PROMPT: Our parents arranged our marriage and we're doing everything within our power to get them to call it off. Only this backfires and now we kind of, sort of, definitely like each other.

When Eomer is twenty, some of his uncle's councilors get the bright idea that forming a stronger "diplomatic tie" with Gondor is something his uncle should consider. Which, in other words, means someone is getting betrothed.

Now, the ideal choice is Theodred: he's young yet, the Crown Prince besides, and there's no denying his charm, his easy leadership. But as the only eligible lady of high-enough rank and bloodline to marry a future king is apparently twelve years old, both Gondor and Rohan alike have qualms about entering into an arrangement that will leave the Mark without an heir at least until the girl comes of age, which is nearly six years off.

Which means it's entirely acceptable that Eomer-marshal of the Mark, third in line for the throne, and years younger than his royal cousin-be betrothed to her instead.

"She's a child!" He rages, tearing at his hair as Eowyn and Theodred watch on in barely concealed amusement. "They would bind me to an-an-infant-"

"You have heard of this marvelous thing called 'time', have you not?" Asks Eowyn. "She will not always be so young."

Eomer groans. "This is madness-"

"It is diplomacy," Theodred interrupts, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "And it is what your king requires of you."

There isn't much he can say to that.

"But Ada," Lothiriel says, lip quivering, "I do not want to wed the marshal!"

Her father frowns at her. "Lothiriel, have you been listening to your uncle's patrolmen again? The people of Rohan are not savages-"

"It is not that!" She cries-truly, it isn't, she'd met a very nice tradesman from Rohan in the market with Faramir a few weeks back, and she cannot imagine him coming from anything other than good, kind, people-and comes around the corner of the desk to grip her father's hand. "But Ada, he is old. Older than Amrothos! Surely that means he will be grumpy, like Elphir, or-or-"

Imrahil chuckles, smoothing a hand through her hair. "There will come a time when twenty will seem exceedingly young to you, little flower. And his age now does not matter. It will be another six years before the betrothal will be formally announced-"

"But what if I meet someone of my choice?" She asks in a small voice. True, boys now held as little interest to her as the fish that her brothers brought back from their sailing trips, but she did not doubt that would one day change. Another thought occurs-"And what if the marshal should meet someone he likes better?"

"Oh, daughter," Imrahil says, drawing her close. "I forget your kind heart. If that occurs, on either side, I am sure Theoden King would understand. But having this link, here and now, with war looming so close...it is what we both need."

She thinks she understands this.

But that doesn't mean she has to like it.

It is not until he is king, the war won, and Theoden buried, that someone thinks to remind him that he is technically betrothed.

"Oh, helle," he groans. "Not this again."

"The contract is still sound," one of the councilors says, "though in light of Lady Eowyn's betrothal to Lord Faramir, it can be discarded-"

"It should not!" Another man interjects. "We could use more ties to Gondor, especially to Dol Amroth, with all of their trading routes-"

And so it goes on. Eomer will admit it is not the first time that he's thought of the arrangement and the girl it links him to: the Princess Lothiriel of Dol had not been in Minas Tirith before his return to the Mark, but having met numerous examples of her country women, he cannot imagine her being entirely objectionable. Soft, likely, prone to powdery make-up and half whispered platitudes, more than likely, but not...horrid. Still, he would rather wed a woman of his own choice, one that he knows will make him and his people a good queen.

The council's argument rages on as an idea dawns on him. Reaching for the nearest piece of parchment, he begins to write, hoping none of the other men think to ask what he's doing.

Dear Princess,

I do not know if you were ever made aware, but nearly six years ago, my uncle and your father entered into an...agreement concerning us. As we are two grown people now, capable of our own decisions and choices, I would like to propose that we find a more agreeable alternative to a forced betrothal…

Lothiriel has never met the man she's been betrothed to for a third of her life, but she almost regrets it, upon reading his letter. It's blissfully straight-forward, with none of the flowery prose that Gondorian suitors favor, and surprisingly insightful. This is a man used to leading, a man used to duty and honor, but also with a stubborn-streak a mile wide.

It's almost a pity, really. She thinks she might have liked him, without this expectation hanging over their heads.

Dear Eomer King,

I was made aware, actually. And at the tender age of twelve, you can imagine I was none-too-pleased to be promised off to someone older than my brother like a broodmare. Obviously none of this was your doing, and thus I have no ill-will towards you. I agree that we should work towards a more fitting solution for both of us. I'm not sure what the grounds are for breaking a betrothal in the Mark, but in Gondor, they're relatively straight-forward…

And so it goes. Letters back and forth, throwing out one scenario after another. A scandal would do too much damage to both of their reputations, Gondor didn't recognize a woman's preference in a husband the way the Mark does, and the Mark would never allow a member of the royal household to get a divorce, and so on and so forth.

But that's not all their letters consist of. It's boring, to only write about one thing after all, so bits and pieces of their lives start slipping in amongst the plots. His love of morning rides, when the sun is bright on the greenness of the plains. How much she longs to travel, to see more of their world now that it's safe. Stories of their respective siblings, of the trials of leadership, even favorite recipes squeezed into the margins.

It's not until the sixth letter that she realizes she might have made a friend of her somewhat-fiance, and it's not until the twentieth one that he thinks he might be halfway in love with her, this girl he's never seen.

Neither makes the other aware of these observations.

Still, that doesn't stop Lothiriel's heart from giving a traitorous little lurch when she reads, at the end of letter twenty-eight-not that she's counting, mind you-will you be at Eowyn and Faramir's wedding?

Of course I will, she writes back. She only just stops herself from writing and I cannot wait to meet you.

If only just.

Eothain nearly laughs himself hoarse at Eomer's fidgeting, despite the fact that he's his King and as his marshal he should show him at least a modicum of respect.

"Modicum," Eothain parrots. "Bema above, Eomer, that princess has given you all new vocabulary."

Eomer makes a rude gesture in his marshal's direction. Eowyn sees this and scowls-it is her wedding day, after all, and he should be on his best behavior. He would be, if he weren't so damnably nervous.

The doors open, revealing another bevy of guests. Imrahil he recognizes almost immediately, along with his three sons, and one lady he knows must be Elphir's wife, judging by the child on her hip, and then-

Oh, Bema.

The princess is certainly a child no longer. And nothing like the powdered, pampered ladies he'd met just after the war-that he knows from her letters alone. She is not a world-stopping beauty like the Queen, nor does she have the bright fairness of his sister, but it matter so little. He can see the woman from their letters in the sudden curve of her smile, the easy way she reaches out to give her brother's hair a tug, the gentle way she offers her nephew another pair of arms to curl into when his mother takes her turn to greet Aragorn and Arwen.

Eomer scarcely has time to school his expression into something less than lovestruck-idiot by the time the Dol Amroth royals reach him and Eowyn, with Eothain snickering somewhere from behind him.

"Lothiriel, it is so good to see you again," Eowyn says, startling him. He hadn't realized they'd met, but the easy way she steps up to meet his sister's embrace confirms it. Eowyn isn't prone to falseness, and neither, would it seem, is the princess.

"And you, Eowyn!" She says, her voice bright with happiness. Her eyes flick over to his and she blinks as a blush enters her cheeks. "And it is just as nice to finally meet you, Eomer King."

Eowyn's grin is smug but Eomer can't bring himself to care, choosing instead to reach out and grasp one of her hands in his own. A small hand, and soft, but steady and dry. "The pleasure is mine, my lady."

Eothain snorts a laugh.

(Later, after their third dance of the night, she tugs at his hand. "Can I tell you a secret, my lord?"

"Of course."

"I do not think we need to continue to search for a way out of our betrothal."

He grins, bringing her hand up to his mouth to brush a kiss across her knuckles. "I am inclined to agree with you.")