PROMPT: High school reunion trophy spouse
Lothiriel's not sure why she agreed to do this.
Well, that's not entirely right. She'd owed Eowyn a favor, and apparently the only thing her cousin-in-law wanted her to do was to go with her pain-in-the-ass of an older brother to his high reunion.
"Eomer will never admit it," Eowyn had said, both of them bone weary and sweaty after yet another grueling roller-derby match, "but he's dreading going to this thing. And he can hardly take his kid sister, and it's not like you have trouble making friends with anyone-"
"Except Eomer," Lothiriel had pointed out. She's interacted with Eowyn's brother numerous times over the past three years, and only a handful of those interactions could be described as somewhat polite.
Eowyn frowned. "Eomer only picks at you because you let him."
(Which was...probably true. And it's not as if Lothiriel doesn't give as good as she gets. Having three obnoxious older brothers and two-well, one, Faramir was a saint compared to the rest of them-obnoxious older cousins had left her well prepared for Eomer's never-ending barbs.)
Which brings her here, now. Where she's watching an obscenely pretty blonde woman practically drape herself across the table while Eomer squirms in discomfort.
"Oh, helle," says Eothain-Eomer's childhood best friend that Lothiriel does actually like-"she certainly didn't waste any time."
"Who?" Lothiriel asks.
"Dreda," Wilfled, Eothain's red-haired spitfire of a wife nearly growls, her hand tight around the stem of her champagne glass. "His ex."
Now Dreda's a name Lothiriel's heard before, usually with a lot of frankly impressive Rohirric curse-words, both from Eowyn and Eothain alike. Much as Eomer annoys her, she understands a thing or two about terrible exes, and something about this woman, who is clearly gloating about the obscenely large diamond ring on her finger and the man lingering at her back, makes her jaw set in anger. Eomer may irritate her more times than not, but no one deserves this.
Steeling herself, she slinks across the ballroom in a way that would make Aunt Ivriniel proud, very aware of how good she looks in the dark blue of her dress, the way the pearls Faramir had given her for her sixteenth birthday catch the light as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Oh, there you are, melith," she drawls, emphasizing her Dol Amrothian accent as much as she can, kissing Eomer's cheek before sliding into the seat next to him, "I brought your whisky. Neat and on the rocks, of course."
Eomer, to his credit, only looks gobsmacked for roughly two seconds before he reacts, sliding an arm around her and reaching for the glass with the other. "Thanks, swete," he says, and for once, the endearment doesn't sound like a joke.
Dreda narrows her eyes at her-she really is pretty, except for the bitter twist of her mouth that Lothiriel knows all too-well from society girls back in Gondor-and reaches out to press Eomer's elbow. "You didn't mention you'd brought a...companion, Eomer."
Lothiriel's no fool; she knows what the other woman's implying. (She's honestly more amused than anything. Her, scion of the House of Dol Amroth, a call girl! Amrothos would have a fit.) It's what prompts her to lie, pretending to fix Eomer's tie before offering the other woman a decidedly unimpressed look. "Wife, actually. Lothiriel Eomundson, nice to meet you…?"
"Dreda," the other woman spits, anger and surprise bringing an unattractive flush to her cheeks.
"Hm," Lothiriel hums, turning to meet Eomer's increasingly wide-eyed gaze, "I don't think I've heard the name before."
There's a choking noise to their left-Eothain, Lothiriel suspects, likely wasting the very nice bourbon she'd bought him-and Dreda's face only darkens more. "I could say exactly the same thing, Lothiriel. And I think I would have heard if Eomer were married-"
Wilfled's scoff makes Lothiriel smile and she leans her chin on her hand. "I don't see how. Neither of us has a policy of keeping irrelevant people up to date on our lives-"
Another round of choking, though this time it's Eomer, and Lothiriel dutifully pats his back, as any good wife would. Wilfled looks positively gleeful over his shoulder, and Eothain is looking at her as if she's performed some sort of miracle. "Are you alright?" She asks. It's a double-edged question-she doesn't want him to choke, Eowyn would kill her, but she also has dug them into a bit of a hole here. What if he'd actually wanted to talk to Dreda?
"Never better," he says, and his hand finds hers under the table. "It was nice seeing you, Dreda."
"But-" The other woman starts to say.
"The tables have assigned seats, my love," the other man-who must be her husband, the poor bastard-says,"we should find ours."
Lothiriel waggles her fingers in the seething woman's direction. As soon as they've disappeared into the crowd milling around the ballroom, Eothain gives a delighted laugh, leaning over to clink his glass against hers. "Bema, that was one of the best things I've seen in years."
Lothiriel grins, though her expression dims when she turns her head to find Eomer staring at her. Wincing, she says, "I'm sorry, I know I took it a bit far, but she looked so-so-smug, with that stupid gaudy ring, and I know we rarely see eye-to-eye but no one deserves that-"
"Marry me," Eomer says.
Lothiriel laughs-oh, her hand is still in his, when did that happen? "Maybe a dance first?"
His smile's been directed at her so rarely-and certainly never this close-that she's never noticed how lovely a thing it is. (Oh, alright, objectively, she knows that Eomer is far from a bad-looking man. He's...alright. He's handsome. Very handsome.) "Seems like a fair trade."
(As it turns out, Dreda isn't invited to their actual wedding, either.)