I say this? I have fallen in love with your daughter? There is no other woman I can imagine as my Queen? That she is kind, and smart, and will help me lead my country with grace and honesty? That she makes me want to be a better-no, the best-version of myself, not only for her sake, but for the sake of all I am tasked with protecting, with leading-

"Oh, very good," Duilin murmurs, startling him.

"Very good?" Asks Eomer, before looking down at the page, which is not nearly so blank as before.

"Just so," the healer agrees. "You'll want to include something about a bride-price. It'll have to be enough to match Eowyn's, if not more. But do not-under any circumstances-mention that the pair of you have already exchanged courting gifts. That might ruffle even the most even-keeled swan's feathers…"

It is painstaking work, crafting a letter that both expresses the depth of his feelings without crossing the invisible line of thrice-damned Gondorian propriety. But Duilin's help proves invaluable-even if it is accompanied by snide comments and a few snorts at Eomer's admittedly less-than-polished prose. It takes more than a few rewrites for both of them to be satisfied, but in the end, Eomer is mostly certain it will be received well by his far-away friend.

"There, now," Duilin says, clapping a worn hand to Eomer's shoulder. "A fine letter. And it certainly does not hurt that it will be bolstered by Lothiriel's own account!"

Eomer frowns, a little, at the thought. It is not the thought of her telling Imrahil and Dejah of their courtship-or at least an edited version of events-but that she will have to do it alone… Bema, if only Dol Amroth were not so far away.

A knock at the door announces someone else's presence. Duilin scarcely has time to heft himself to his feet before it's opening, revealing-

"Duilin, you haven't seen my moleskin notebook, have you? Eowyn and I have just finished packing my first trunk and I'd like for it to go into the second, so that all of my herbs and notes may travel together," she says, too busy doffing her gloves to notice her audience.

Quickly, Eomer shuffles the letter under one of Duilin's many journals.

"Are you-oh," Lothiriel squeaks, finally lifting her head. Her eyes dart back and forth between them, clearly perplexed at their frozen stances. "Am I interrupting something?"

Oh, Bema. "No-"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," says Duilin, sounding horribly, terribly, smug. "Your young man has just written something very complimentary about you, girl."

Lothiriel's eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. "Oh?"

"Duilin," Eomer hisses, even as his cheeks heat.

"Aye, a very fine letter indeed," the healer continues, unperturbed. He slides the journal back with his cane. "Should you like to read it, glommung cwen?"

"Duilin!"

"I must admit, anything that can make Eomer turn that lovely shade of pink certainly has my interest."

Eomer covers his face with his hands, groaning.

Duilin chortles before hobbling over to give Lothiriel's hand a gentle pat. "Good, good, I always said you were a smart one. Now, I'm off to refill my tea supplies-"

From behind his fingers, Eomer can see Lothiriel's brow furrow.

"Your tea supplies? But I just re-upped them day before last-"

"Tch, I think I know enough about my own stores! And I must be quick about it-Mistress Cynegith will be departing soon for the midday meal-"

"But-"

At this he fixes them both with a stern look. "Normally, I would not leave you unchaperoned, girl. But in this instance, I think it acceptable to leave you two alone to discuss that fine letter before parting for months at a time. If I am mistaken in thinking this is something you would appreciate-"

"No!" Lothiriel blurts out, blush deepening as Duilin arches an eyebrow at her. "That is to say-I-we-"

"It is a kind offer," Eomer manages to say, despite his surprise. This will be the first time they will be alone-truly alone-since Eothain's outburst. He had not expected such a boon, and certainly never from Duilin, but he will not question the old healer for his sudden fit of generosity. Not when it will give him a moment to speak to Lothiriel in private, without prying eyes or ears. "We thank you."

"Hmph," Duilin snorts, though there's no missing the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "As you should, boy. I'll be gone twenty minutes at most. If there is a single wrinkle on either of your clothes when I return-"

"Yes, thank you, Duilin, we will behave," squeaks Lothiriel.

Duilin mutters something under his breath but ambles out the door without further comment. The door shuts behind him and Lothiriel passes a hand over her eyes. "Valar help me, but I am tired of everyone in this country being able to reduce me to a blushing, stuttering mess!"

Eomer snorts, crossing the room to pull her hands away from her face. She tips her face up to his, still flushed pink, and he cannot help but bend to press his forehead to hers. "Even me?"

"You are the exception," she admits, fitting her fingers around his.

They stay pressed together for a moment, just basking in their first true moment alone in weeks.

"Especially," Lothiriel adds a few moments later, a worrying note of mischief in her voice, "when you are equally rosy-cheeked. What ever could have you written in that letter, Eomer?"

The look of panic on his face is equal parts amusing and worrisome. It is not like Eomer to withhold things from her-much less something that Duilin had deemed important enough to give them a moment alone to discuss it.

"I-it is-"

It is sitting, innocently enough, on the low table nearest the fire. There are a number of crumpled sheets of parchment around it, two mugs of ale, and a nearly empty ink-pot. All things that point to multiple drafts of this very fine letter.

Now her interest is doubly piqued.

"Hm?" Lothiriel encourages, running her thumb along Eomer's calloused hands. "Surely you can at least give me some hint about what it contains."

Eomer groans, pulling one hand from hers to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Damn Duilin."

"That is not a very nice thing to say about the man who has afforded us this amount of privacy."

He glares at her and Lothiriel bites her lip to keep from laughing. Poor man, she really shouldn't tease him, with their separation looming so near. But Elbereth, he is adorable in embarrassment. She'll have to remember that.

"He is as meddlesome as always, even in his generosity."

"Mm," she hums. "Well, if you will not tell me…"

She darts out of his grip as quickly as she can. Eomer splutters a curse from behind her, but she can pay that no heed, not when the letter is nearly within her grasp-

An arm slides around her waist, solid and unyielding as iron. Lothiriel can barely manage a surprised eep before she's being hauled back against Eomer's broad chest. He easily plucks the letter off the table with his other hand, ignoring her protests.

"Eomer, just let me-"

"Absolutely not-"

She squirms around to face him, unsurprised to find him smirking down at her from all his great height.

"Were you not such a little thing, you could have reached it before I reached you."

"Little thing!" Lothiriel cries, shoving him with all her might and grinning when he takes a half-step backwards. "I will show you little thing, insufferable man!"

She's certain he's letting her move him, but move him she does, one hand on his chest and the other reaching for the letter, which is being dangled just out of her reach by the length of Eomer's long arm. His free hand is at her waist, fingers pressing just so to startle a helpless giggle out of her-someone must have told him that she's ticklish, likely Eowyn-and she winds an arm around his shoulder, to better haul herself up his body to reach for the letter anew. Eomer chuckles and spins them so that it is is her being crowded up against the wall, both of them still breathless with laughter.

They stop laughing very quickly after that. How can they not? There is nothing funny about being plastered together from shoulder to toe. There is nothing funny about the sheer heat coming from his hands, the one tucked at her waist and the other now letting the letter flutter to the floor in favor of sliding up the side of her neck, thumb pressing gently at the thrum of her pulse.

"Will you let me read it now?" She asks, voice hushed. Lothiriel had forgotten how being this close to him was nothing short of dizzying-in the best sense. And the sensation only increases as he presses closer. Valar, when was the last time they'd been alone like this?

"I could," he admits, voice thick with something she dares not name, "but I find I would rather tell you what it says instead."

Lothiriel manages a shuddering breath. Valar help her-help them-they should not be doing this. Not here, not now, not with so much at stake-

But then Eomer's nose is pressed against the curve of her neck, just under her ear, and any remaining common sense dies a swift death.

"The letter," he murmurs, breath ghosting hot and raspy over her skin, "the very fine letter, is to your parents."

That is nearly enough to startle her out of the undeniable hunger she's feeling, but then Eomer's mouth replaces the soft brush of his nose and anything other than that hunger seems very, very unimportant.

"I-I do not understand," she manages, somehow.

"Since I cannot press my suit in person," Eomer says, with a very slight press of his hips into hers, Elbereth help her, "it seems I must convince your parents of my sincerity in writing."

"A-and," Lothiriel stutters. "What did you say?"

At this, he lifts his head to meet her gaze, eyes nearly dark as pitch and burning hotly, with desire and candor alike. "The truth. That I love you. That I have long admired your kindness, your stubbornness, your habit of seeing the best in people...among other things. That I cannot imagine any other woman at my side as Queen. That there is no other woman I trust to help me lead and shelter my people. And that your blushes, your smile, the way you twist your hair around your finger when you are nervous, have utterly ensnared me-"

Lothiriel cannot help herself; she sinks her fingers into his hair with a whimper, pulling his mouth up to hers for a searing kiss. Eomer's response is just as passionate and he groans into her mouth like he's been starved for it-and perhaps he has. Perhaps they both have, because she cannot recall a single good reason not to wind her arms around him as tightly as she dares, to allow him to slide his hand down one hip and under her leg, hitching her closer.

Trouble, trouble, trouble, some small voice of temperance echoes in her head, but the sound Eomer makes when she nips at his bottom lip is enough to drown it out. Valar, how had they gone without this for weeks? How would they go without this, for perhaps months? But if they-if they do not stop now, if someone were to discover them, they might have to go without this closeness for the rest of their lives. And this is a thought she cannot abide.

"Eomer," Lothiriel manages. "We should-we must not-"

Eomer groans anew, but with considerably less pleasure in the sound. "I know," he says, though his grip on her leg does not lessen and he makes no move to stop from all but pinning her to the wall. "I know."

His head comes to rest on her shoulder as they both catch their breath. Lothiriel rests one trembling hand in his hair again, savoring the feel of him. "I will miss you," she murmurs. "I will miss you so much-"

The kiss that he presses to her temple is much more chaste than the ones proceeding it, but no less precious. "And I you. Lothiriel, whatever happens, we will find a way-"

A round of knocking at the door has them stumbling apart, Eomer cursing and Lothiriel hastily tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. Oh, Valar, surely Duilin was not back so soon?

"Answer me, you old badger, I know you're in there! I can see the light of the hearth!"

They both give a sigh of relief-it is not Duilin at all. Eomer waits for her to quickly rearrange her skirt, to attempt to look as innocent as possible, before he crosses the room to open the door.

Eothred blinks in surprise, though that surprise quickly darkens to suspicion when he spots Lothiriel over Eomer's shoulder. "What's all this, then?"

"Duilin just left," Eomer explains, in a much more steady voice than Lothiriel suspects she could manage at present. "He was giving me a moment to share my letter to Imrahil with Lothiriel."

Eothred's eyes dart back and forth between them before his mouth curves into a devious smile. Lothiriel is suddenly reminded of the nickname Eothain's uncle is known by: fyxen. "Did he now."

"Yes," she hurries to assure him. "You know he would not have done so if he thought we would be improper."

"Mm," hums Eothred. "Yes, I suppose that's true. Still, if you've finished looking over the letter-"

Eomer frowns, "We have-"

"We have, yes," interrupts Lothiriel, blushing at the confused look Eomer shoots her. "And it is as Duilin said. A very fine one indeed."

Eomer's expression softens and Eothred pats his shoulder before offering Lothiriel his other arm. "Best see you back to the keep then, glommung cwen. I'm taking your role as somewhat-uncle very seriously, you see."

Lothiriel rolls her eyes, but gathers her things before settling her hand into the crook of the second marshal's elbow. Eomer has managed to gather the somewhat-forgotten letter while Eothred's back was turned, and tucks it into an envelope.

"This must go to Andrethon," he says, "and I must to return to the hall. I'll see you both at dinner?"

"Dinner," Lothiriel agrees with a smile. For at least another week, she will see him then, at least. And then, after a few months, again at Eowyn and Faramir's wedding. And after that...Valar. Every day, should it all go well. They have made it this far. And even if he is not with her, they are still on this journey together, and that, more than anything else, makes her less afraid.

Author's Note: Alriiiight alright alright. This chapter is already SPECTACULARLY long so I'm not going to unpack every single detail. But forward motion is at hand! There is a happy ending in store (obviously), we're just taking the long way to get there. I hope you'll be patient with me for just a few more chapters.

The next chapter will be a bit of a transition-Lothiriel does have to go back to Gondor, after all. And what will her parents make of Eomer's letter? Time will tell ;)

Vocab:

Friðest, friónd gedréfedlíc: Peace, troublesome friend

fxyen: fox