PROMPT: Bundling bags

(Y'all, I highly recommend Googling 'bundling bags', because the Wiki article is WILD)

When he'd first been told of the tradition, he'd thought it was a joke.

"You cannot be serious," he says.

Aragorn's wide grin makes his skin prickle, in the worst way, and Imrahil's obvious struggle to keep his composure only compounds the feeling. "I am afraid not," the Prince of Dol Amroth says. "It's an old ritual, starting with our Elvish ancestors-"

Eomer narrows his eyes in Legolas's direction.

Legolas blinks benignly at him in response. "You do realize I am young by the standards of my people, and am not related to those who founded Gondor."

"You are still an Elf," Eomer grumbles. "And therefore responsible for this...insanity."

Aragorn snorts, earning a glare of his own.

"It is tradition," Imrahil continues on. "My wife and I did the same, as did Elphir and Alycia. It is merely meant to permit a courting couple the opportunity to spend uninterrupted time together, to better develop intimacy-"

At this, Eomer chokes on the large sip of ale he's taken, and coughs as Eothain thumps him on the back.

"It's intended to be platonic," Aragorn adds, his tone of voice incredibly worrisome. "Hence the bundle."

Eomer eyes the man-sized pillow with distrust. "It looks if it hardly weighs more than a sack of grain. I do not see how it ensures only platonic interactions."

Imrahil actually blushes, which only serves to make his dread increase. "Well. It is more of a...reminder, than an actual deterrent."

Eothain makes a choking noise; Eomer turns to find his traitorous marshal nearly purple with laughter.

Bema, spare me, he thinks. It is not as if he can refuse them tradition, not when Faramir has been so accommodating to Rohan's own. "Fine. I do not wish to know anymore about it than I already do."

"You do not wish to serve as a witness?" Gimli asks in an irritatingly innocent tone of voice. "I believe you would remain outside the door, horsemaster, but as Eowyn's only living kin-"

Aragorn and Eothain double over with laughter and Imrahil only sighs when Eomer throws the rest of his ale in the Dwarf's face.

He knows the...bundling must have begun, because there is a certain sort of hush over Edoras. Eothain has wisely warned everyone away from him; it is not that Eomer does not approve of Faramir, or wishes to keep Eowyn from her happiness, but this tradition…

It goes against everything he knows about stuffy, proper Gondor. Where maids are not allowed to walk the streets alone with their suitors! Where exchanging something as trivial as a certain kind of flower is nearly a proposal of marriage!

But allowing a courting couple to share a bed, with only a sack between them, is apparently completely normal.

He is aware he is likely wearing a hole in the carpet, but he cannot stop pacing even if he wished to. If he stops pacing, he will be forced think about the flimsiness of that damned bundle, Eowyn's flushed cheeks, Faramir's awestruck expression when she'd appeared for dinner, the japes of his men and Aragorn's alike-

"Oh, for Valar's sake," comes a familiar voice. A full goblet of wine is abruptly thrust in front of his face, held aloft by a slender, brown hand. "Have pity on the rug, Eomer, and drink this."

Blinking, he lifts his head to meet the exasperated gaze of Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. "How did you-"

"I could hear you pacing from three rooms over," she answers. "It seemed cruel to let you fret on your own."

He chuckles, slightly relieved to have something other than the sound of his own footsteps to distract him. "I had not realized I was being so loud."

"I am well-accustomed to the sound of a brother's fretting," Lothiriel says with a grin.

She eventually coaxes him to sit, joining him on the bench with a glass of wine of her own. He's surprised to see her, but far from displeased. Faramir's youngest cousin has captured his attention for months now, and he can think of no better distraction than spending time in Lothiriel's presence.

"Tell me truly," he says, because he has never known her to be false, "is this really a Gondorian tradition? Or some cruel jape your family has decided to pull on us uncouth, uneducated Northerners?"

Lothiriel laughs, bright and happy, and he's struck by how it transforms her face from merely pretty to beauty enough to rival Arwen herself. "You give us Southerners far too much credit for scheming, I'm afraid. It really is tradition, albeit a much debated one."

Eomer arches an eyebrow at that. "Meaning?"

Lothiriel shrugs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Eomer's hands itch, suddenly, with the urge to do so himself, to know if her skin was as soft and smooth as it looks-

"Some nobles think it was only meant for our Elvish ancestors, and not for us. Elves tend to love only once, and are only physically attracted to the one they love-so say the scrolls, anyways. We mortals are much more fickle, but bundling has been going on for the better part of two ages, and I do not think it is likely to stop."

"What do you think of it?" He asks.

Lothiriel's dark eyes flick to his. "I do not think it so ill a thing. How are you to know if you can spend the rest of your life with someone if you cannot manage even one night?"

A valid point and a good one. But... "I still do not see the need for the bed. Or the bundle."

At this, a blush floods her face, but she holds his gaze. "I think both are necessary. There must be a certain amount of...compatibility for a marriage to be a happy one, don't you think?"

"And a kiss is not enough to know if a pair is compatible enough?" Bema, what is he saying? She is a princess, daughter of his dear friend, cousin to his sister's betrothed-no matter how attracted he is to her, how much he values her quick wit and kind heart-

But her eyes have left his, now focused on his mouth. "A kiss is a good start, I suppose."

Later, were someone to ask him, he could not have said who moved first, only that very suddenly he finds himself with an armful of eager princess. Lothiriel's lips are warm, and soft, and she gives an audible sigh when he moves to rest a hand at the curve of her waist.

The kiss is as sweet as she is, but she offers no resistance when he deepens it; quite the opposite, actually, given the sudden pressure he feels that must be her fingers in his hair. She tastes of wine and something else, and the slide of her tongue only increases the urgent sense of close-close-closer-

He's only trying to shift her closer, but his hand slides too high, brushing the underside of her breast-

Lothiriel whimpers and Eomer can feel all rational thought leave his head. It's what keeps him from stopping her when she all but clamors into his lap, what fails to stop him from pulling away to trail kisses down her neck, groaning against the curve where it meets her shoulder at the sudden bite of her nails against his back even through the fabric of his shirt-

A sudden crack makes them both jump. Eomer briefly spares a pray to Bema, to Vana, that it is not her father or any of her brothers opening the door-but then Lothiriel starts to laugh, pressing her face against his shoulder as she does so.

"The wine," she says, breathlessly. "I hope that glass wasn't an heirloom-"

He laughs, at the absurdity of it all, and reaches over to crook a finger under her chin. "Even if it was, I would think it worth it."

Her smile is softer, gentle, and she leans down to press her forehead to his. "See? I told you it was a good start."

Eomer groans, goodnaturedly, and is rewarded with another-albeit, much more tame-kiss.

(He also suspects he'll learn to appreciate that damn bundle sooner rather than later.)