PROMPT: jealousy + dancing
Eomer is not a fool.
He knows, very well, that his betrothed is a beautiful woman. While the idiots in Minas Tirith may have never appreciated her, it's clear, here and now in Dol Amroth, that she has no shortage of admirers. No matter how much she has–and will likely continue to–deny it.
There's Lady Alycia's younger brother, visiting from Umbar, with his wide smile and dark eyes, who has already laid claim to three dances. And he's not alone–there is a veritable army of Pelargiarian lords, dark-haired and handsome and charming to the last, all clamoring for Lothiriel's attention. Eothred, too, has not been shy about twirling Lothiriel about–but his marshal's flirtations, unlike the rest, are harmless.
He also knows damn well that Lothiriel is only being polite. It is her duty, as a Princess of Gondor and the future Queen of Rohan, to accept all of the well wishes of her countrymen. But he certainly is not obligated to enjoy watching man after man lavish compliments on her, when he himself has only been able to look at her from across the wide expanse of Imrahil's finest ballroom.
Lothiriel shoots him a fond, apologetic smile from across the room, clearly as unhappy with their somewhat forced separation as he is. She takes perhaps two steps in his direction before she's waylaid by a grinning Amrothos, flanked on either side by two noblemen.
Eomer scowls as yet another Pelargirian lord bows over Lothiriel's hand and presses a kiss to its back. The entirety of Gondor knows about their betrothal now. Amrothos, instead of being useful, has chosen to egg his countrymen on, trying to see which will be enough to raise Eomer's considerable ire. It is a game, nothing more.
He will not give his almost brother-in-law the satisfaction. Bema knows enough of the Gondorians see his people as uncouth Northmen–the last thing he needs to do is prove them right by striding across the room and laying hands on whatever lord that has decided to drip honey in Lothiriel's ear. She would not be swayed by such a thing, anyways.
Gritting his teeth, he takes a deep sip of his ale. It is too fruity, in comparison to Edoras' own offerings, and only makes him long for home more.
Well, that's not entirely accurate–it makes him long for Meduseld, yes, but also for the prospect of having Lothiriel all to himself, as his wife, far away from her meddling brothers and these charming Southern lords, where the only pair of lips she would have to concern herself would be his–
"How much do you know about Pelargirian dancing, Eomer?" Asks Lady Alycia.
In contrast to his near constant desire to strangle Amrothos, Eomer likes his soon-to-be sister-in-law very much. Alycia is as kind as Lothiriel has always said, and has a knack for heading off potential disasters before they can unfold. He suspects she's had large amounts of practice with Amrothos and that is what has her speaking to him now. She has only known him a few weeks, but it is apparently enough time for her know that his mood is taking a turn for the worse. "Not much, my lady."
"Oh," she says.
Eomer has never heard a single syllable sound so ominous in his entire life.
"Oh?" He repeats.
Alycia attempts to rearrange her expression into something less amused, but there's no mistaking the mischievous quirk of her mouth. "It is…very different than how the rest of Gondor dances. Likely different from your own traditions as well."
Eomer frowns. "Different how?"
A sudden murmur ripples through the crowd as a new song starts up. The music is unfamiliar–not string heavy in the way of the Mark's, nor full of harps like Elvish music. Its rapid beat something else entirely.
"Amrothos," Elphir groans, materializing beside his wife so abruptly that Eomer nearly jumps. "He cannot help himself, can he?"
"We both know that he cannot," Alycia murmurs, tucking one arm into the crooks of both men's elbows.
Lothiriel seems to share their sentiments, frowning mightily at her brother as he sweeps his arm in a dramatic bow in her direction. But she accepts his hands nonetheless. Eomer can only blink in surprise when they whirl into a fast-paced dance.
This explains why she enjoys Rohirric dances so much, he thinks, smiling a little at the memory of dancing with her at Yule. All the dances he's seen in Minas Tirith are much more sedate, compared both to what he's accustomed to and the display happening now, but knowing what he does of Lothiriel's southernmost family, this sort of dancing seems fitting. Despite her earlier discomfort, it is obvious that Lothiriel is enjoying herself, laughing as a few other couples join them on the floor.
Both she and Amrothos are grinning, nearly identically, as they cross their arms over each others, into an intricate turn that draws appreciative murmurs from the crowd. Amrothos bends, allowing Lothiriel to all but roll herself along his shoulders, slipping her hand back into his with grace. Eomer himself is impressed–he'd have never pegged Amrothos for being so agile–or, he is at least until it becomes obvious that this dance involves switching partners.
Lothiriel is propelled from Amrothos' brotherly embrace to the arms of one of the Pelargirian noblemen–Lord Donnion, his brain supplies, unhelpfully–where the dance continues. He is the sort of man that the majority of Dol Amroth, if not Gondor in its entirety, had likely imagined she would eventually marry. Tall, dark-haired, with the darker skin of Southern Gondor, and lord in his own right of an impressive keep, if the court gossip is anything to go by. Certainly a more acceptable match than the King of the wild, cold Riddermark, so far removed from everything the majority of Gondorians consider good and decent–
And then the bastard has the audacity to dip her, causing another round of gasps as Lothiriel's hair brushes the floor. Her cheeks are flushed, but whether in embarrassment or pleasure Eomer could not say.
Almost instantly after he thinks it, guilt creeps into his stomach. He cannot place his own insecurities and jealousies on Lothiriel's shoulders. It is clear this is a Pelargirian dance, one she knows well, and she should be able to enjoy it without him ruining it by reverting some sort of barbarian who will not her permit to speak to any other man.
"You know," Alycia says, pulling him from his dark thoughts with a gentle press of her fingers to his elbow, "much as Lothiriel enjoys the dances of Pelargir, I think they've been quite surpassed by Rohan's in her eyes."
Elphir's sudden snort causes Eomer to arch an eyebrow in surprise–of all of Imrahil's children, his eldest is the most proper, the most prone to traditional Gondorian mannerisms and actions. To make such an undignified noise is something he'd thought was beyond the future Prince of Dol Amroth. "An understatement if there ever was one, melanamin. Just last week I caught her in the gardens practicing some sort of footwork with a rake, of all things." At this, he pitches his voice higher, in an admirable imitation of Lothiriel's slightly accented Westron, "Stop laughing, Elphir, this was the only thing I could find that was remotely Eomer's size–"
That startles a laugh out of him, despite the still lingering prickle of jealousy.
"But even then, they are not her favorite thing from your beautiful country," Alycia adds.
Eomer quirks an eyebrow. "What is, then?"
"What indeed," she murmurs with a knowing smile.
Me, Eomer realizes. Which he knows, and has known for months now. It should not make him feel like a green youth, giddy with the blush of first love–and yet.
Here he stands. Giddy. And in love.
There's a round of clapping, indicating the dance's end. Lothiriel offers Lord Dollion a swift curtsey and nearly barrels directly into another lord in her haste to make her exit. She shoots a pitiful look in their direction–help me is written across her face as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud.
"A distress call if I've ever seen one," Alycia murmurs. "One of you, be a good gentleman and aid a lady in need."
"I am quite comfortable where I am, thank you," Elphir says, slipping an arm around his wife's waist. "I leave the rescuing to the very capable king beside you."
Eomer huffs a laugh. "My thanks, Prince."
"All I ask in return is that you keep the maiming to a minimum," Elphir says, "it'll be a diplomatic quandary if I have to explain to my uncles in Pelargir why they're suddenly short a dozen warriors."
Alycia rolls her eyes at her husband's antics–Eomer supposes he should have known Elphir would have the same mischievous streak as his siblings–and she releases his elbow gracefully. The crowd parts as he makes his way across the floor. Amrothos's face is gleeful from where he stands beside the lord currently trying to claim Lothiriel's attention. Lothiriel's back is towards him, which is the only reason she gives a quite gasp in surprise when he takes her hand.
She turns her face to his, mouth open to scold whomever she had thought him to be. It snaps shut when Lothiriel realizes it is him, and her face softens into a smile. He takes this opportunity to kiss the back of her hand, lingering longer than any Gondorian matron would deem appropriate.
"Hello, bryhitu cwen," he murmurs, grinning to himself when she shivers, "I believe you have need of me?"
"Eomer," Lothiriel breathes, and he very nearly gives a shiver of his own, at how breathless her voice is. "I was just telling Lord Barandir that the Mark's dances could give even the Pelargirians a trying time."
"I do not believe it," the other man–short, slim, with a nasal voice that immediately grates on Eomer's nerves–says. "No dance can best the people of Pelargir!"
"And I was saying," Lothiriel says, clearly reading the sudden flash of temper on his face at the hint of insult towards his country, "that we would be all too happy to give him a demonstration."
Oh, Bema, he thinks, she truly is a wonder.
It doesn't take much time to coax some of his riders into playing the music of the Mark. It takes even less time for Eowyn and Faramir–who looks far too amused by the entire situation–to join them, along with a few other couples.
But Eomer's focus is not held by any of them–instead, he grins down at Lothiriel. Her hands are warm and small as ever in his. "Are you ready?" He asks.
Lothiriel smiles. "You are the only partner I have wanted all evening. So I think it is safe to say I am more than ready."
There are numerous gasps–both appreciative and scandalized–the first time he lifts her. But they are nothing compared to the noise made when Eomer lowers her from the lift, not to the floor, but directly into his arms for a searing kiss.
("I suppose I warned him about the wrong sort of diplomatic issue," Elphir muses as a group of Gondorian ladies whisper behind their fans.
Eomer and Lothiriel, across the room, are unaware and uncaring, arms still locked around each other.
"So it would seem," replies Alycia, smiling.)