The grass around the large blanket Lothíriel was seated on was long and smelled fresh and sweet. Although the sun was out in full force, the heat of the day was alleviated by the shade from the trees along with a light breeze. Their horses grazed lazily and Lothíriel could imagine how appealing the greenery was to them. After tending to the bags of food and drink, Éomer sat across from her with their food in between them. He opened the bottle of mead, but before he could pour their drinks, she took the bottle and cups from him, pouring them herself. When she handed the cup to him, he grinned.
"You truly do know our customs." He chuckled, "and to think, I was willing to make an allowance for a southerner."
"You must be careful with how you judge people, be them southerner or northerner. The people of Gondor would be wise to do the same." She shrugged. She sipped from the cup, noting that she could still taste some of the honey along with some kind of berry.
"Do you like it?" Éomer asked, pulling a small knife from his belt before slicing the bread he brought. "It's Éowyn's creation. Those berries are native to Aldburg, where we grew up before our parents died. She asked for it to be made for her on her 14th birthday from our uncle, before he grew too ill."
"It's delicious, truly. I've had rohirric mead before and it's usually much lighter than the wines that Dol Amroth produces. There are things about each that qualify them as temptations, but personally I tend to favor mead." Éomer nodded at her statement. They sat and ate in companionable silence for a few moments before Lothíriel spoke again. "I was curious – and if this question is offensive, I beg your forgiveness – but how do you find it is to be king? I know that you never expected such a mantle to be placed upon your shoulders." He didn't move for a long while after she asked her question until he finally sighed.
"I don't know what I expected." His voice was quiet, "After Theodred's death, I knew that I was next in the line of Eorl, but so much happened and we were at war to the point where I didn't even know if the Riddermark would survive it. And when the war was over, my uncle had been killed and I was left to tend to a grieving and recovering nation. Certainly I had help on my side from both Gondor and the grace of my people themselves, but this duty does not rest easily upon my shoulders. I hope I can be a decent king for my people, but there are always doubts in my mind."
"What kind of doubts?" Lothíriel placed her emptied cup down before shifting positions sitting a little closer to Éomer in order to hear him better.
"I know I have a temper, but I also have prejudices and my pride to contend with. My pride is among the worst of my faults because it often leads me to stand behind judgements I made in anger. Ones that I should perhaps admit were wrong." Éomer looked at Lothíriel meaningfully and she felt her pulse quicken within her as he shifted closer to her. "I think it's worth admitting that you exceeded any expectations or judgements I made. From your spirit to your intelligence, I have been next to nothing but impressed by you." His words grew quieter until they were little more than a whisper as he began to lean down slowly. Their lips were a hair's breadth away from each other when behind them was a snap.
Éomer's head whipped up and in a fluid motion he turned and pulled his sword from his scabbard. Lothíriel also made her way up, her breath rapid and light while her face was flushed in embarrassment.
"Who goes there? Show yourself!" He called in rohirric before repeating it in westron. After a full minute, three men, each holding spears, walked slowly out of the woods. By their garb and dark hair, Lothíriel knew that they were not rohirrim, but dunlendings. From behind him, Lothíriel could see Éomer's back tense in preparation. The men stood there, waiting for what she didn't know, but each party remained still and silent as statues. She could see Éomer coiling himself up, preparing for strike out at the nearest of the three when she noticed that behind them, hidden amongst the trees were more people. Several women and children along with a few elderly folk peaked around the trunks. One of the elders caught Lothíriel's eye and waved to her. He smiled, though there was caution within his expression as he glanced at Éomer from the shadows. Lothíriel touched Éomer's shoulder and though his face did not betray any emotion, the muscle twitched under her hand briefly. She came around his back until she stood by his side.
"I don't think they mean to cause us harm." She whispered to Éomer in rohirric, careful that her voice didn't carry over to the men. "Let me try to handle this. Perhaps there's a way to avoid fighting these men all together." Éomer's mouth tightened into a single line and she could see he didn't believe it possible. Coming forward a half step, she drew the spearmen's attention. The first two did nothing and continued to keep their attentions on Éomer while the third leveled his spear in her direction as a warning. She lifted her hands, showing her empty palms before calling out in a loud, clear voice, "Do any of you speak the common tongue?" She waited for a half second before the elder who had smiled at her stepped out from the line of trees.
"I do." His voice was rough like gravel and his face was weathered and wrinkled. "I wish to speak to the King of the Horselords."
"Have your spearmen lower their weapons first." She glanced at the sharp point before her. "Then we may speak as friends." She heard Éomer scoff behind her and she glanced at him, her look silencing the king. When she turned her attention back to the Dunlendings, the elder nodded and the spearmen did as she asked. He stepped past the men and bowed to Éomer.
"King, I have come to ask that our two lands may live in peace. I am not a very important man. I am no king or great lord, but I am the elder of my herdsmen and many others come to me for advice and after the war we suffered greatly. Our people were wrong to follow the wizard. And it is true that in many ways, our suffering has been of our own creation, but from the needs of our land I must ask forgiveness." He peeked up from through his eyebrows to judge Éomer's face while he remained bowed. "We have heard that you are a good and just king. That you care a great deal for your people. I would humbly ask you to find it within yourself to allow us to make amends for the atrocities we visited upon this land."
Lothíriel turned to look at Éomer and saw a hardness in his eyes. She turned away from the elder man and put her hand once again on Éomer's arm. "I believe they truly mean no ill will to you. I read once that in Dunland an elder herdsman is greatly esteemed by his people and almost never bows to another man unless the situation is truly dire." Éomer looked at her for a long moment before nodding and sliding his sword within his sheath. He gave a sharp whistle and the horses trotted over.
"If you truly wish to make peace, I will hear you out in Edoras. I will depart with this good lady now and send some of my men to escort you to the city." Never turning his back to the Dunlendings, he helped Lothíriel into the saddle before mounting Firefoot, leaving the food and drink entirely.
The elder nodded and straightened slowly. "We shall wait for the men of Rohan to come for us."