PROMPT: "I'm glad you trust me."
If there's anything she's learned about the King of Rohan in the past few months, it is that he does not find sleep easily.
She can scarcely fault him for it-none of her brothers, nor her father, and she assumes Faramir, sleep well either. How could they, with all that they have seen and suffered?
The ladies of Gondor would likely be scandalized to find that she knows such a thing, but it is knowledge she has acquired innocently and unintentionally. The first she had ever heard of it was Eowyn's whispered concerns during their journey from Minas Tirith to Edoras for Theoden King's burial. The second time she witnesses it with her own eyes: Lothiriel is an early riser, always has been, and can well-tell the difference between someone who has just awoken from slumber and one who has never found it.
Eomer King, sitting bleary-eyed and with hunched shoulders on a bench in the middle of Meduseld, is the latter.
It bothers her all through her visit to Rohan's capital, but they do not know each other well-enough for her to feel comfortable remarking on it.
Still, she tries to help in the most unobtrusive ways she can. A bundle of soothing herbs left in his saddlebags, a gentle nudge of his elbow towards a mug of tea instead of ale, and so on.
Eowyn approves, with a knowing glint in her eyes, but Lothiriel is less concerned of being the subject of match-making and more concerned with the King of Rohan falling from his horse from lack of sleep.
But Eomer is a smart man, and catches on to her scheme much more quickly than she would like.
"Do you tend to all of your father's friends this way, or am I one of the lucky few to be so coddled by a Princess of Gondor?" He asks, something like disdain in his voice.
With three older brothers, Lothiriel is well-accustomed to teasing scolding, to sharp-tongued rebukes. But something about his question-as if she has done anything wrong, in being worried about him!-sets her teeth on age. "My apologies, Your Grace, for showing my concern in a way that is so distasteful to you."
"If you are thinking to worm your way into my good graces by taking an interest in my sleeping habits-"
The gall of him! As if she is in need of another suitor! "I would just as soon as be in your good graces as I would be found wading through a midden."
"That can be arranged," he had all but growls at her.
"Then arrange it," she snaps back. "It would be a welcome respite from your ill-humor."
She turns on her heel and stalks off, not waiting for his response, and too angry to care much about the open-mouthed stares the majority of the hall are giving her.
"Oh, Eomer," Eowyn groans, when Lothiriel tells her what has happened. "He has spent so long on his guard that he does not recognize simple kindness when it is given to him."
Lothiriel's ire softens, a little; she has heard tales of Grima Wormtongue, of Theoden King's strange illness, of Eomer's sudden banishment. She cannot fault him for being wary, but she does take issue with him interpreting her concern as a way to manipulate him into courting her!
"I will let you handle the subject of his sleeplessness from now on," Lothiriel says. "Since my meddling is decidedly unwanted."
Eowyn's lips quirk up into a wry grin. "I am not in the habit of making my brother's life easier, Lothiriel. I think it would do him good to realize not everyone is so easily intimidated by his fearsome stare and status as king."
There is something in her expression that goes beyond mischief, and Lothiriel wonders if she should be more concerned about this member of the House of Eorl than the elder.
So. She continues in her efforts to keep the King of Rohan from expiring from sleep deprivation.
Eomer remains standoffish, at first, but after she witnesses him slumping over into a bowl of porridge, any lingering hesitation she has vanishes.
"Honestly, you are no use to anyone like this," she says, poking him between the ribs and stifling a smirk when he flinches. "Take my help or seek some other source, but you need to force yourself to sleep."
Begrudgingly, he begins to accept her herbal teas. Slowly, carefully, she shows that it is mere kindness, concern, that has her worrying after him, this young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, this king who cannot find sleep even behind the walls of his own home.
Eomer is...not what she expected, on further discovery. Despite his mercurial moods-something she is willing to write off on the lack of sleep-he is...kind. Funny, if with a dark sort of humor, and deeply devoted to his people, his country.
Weeks in, she considers him a friend, a true friend, and this makes her comfortable enough with him to ask for the true reason behind his lack of rest.
Nightmares. She should have known.
At the start, he will not give her details-whether because they are too personal or because he thinks her too tender-hearted to handle them-but she notices that the dark circles under his eyes finally start to recede, at least slightly.
"And you have them every night?" She asks, concerned.
Eomer shrugs. "I have since Theodred's death. I did not have the time to truly think of them, nor let them keep me from sleep, during our ride to Pelennor, or Morannon, but now…"
Now, he has all the time in the world. A King's duties, however heavy, are not quite the same as being involved in a battle between the forces of Good and Evil.
Lothiriel knows, truly, that she is probably one of the last people that he would like to unburden himself to. Eowyn would be an apt choice, or Aragorn, or even any number of his loyal Eorlingas. But he has not told them. And it is apparent that he must tell someone; why not her?
"Tell me," Lothiriel says, boldly laying her hand on his wrist and forcing herself not to withdraw it when he turns his dark, fierce gaze on her. "You cannot keep this to yourself any longer, Eomer."
It is the first time she has ever called him something other than his honorific, and she can see the significance is not lost on him. His free hand drifts up to cover hers and that touch sends a bolt of heat through her veins, completely ill-timed and ill-advised.
Oh, Valar. There could not be a worse time for her to realize there may have been more truth to his first, spiteful accusation than she'd thought.
"Not here," Eomer finally says, his eyes still bearing into hers.
They ride, his guards and Eowyn in tow, to a beautiful meadow a good five miles from Edoras' gates. It lovely, this place, littered with wildflowers and a few young trees. The guards drop back, talking merrily amongst themselves, leaving the three of them alone.
Eowyn murmurs something about collecting fresh flowers for her rooms and ambles away; still in sight, but not close enough to hear their conversation.
Eomer is silent, though she can feel his arm twitch restlessly every now and then from where her hand is curled around his elbow.
"Lovely as this place is, I do not think we are here to look at the flowers," she murmurs, hesitantly.
"No," he agrees.
She lets him lead her under one of the nearby trees and sits when he bids her, not caring for the grass and dirt stains that will likely remain on her dress.
"If I must tell you the horrors that haunt me, I might as well do it in a beautiful place," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "There are no shadows here to frighten you, at least."
"None except the ones under your eyes," Lothiriel answers, reaching up to catch his free hand in hers to tug him down to sit beside her. "I promise I will tell you if something is too much for me to handle, but my comfort is less important than your peace of mind."
Eomer's fingers tighten around hers, his expression…soft, soft enough that her heart gives a traitorous lurch. Part of her wishes that she could say 'nevermind', and they could spend the day talking of more pleasant things, in the sunshine and with the smell of wild flowers in the air.
But that would defeat the entire purpose of coming here, and she is no so selfish as that. Or, at least, she can force herself not to be.
So Eomer begins to talk, haltingly at first, and then with more emotion, as descriptions of his nightmares tumble from his mouth. That he dreams of Theodred's death is unsurprising, that the things he saw in battle linger with him equally so, but she is not prepared for the sharp ache she feels as he describes one nightmare where he relives finding Eowyn on the Pelennor Fields, but this time he is too late.
Another features his father and mother, dead these many years, and another of reaching Helm's Deep too late, or without Gandalf at his side-oh, Elbereth, the things this man has seen, the sheer amount of people he has lost.
Lothiriel is not sure when she does so, but she somehow manages to maneuver Eomer until his head is pillowed on her thigh, and she finds herself carding her fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him. One of his hands is clasped loosely around her shin, and no matter the impropriety, she would not move him for all the world.
Eventually, he runs out of nightmares to describe, falling silent as she continues to stroke her hand through his hair.
"I have upset you," he murmurs, and she can feel him begin to shift, as if to stand.
"No," she says, both to the thought of him standing and to the idea of her being upset. No, that's not right; she is upset, but not because he has told her of the things that so trouble him. She is upset that he has had to fight dreams like this for so long, and without help. "I'm...I'm glad you trust me."
Lothiriel cannot help but gulp when he turns his head to meet her eyes. "I do. Though I wish I had chosen a kinder way to prove it."
"Hm," she hums, hoping he cannot feel the way her hand trembles as she slides it through his hair again. "I think it is my turn for a show of faith."
So she tells him about her dreams-the pleasant ones, only the sweetest and dearest ones she can think of. Silly ones, from childhood, like when she dreamed of turning into a swan for weeks on end. Happy ones, where she had extracted her revenge on Amrothos by dumping a bucket of sea slugs, of all things, on his head. Secret ones, ones not even Eowyn has heard, of staying in Rohan when the rest of her family returns home-she has come to love the country very much, after all, and its people, and its-
Her voice dwindles off as the realization hits her: it is not just Rohan's land and people and traditions she loves, but the man whose head is cradled in her lap.
Whose hand has drifted up to cup her cheek in her inattention, causing a riotous blush.
"I think that last one was my favorite," he says, somehow sitting up without moving his hand from her face. "Better still because it is not an impossible one."
Lothiriel scarcely has time to open her mouth to ask him what he could possibly mean before he's kissing her, soft and gentle and true.
"You cannot mean it," she says, when he's pulled back enough to allow her to catch her breath, his forehead still pressed warm and reassuring against hers.
"Would you like me to pinch you?" He asks, teasing evident in his voice. "This is no dream, Lothiriel, and certainly no nightmare."
She laughs, dipping her head to rest on his shoulder even as their fingers twine and untwine around each other.
(Eowyn finds them, asleep under the shade of the tree, a few hours later.
"You know," she says, grinning as they both startle awake, "this isn't quite what I meant when I asked you to help me to get Eomer to sleep.")