PROMPT: "You remind me of the ocean."
"Why the ocean?"
"Because you're salty and you scare people."
Aragorn is smirking.
This, Eomer has come to learn, tends to bode ill for whomever the smirk is directed at. And given that the rest of their table has moved on to side conversations or moved off to mingle around the room, he can only assume he is the cause of the High King of Gondor's amusement.
Wonderful.
"Stop making that face," he hisses.
"Do you know," Aragorn says, clearly ignoring him, "that I have had eight noblemen-three of whom served throughout the entire War-ask me to speak to you on their behalf?"
Eomer blinks, irritation lessening as surprise takes its place. "What? Why?"
"Why indeed," Aragorn says. "It would seem, Eomer King, that you have a knack for appearing….less than open to discussions of potential brides."
Eomer is aware of this. It had been his intention.
"And?" He asks.
"I told them you have long reminded me of the ocean," murmurs Aragorn, turning his still-dangerous smirk out to the rest of the room.
That is perhaps one of the strangest things his friend has ever said to him. And Aragorn makes a habit of saying strange things. "Why the ocean?"
"Because," at this, he turns back to grin at Eomer once more, "you, like the ocean, are rather salty and tend to scare people."
"Aragorn-" Eomer starts to growl, but he's interrupted by the sound of someone violently spluttering. He turns his head to see one of the Gondorian noblewomen hastily mopping at her nose. She's dark-haired, like most of her countrywomen, and decked in the blue they all so favor. With her hand hiding most of her face from view, he can only make out her dark eyes that are most certainly dancing with amusement at his expense.
Bristling, he barks, "And I suppose that your father is one of these noblemen too afraid to speak to me in person?"
She moves her hand to reveal a wide, beautiful smile. "Not exactly, sire."
He blinks, taken aback. "Then who-"
"Lothiriel," a familiar voice exclaims, "are you alright?"
"I am fine, Ada," the woman answers, holding out her other hand to meet Imrahil's concerned one. "Our king just made a rather amusing observation while I was mid-sip."
Oh, Bema, Eomer thinks. Of all the people to insult-
"My apologies, Princess Lothiriel," Aragorn says, though he sounds far from apologetic.
She waves him off with another dazzling smile. "Think nothing of it, my lord. Though I think you do both Eomer King and the ocean a disservice."
Eomer narrows his eyes at that, earlier guilt dissipating. Even he, knowing as little as he does of the intricacies of Gondorian society, knows that Dol Amrothians revere the sea above all others. The princess's implication, however, does not sound complimentary.
"What is that supposed to-"
But the princess is standing, murmuring a polite excuse to both her father and Aragorn before dashing off to join her brothers across the ballroom.
"The ocean? And Eomer?" Imrahil is saying, as he takes his daughter's seat. "What have you been saying, Aragorn?"
"Oh," he says, flashing another dangerous smirk in Eomer's direction, "nothing that isn't true."
Eomer takes an angry sip of his ale. Damn these meddling Gondorians-king and princess alike, they have all been sent to vex him.
And what had she meant? Aragorn's initial comparison was far from positive, but the princess's follow-up had had an undeniable tone of mischief to it. Imrahil's arrival has drawn Aragorn's attention, thankfully, which leaves Eomer free to glare daggers at the back of the princess's head.
She turns, seemingly sensing his stare, and offers him another smile and a quick flick of her fingers.
He decides, then and there, to get a full explanation before the night is out.
Lothiriel sighs, bringing her wine to her mouth for another sip. The cool, dark, quiet of the garden is a pleasant reprieve from the endless chatter inside. She enjoys parties, she always has, but this one is seemingly unending.
And it does not help that all of her brothers-even stoic Elphir and dependable Erchirion-have been dropping hints as to why it was so important that she not retire early.
"A husband," she grumbles, swirling the wine around in its glass, "a captor, more like."
There is a sudden snort to her right and she jumps nearly a foot.
A tall figure emerges from the shadows-even though they have never officially met, there is no mistaking the King of Rohan's broad shoulders, or his absurdly long blonde hair.
"Oh!" She cries. "Ah-good evening, my lord."
"Is it?" He asks. "Because I have found myself insulted. More than once."
Lothiriel is grateful for the dark, because it lessens the chance that he can see her flush to the roots of her hair. Oh, she had not meant to be so rude earlier, but she has heard tale of how prickly Eomer King is when it comes to the suggestion of marriage, and Aragorn's comparison had been too funny not to remark on!
Though, as she said earlier, not entirely accurate. Eomer King is nothing like the ocean, or at least, nothing like the ocean she knows.
"That must be the famous Rohirric straight-forwardness," she says, hiding her embarrassment with a quick quip. As is her way, no matter how many times poor Ada has tried to train it out of her. "I had always thought my brothers to be exaggerating when they spoke of it-"
"My people," he interrupts, the sound of him gritting his teeth obvious, "are not prone to mincing their words or speaking in riddles. If you have a problem with me, my lady, I would hear it plainly."
She can feel herself flush deeper. "You are not like the ocean at all," she blurts. "The ocean is-is changeable, and cold, and intimidating, surely, but it is not frightening-"
"You...were defending me?" He asks, seemingly bewildered.
"In a way," Lothiriel admits, voice tiny. "Aragorn should not blame you for being reluctant to deal with meddling fathers seeking to find an advantageous match for their daughters. We cannot all be so lucky as to have a beautiful Elven spouse."
Eomer blinks at her. "I do not understand. We...we have never met-"
"My father and brothers speak highly of you," she says, nervously twisting the glass around in her hand. "And I myself have been known to be less than welcoming to the idea of a spouse being chosen for me by some...some courtier who could care less about what I want or how I feel or-"
The shock of his large, calloused hand closing around her startles her into silence.
"I think," he says, and Valar, his voice is so deep, his eyes dark and serious and sincere, even in the low light, "we understand each other in this, princess."
She smiles, somehow, and feels her anxiety dissipate when he smiles back.
"I am glad," Lothiriel says. And finds that she is.
She could, after all, do worse things than befriend a king. Even one as un-ocean-like as Eomer of Rohan.
Later, when they're betrothed, he thinks to ask her.
"If not the ocean," he murmurs, lips pressed close to her ear, "then what do I remind you of?"
Lothiriel shivers and pinches his hand lightly where it rests at her waist. "Eomer, of all things-"
"I asked you a question, Lothiriel," he says, emboldened by the way that she fails to lean away from him, even with the disapproving eyes of her brothers on them.
She sighs, but the smile tugging at her lips ruins her attempts at exasperation. "The ocean is not an apt comparison for you. The sun, on the other hand…"
"The sun? Why the sun?"
"Oh, you know," Lothiriel says, her own hand splaying in a very interesting way at the dip of his spine, "bright, piercing, entirely too warm for its own good, full of hot air-"
He kisses her before she can elaborate more.
Across the hall, Aragorn smirks.