PROMPT: Things you said at 1 AM

Lothiriel jolts awake with a gasp. The room is dark, the fire long burned out. She cannot remember all of the dream that had so distressed her-only the sensation of being chased, with heavy, dragging footfalls behind her-but it has made sleep feel impossible.

It does not help that she is alone and in an unfamiliar place. As welcoming as Eowyn and the people of Edoras have been, there is nothing comforting in her borrowed room, so many miles from home. Throwing back the blankets, she swings her feet the floor. The flagstones are icy, even in the dead of summer, and she hurries across the room to find the sturdy slippers Eowyn had so kindly loaned her.

It is made difficult by the dark, but eventually she locates them and her dressing gown. Tying it closed, she settles on making her way to the kitchen. Leofrida had been very kind to her thus far, and would likely not mind if she asked for warm milk and a crust of bread to distract herself from nightmares.

The hall is mostly silent, everyone being long a-bed. The only other people awake are the guards, who eye her curiously, but mercifully do not remark upon her bedraggled appearance. Rohan does not hold its nobility to the same standards as Gondor and for this, Lothiriel is very grateful.

She hurries down the darkened corridor, trying to forget the creeping terror of her dream, when-

There is a muffled curse from the hall.

Surely no one else is awake at this hour, she thinks.

But there is another sound: the clatter of wood being tossed on a fire.

Warm milk and bread forgotten, she makes her way towards the source of the sound. She blinks in surprise upon finding it: the King of Rohan, hair loose and clad in what must be his own version of sleepwear, scowling into the fire place.

Oh, Valar.

She has liked Eomer very much from the first moment she'd met him-how could she not? Brave, bold, gentle with his sister, respectful of his people, and-

Handsome. Very, very handsome.

But she cannot dream he thinks highly of her. Lothiriel is only the daughter of his dear friend, little sister to his respected brothers-in-arms, and friend to his sister. She is young and unschooled in so many things. She is certainly no shieldmaiden; the thought of weilding a sword or firing a bow deeply unsettles her. And for all of the supposed beauty of her family's Elvish heritage, such lineage had surely passed her by. She is not tall, nor gracefully slender in the way of her brothers. She is a short, rounded thing, with wavy hair that cannot be contained by anything other than the sturdiest hairnet.

All things that would certainly keep someone as interesting and strong as Eomer from ever seeing her as more than a diplomatic guest at best, and a child at worst. They are friends-at least she thinks they are-and that is as much as she can hope for.

Still, his fierce expression makes her heart ache. She is no warrior, it's true, but she knows very well what tends to ail warriors, after a war like the one Middle Earth is still recovering from.

"My lord?" She asks, softly. "Are you well?"

He turns towards her, half his face in shadow. "Lady Lothiriel?"

"Yes," she says. "I was on the way to the kitchens when I heard you tending to the fire. I am sorry if I am disturbing you-"

"You are not," he interrupts. "Anything would be a welcome distraction, at the moment."

Pushing down the ridiculous-and unhelpful-sense of disappointment at being just a convenient intruder instead of a welcome one, she steps closer. "You cannot sleep?"

He nods. "I suppose you cannot either, my lady."

"I-no," she admits. "Though I would not presume that my reasons for being awake are anywhere near as important as yours."

His brow furrows at that and she has to repress a wince; something she said has upset him.

"You do not think very highly of yourself," Eomer murmurs, stunning her.

"I-I do not know what you mean-"

"Ever since you have come to Edoras you have helped my sister in every way you can. You answer all questions about Gondor-both from her and from others-without complaint, you do whatever tasks are assigned to you without question, and I do not think I have ever seen you anything less than happy while doing so. And yet whenever someone thanks you, or compliments you, you...reject it, somehow. Or turn their concern for you away."

Lothiriel can feel her mouth hanging open in what is surely an unattractive gape but she is helpless to close it. He had-noticed? Her? Why?

"I cannot understand it," oh, he isn't finished, "for you are a kind person, well-loved by your family and friends, and yet it as if...it is as if you think you do not deserve it."

"I-well," she manages to say, "I am no one of importance, my lord. My brothers are the brave ones, my father smart, my mother beautiful. And you and Eowyn and many of our friends have played roles in saving our world. I am only-I am only a young woman, and a sheltered one at that. Surely that does not measure up to those who have accomplished great deeds-"

Her voice dies away as he takes her hands in his. Elbereth, but his hands are warm, and worn, and so achingly gentle even as he frowns down at her from all his great height.

"Kindness is not a small thing, my lady. It is as important as these 'great deeds' you claim I have done. Perhaps more so."

Lothiriel gulps. Valar, but he is even more handsome this close, and so plainly in earnest, that her heart gives a pitiful little lurch, as if it is trying to beat out of her chest and into the hands holding hers.

"I had not thought of it that way," she admits, voice small. "I-I did not mean to displease you, by not accepting praise-"

Eomer groans, though she thinks she sees something of a smile tugging at his lips. "Lothiriel. You should think better of yourself for yourself. Not because I ask it of you, or because it would please those who love you."

"Oh."

"Though I will admit," he says, thumbs stroking very, very distractingly over the backs of her hands, "it would please me for you to see you as I do."

Lothiriel blinks. This is-it is too much to process. He cannot-he cannot mean the clear implication there. She has seen the women his council would have him marry; tall, thin, blonde, graceful. All things she is not and can never be-

"And...how do you see me?" She asks, because it simply doesn't make sense.

One of his hands slides to rest at the side of her neck, thumb pressed to surely racing pump of her pulse. "As someone worthy of all things good in this world. If she would only let m-someone give them to her."

There's very little to do but stretch up on her toes and meet him when he leans down to kiss her. It is-everything she expected and more; gentle and shot through with heat, all at once, and wonderfully, miraculously true. She cannot doubt it anymore than she can doubt Eomer, little as worthy as she feels for...any of this.

He pulls back to press his forehead to hers. "Be kinder to yourself, Lothiriel. Or at least try. Please?"

"I am not in the habit of refusing kings," she says, somehow finding the courage to tease. "It would not do to start a diplomatic dispute during my time in Rohan."

He chuckles and the sound rumbles through her chest. "Good."

They do not speak much more; the earlier terror of her nightmare is long-since faded, and when she returns to her room for sleep, Lothiriel dreams of sunshine, and a kinder world.