PROMPT: "Let's run away together."
As Aunt Ivriniel launches into her third story concerning the local delicacies of Dol Amroth, Lothiriel can see the King of Rohan's head dip dangerously close to the rim of his soup. Hiding a smile behind her hand, she lays her free one at the top of his wrist.
Just as she suspected, he all but shoots into an upright position, coming out of his daze at a warrior's pace.
"It is only me," she murmurs.
Lothiriel sees, rather than hears, his sigh of relief. "Thank Bema for that."
"Is my aunt boring you, my lord?"
The spots of color in his cheeks, just visible above his beard, are utterly endearing. "I-I would not say boring-"
"It is alright if you do," she interrupts, "Amrothos and I have said the same thing for years."
She nods to where her youngest brother sits, exhibiting extremely un-princely behavior by picking at his nails with the tiny seafood fork. Eomer snorts, disguising his amusement with a cough as a few people shoot him curious looks.
Lothiriel considers the recklessness of what she is about to say, but the way that Eomer has failed to shift his hand out from under hers gives her courage where she might have hesitated. "How good are you at escape plans, my lord?"
His eyebrow arches, but he answers readily enough, saying, "I was not made a marshal of the Mark without knowing how to move stealthily, my lady."
"Good," she whispers, "for I intend to show you something much more exciting than Dol Amroth's stew recipes."
She departs the table first, complaining of a headache. Ada merely waves her off with a sympathetic smile-he loves his sister, truly, but even he knows how long-winded she becomes after two glasses of wine-but Elphir frowns, clearly suspecting some mischief.
Always too wise for his own good, is her oldest brother.
Eomer must manage his own exit graciously enough, for he meets her on the stairs leading down towards the shore in nearly record time. Emboldened by their success, she slips her hand into his, though she could make this climb blindfolded, and he has a warrior's grace in nearly everything he does.
Eventually, they reach the shore, coming to stand along the sea-wall she knows so well. "Look up," she orders, gently.
"Bema," he says, "I have never seen so many stars."
"It is my favorite view in all of Dol Amroth," Lothiriel admits.
"Then it is mine as well," Eomer answers, and something in his tone makes her shiver, despite the warmth of the sea-breeze.
She can feel him shift, behind her, and then he is behind her in truth, his arms slipping around her to pull her back against the warm, strong breadth of his chest. Lothiriel bites her lip to keep from smiling and threads her fingers through his.
"This is," Eomer says, his breath hot against the shell of her ear, eliciting another round of shivers, "infinitely preferable to listening to your aunt wax poetic about shellfish."
Lothiriel could not agree more.