Lothíriel woke in a cold sweat the following morning before dawn, just as the first rays of light from the sun were streaking across the sky. She lay on her back, breathing heavily as she tried to recall what exactly had woken her—it was another dream, surely. There had been no rest for her that night; rather, Lothíriel had been jolted to consciousness several times by the uncomfortable paths through dreaming her mind seemed inclined to take. The details of the dreams—and why exactly they had disturbed her so—were now so fuzzy she gave it up as a bad job and stood, stretching as she searched the horizon for a boat. No luck.
Her clothing, dirty and caked with sand and salt, was becoming especially painful on her still-healing cuts and bruises. It was clearly past time for a wash. Even a wash in saltwater would be some improvement; perhaps Lothíriel might even clean her clothing somehow, if she had aught else to wear in its stead. The answer to that came so abruptly that she nearly laughed aloud—her oilskins, of course! They lay, ragged and dirty, where she had left them that first day, and she bent to scoop them up from the sand as she made her way towards the shallows.
Despite knowing that no one else could possibly be watching her (Éomer had still been fast asleep when she departed the beach), Lothíriel was hesitant to strip down to her bare skin. Looking warily around—as it would be her luck for a rescue ship to happen upon them just as she was wearing naught but her skin—she quickly removed her tunic and trousers, and gathering them to her chest, scampered into the sea.
The night air had cooled the water more than she expected, and she swallowed a howl of shock as she submerged herself all the way to her chin. Shivering, she immediately began scrubbing her clothing together underneath the water (it was better than nothing), and after a few moments decided they were as good as they were going to get, and she lifted them out, dripping water, and wrung them out with her chilled hands.
It was here here plan failed her; she did not wish to leave the relative modesty of the shallows to place her clothes out to dry. Lothíriel looked about, and to her great fortune, saw several low hanging trees above the far end of the protruding beach near where the shallows met the ocean. Unable to swim with her burden, she hopped over and draped her clothes as neatly as she could on some branches. Satisfied, Lothíriel swam out a bit further and dunked her head under the water, closing her eyes tightly. The water blocked out her senses, and she stayed underwater for some minutes before returning for air. Already she felt cleaner, and thinking wistfully of soap, she undid her plait and began to run her fingers through her tangled hair to her best ability.
By this time the sun had risen above the horizon, and the azure water around her was sparkling cheerily, beckoning her to swim further. Lothíriel was enjoying herself immensely, forgetting quickly the uncomfortable dreams she'd had during the night, and began to dive, interested in what fish or foliage she might find below.
Fish darted away from her as she swam towards the seabed, fingering lightly the plans she knew to be harmless. The sea urchins she did not touch, and for fear of harming it she neither disturbed the coral. Then around a moss-covered rock, she saw the alarmingly bright-green of a plant she recognized, and dived for at once. The roots were not deep, which was very well as her air began to run out, and she returned to the surface feeling positively gleeful. She swam to the nearest stretch of beach and tossed it ashore, and then another idea sparking, she crawled out to dig a hole in the sand.
There was really enough food on and around the island to last them for quite some time, she thought, had they the patience to retrieve it. So she took a deep breath and dived down once more, scouring behind rocks and filling her fists with several small clams with bright markings. Handful after handful, she returned to the surface to throw them in her makeshift hole, tossing seawater onto them to keep them mussels alive as long as possible. The task took no longer than twenty minutes, by her guess, for the clams grew in abundance where they were not regularly harvested by humans. One final trip below, and she would have more than enough to feed them both; Lothíriel swam further from the shallows towards a particularly promising mound of rocks before diving under.
She had just finished gathering enough clams, feeling enormously pleased with herself, when her eyes caught sight of something that nearly terrified her out of her wits—a long, golden form swimming some distance from her. It looked like no sea creature she knew of; could it be some sort of monster? Lothíriel dropped the clams in fear, kicking backwards to return to the beach as quickly as she could, lest it catch sight of her and decide she be its breakfast…
Indeed, it did turn towards her just as she was about to break the surface, and to her surprise it did not look a monster, but a man, but her panic only increased.
Éomer was gasping for breath above the surface, just as she was, some fifteen feet away. Lothíriel spluttered angrily; his nudity was not lost on her.
"You idiot!" she shouted, spewing water everywhere as she waved her arms in outrage. "What do you think you are doing?"
"Same as you!" he retorted, a scowl drawing his brows together. "I am allowed to bathe just as you, lady!"
She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, then immediately regretted it, and sunk lower in the water. "You should have known I was here!" Lothíriel spat. "Did you wake and think I had just walked home? That I was sleeping in a tree instead?"
"No! I—I...I only did not realize I had come so far! Nor did I know your location—"
"Well, go away!" she said. "Swim back! Go on!"
Éomer was shaking his head in ire, but did as she bade, turning before stroking back to the west from where he came. Lothíriel stayed put, treading water for several minutes as she tried to calm herself. Even when he was long out of sight, she fumed, from both the humiliating encounter and her even more embarrassing (and unnecessary) reaction to what he claimed to be a simple mistake. That much she could not help but believe, although in the distant part of her mind where the memories of her dreams were tucked away a violent, flaring hope that he had wished to see her caused her to shriek aloud in frustration and confusion before she swam back into the shallows.
Wrapped tightly in her oilskins with the clams and seaweed tied in her drying tunic, Lothíriel was hard-pressed to force past her hesitation to ever see Éomer again (if the sand swallowed her just then, she would not have complained one bit). She stalked back towards the western beach, her gaze on the ground and muttering angrily under her breath. Unfortunately, she passed through the trees and stepped on the beach just as Éomer did from the opposite direction, thankfully now clothed, wet hair plastered on his head, and carrying several fresh fruits. Their eyes met, and Lothíriel flushed red before continuing on.
"Breakfast," she said shortly, tossing her tunic onto the sand. "I hope you can stomach mussels."
"As do I." His tone was not encouraging, and Lothíriel sniffed as she sunk onto the sand and began to rummage through the clams.
"They are perfectly good raw," she informed him. "The fresher, the better. If you wait too long, they will make you sick."
"I suppose the fire will have to wait then."
"I suppose so."
Éomer had sat down some distance away, and Lothíriel began to pry the clams apart with her fingernails before sucking out the salty insides. He copied her motions, with some trepidation, and she noticed his sickened expression as he swallowed his first one with a measure of unladylike smugness.
"Not bad," he said, and then half-choked.
"Better than starving," Lothíriel said primly. "And better than buti." A sick knowing settled on her stomach as she said it, and she turned away from him as she felt another blush threatening. Of course! It was the fruit that had undoubtedly caused her unpleasant dreams the night before. The buti had never affected her before, and now it had taken its revenge: even without the encounter in the sea, she probably would not have been able to meet the King of Rohan's eyes.
"Lothíriel…" His mild voice broke through several minutes later. "We should talk about—you know..."
She stole a glance at him, but he was not looking her way. "I would rather not," Lothíriel admitted. "A blessed case of amnesia would not go amiss, if I am being truthful."
Éomer grinned at her, and she quickly looked back at her present clam. "Come now," he said. "What happened to the woman who throws fruit at her brother when he speaks out of turn? There is no reason to be ashamed; it was only a mischance, after all."
"Pass me the red fruit, will you?" Lothíriel said coolly, unwilling to speak on it further. He did so, retrieving his knife from his boot as well and giving it to her. She hacked at the hard outer shell of the fruit for some time, releasing her frustration, before the skin broke open. Seedy white flesh filled the air with sweetness, and she gave half to Éomer along with his knife.
"This is a safe one, I hope," he said, his voice and teasing now perfectly normal. "No fevers, no—er, sensual tendencies or otherwise—"
"None. Though if you eat too much at once you will suffer from dysentery. That can be true of any fruit, however."
Éomer laughed long at that, and a far less awkward silence surrounded them as they devoured the fruit. Lothíriel was feeling very satisfied, though her thirst was increasing. "We need water," she said aloud as she threw the husk of the fruit into the ocean. "Real water. I found a place yesterday that might have some under the roots of the trees."
"A fine thing to do. Let us go then—"
"You first," Lothíriel said quickly. "Go over there—" she pointed towards the southeast. "There is a clump of bushes with green berries. I am going to stay here and dress myself."
"Very well, very well…"
She waited until she could no longer hear him trampling through the underbrush, then tore off the oilskins hastily and near fell over trying to put on her trousers. Then she took the still-damp bits of seaweed she had pulled from the shallows, placing them carefully on her most tender cuts and bruises, wincing. The pain faded quickly when in contact with the plants, and as they were sticky she need not bandage them on, which was well as she had no bandages at all. Once her tunic was safely on her shoulders, Lothíriel glanced back at the trees, letting out a breath when she saw nothing out of the ordinary. While she trusted Éomer well enough, the awkwardness of possibly being watched could not leave her. She plaited her hair with trembling fingers, and then followed his broken path.
When she arrived at the clump of trees, Éomer was already on his knees and up to his shoulders, digging moist earth out from underneath a particularly stately buti tree. "It is getting muddy," he informed her, without looking 'round. "Clever eyes of yours to have spotted this place; I do believe I will hit a spring soon."
"Good," Lothíriel said, moving out of the way as he tossed a clump of mud onto the ground. There was not enough space for her to assist, so she went about the trees searching for anything to carry water in. Had they been clever enough, they might have saved the shells of the ferna for such a purpose. Eventually she found a relatively small dayig leaf lying at the bottom its tree, looking freshly fallen. She shredded several leathery pieces from the thick ribs, and returned to sit by a tree next to the still-working Éomer, and began to fold the pieces into sort-of bowls.
"Got it." The echoing grunt came from Éomer, who was crouched so far into the hole that the entirety of his head and shoulders could not be seen. He was clearly a fast worker. Rising from his hole, he shook his wet hair back with a grin. Mud caked his arms and his tunic, which Lothíriel noticed quite undid his morning bath. He continued, "It is bubbling up now with a mighty vengeance. We shan't thirst any time soon."
"That is well," Lothíriel said passing him the bowls she had made, which he examined with interest.
"Nicely done."
"I thank you."
Once he had passed her the first bowl of clear water, she drank greedily and uncaring of propriety. She had not realized the extent of what was likely the verge of dehydration, and Éomer gallanty fetched them both bowl after bowl until they were at last sated.
Éomer was the first to speak, a teasing grin forming on his face as he glanced at her across the small clearing. "Do you know, with a fresh water spring, fruit trees and the fish and other creatures of the ocean, I should think we could live here for quite some time."
"Of course!" Lothíriel said, and then laughed. "It does make me wonder of the legend of Amroth. Do you think he survived and found an island like this one, and to this day is content to merely sit on the beach and gorge himself?"
Éomer joined in, chuckling.
"I would hate to be here in the rain, though," she added after a moment. "And I would miss soap, and proper clothing, and walls to protect from storms."
"If we are here long enough, we ought to be able to solve all of those concerns," he said thoughtfully. "And now that you mention rain—does it look overcast to you?"
Unfortunately Lothíriel was forced to agree, and quickly fetched her oilskins from the beach while Éomer stowed the makeshift bowls safely underneath the roots of a dayig tree.
Some time later they came to be huddled together underneath her oilskins, which they held above their heads as they sat underneath the thickest cover of the trees, which admittedly was not very helpful. It was a cool, even rain, which made Lothíriel guess that it came from the north to herald the end of the summer months, but she was not cold: Éomer's body, so close to hers, radiated an inordinate amount of heat, and even with her damp feet and hands she was comfortable.
"No fire then," he said dully. "Sometime we ought to get around to that, you know."
"The rain will end soon," Lothíriel said. "In this part of the world, it begins quickly and ends just as fast. Storms such as our earlier experience are relatively rare." The splatters of water falling on the leaves and then dripping to the earth pleasant enough to listen to, and the smell of complete freshness filled her nose.
"Do you think anyone will find us?"
Éomer's question, posed more solemnly than she expected considering how wonderful she was feeling, left Lothíriel speechless for a moment. "Of course we will!" she said. "You are too important to abandon."
He snorted, perhaps in disbelief. "It would work out, one way or another, if we are abandoned. I will miss my horse, though."
"Some fish 'round this area are large enough to ride," Lothíriel suggested. "Whether or not they can be trained is a matter of debate, but if you find yourself becoming too restless…too much time on your hands, that is..."
"I shan't have any extra time if I continue to teach you Rohirric," Éomer said, his eyes bright as he grinned at her. "It is a hopeless enough cause that we could probably live here for a decade and you would still sound as though you have cotton in your mouth."
"Very amusing," she said coolly. "But I would think, at the ten-year mark, the teacher would be to blame rather than the student."
"Perhaps you ought to correct my tragic Sindarin, then."
"Perhaps I have a better idea of what constitutes a lost cause."
His brows few upwards, the smile on his face tilting further upwards. "Is that a challenge?"
"Do you know," Lothíriel interrupted. "I am beginning to think you enjoy bickering as much as my brothers; I would not have thought it of you. I mean, really—"
The remainder of her words, however, stayed somewhere between her brain and her lips, for just at that moment and without a warning, Éomer leaned forward and covered her mouth with his own.
Her ears rang, blocking out the sound of the rain. Her face had gone numb and her legs were trembling, and only a single, dazed thought worked itself into her consciousness…. This is nice…
It was unlike any account Lothíriel had ever read of kissing in her novels; instead of gentle brush of lips, Éomer seemed to be intent on marking her, branding her...and it was working excessively well. Even before he drew away, she knew that for better or worse, she was in love for the remainder of her life.
His eyes had both darkened and softened as he gazed intently down at her, and Lothíriel could only blink in response. "Oh," she said stupidly.
"Oh, indeed," Éomer's tone was grave. "Do you know, mín Hleah, that the only reason I have yet to descend into insanity in your intoxicating presence is the stubborn belief that you refused to marry me merely because you did not know me?"
"Oh," she said again, not knowing at all. "But—but you did not know me, either."
"A fair point," he grinned. "But now I do, and I am feeling the rejection all the more keenly."
"But—but…"
"Lothíriel, hleahtorbære, do not think for a moment that I underestimate your intelligence one whit, but I beg of you—do not think too much, not now."
Éomer's plea was such a perfect blend of sincerity and desperation that she obliged, and without thinking leaned forward to kiss him herself.
He cast aside the oilskin and pulled her close into his arms, responding fiercely as his beard scraped against her chin. Lothíriel could feel, as though from far away, rivulets of chilly rain dripping down her head and neck, but it did not bother her. A blossom of intense heat seemed to be seeping into her body from where Éomer was touching her, and she quivered—not from cold, but from pleasure. She was suddenly aware of how much larger he was than herself, though she was equally unaware how she came to be sprawled across his lap.
They continued this way for some time, becoming soaked to their skins in the rain and not at all noticing. There came a pivotal moment, just as Éomer's hot, damp hand was exploring the skewed neckline of her tunic, when a startling loud Hallooooo! echoed through the copse of trees.
They broke apart, both breathing heavily and Lothíriel's heart pounding with both fright and disappointment. The call came again, and Éomer gave a bitter laugh, running his fingers through his wet hair.
"We appear to be rescued!" he said. "Though it does not quite feel like it."
"Y—yes...it would seem so…"
He helped her to her feet, (she was wary of whether they would support her weight, but thankfully the feeling seemed to be returning to her limbs), and hand-in-hand they walked towards the beach. A small dinghy had been anchored not ten feet from the wet remains of their fire, and a half-dozen men were scattered about the island as far as Lothíriel could see. One of them was familiar, and that one spotted them first, waving an arm at them, he shouted,
"Found you at last! And a merry chase, too. Erchirion and I had a bet on who would find you first, and I have won fifty glorious gold pieces!" Amrothos was looking mightily pleased with himself, though as they approached she noticed his right arm was in a sling. "Glad to see you are alive and well," he told them, patting Lothíriel's shoulder awkwardly. "Father is worried, and I—" He had caught sight of their clasped hands, and his mouth fell open. "Riel…" he said weakly. "You...you—"
"Take us home, Amrothos," she said. "That is what you are here for, after all."
"But I—"
"A fresh change of clothes would be appreciated as well," Lothíriel added. "Your men are already in the boat waiting for us, shall we?"
The rainstorm had left a dense grey fog over the island, and it was with no small amount of melancholy that she watched it disappear into the mist as they were rowed towards a large warship some way out. She had not thought to retrieve the oilskins, nor the bowls which she had labored to make. Neither was of any importance, but Lothíriel began to wish she had taken something, anything—for now she was beginning to feel resentful towards Amrothos for finding them at all.
Éomer said nothing during the short row though he did not release her hand either, and helped her to alight a rope ladder to climb onto the ship. The rain had ceased, and she shivered, this time from cold, taking in the sight of busy sailors around them.
"There are rooms and fresh things below," Amrothos said, his healthy hand taking her arm and steering her towards the door which led belowdecks. "The trip back to Dol Amroth will only take a half-day. 'Tis fortunate you were not dragged any further; I wonder if you would have lived to be found at all."
"We were perfectly well," Lothíriel assured him, looking over her shoulder for Éomer, who was just then climbing abroad. The dark hull of the ship swallowed her as she continued to speak, her heart wrenching. "There was plenty of fruit, and fish—we had just found a freshwater spring."
Amrothos scoffed. "Setting up a real home, apparently. Considering starting a population?"
She scowled, wrenching her arm away as he threw open the door of a small chamber for her. "That is none of your concern, brother. Keep your nose out of it!"
"Father is going to blame me for this, you know. And after you had shouted yourself silly refusing to marry the man—"
Lothíriel slammed the door behind her, blocking out Amrothos's angry face. Her emotions—between the intensity of kissing Éomer and the shock of being rescued so suddenly—were not at all under any sort of control, and she kicked over the chamber pot in frustration. A knock sounded at her door, and irrational hope that Éomer had come, she stumbled over her own feet to wrench it open—but it was only a short, terrified cabin boy, who held out a bundle of clean clothes to her with a squeaky, "For you, lady!" before rushing away.
What she really, truly wanted, though the clothes were a blessed relief, was a hot bath. But Lothíriel knew how her father's warships were stocked, and there would be nothing better than barrel and those were too large to fit in her tiny room. Fortunately the rain had done a reasonable job washing most of the salt from her skin, so she stripped down, dried herself in the air until she could not stand the cold any longer, and then dressed in the fresh frock the boy had brought.
By now her temper had mellowed, and with another bone to pick with her brother Lothíriel left her cabin with her head high in the air, and strode up to the topdeck where she knew he would be commanding the ship. Indeed, he was standing at the front of the quarterdeck, and he frowned as she approached.
"You should stay below; the weather is still—"
"Trousers would have been appreciated," Lothíriel said coolly. "But I think I will forgive you anyway. Where is Éomer?"
"Far from you, and for good reason. I will not be tolerating any nonsense on my ship; Father can sort you out."
"Sort me out? There is nothing—gods, Amrothos, you are an utter prick! Do you really think either Éomer or myself would allow you to order us about—"
"Riel, think for a moment." Amrothos's eyes were glittering dangerously. "I found you alone with a foreign king on an abandoned island. I have to report to Father. Do you think I should tell him what I saw, or what I have guessed by your complete lack of subtlety? Because I can assure you that how Father reacts to your little misadventure will depend solely upon me and my report, and should you be wanting his blessing to do—well…need I explain further?"
Lothíriel was furious; her fists were clenched at her side, trembling, as she glared with all her hateful might at her brother. "That is blackmail," she forced through gritted teeth.
"It is in your best interest," Amrothos said with finality. "And you are embarrassing yourself; Father does not hear my reports alone. You know how sailors gossip. Should he hear that you and Éomer—"
She turned on her heel, stomping down onto the main deck and belowdecks once more. Slamming her door the second time did not give her the any satisfaction, and she was left in misery, fuming, as she sat on the rickety cot. If Amrothos dared to tell their father some jumped-up story about her and Éomer misbehaving, she would wring his neck.
Éomer thought her intelligent, Amrothos thought her shameless...but Lothíriel knew in her heart that she was nothing but proud. She had never taking the bullying of her brothers well, and because she would have never matched them physically she had always sought to outsmart them. It had always worked, too, but now she just felt an unhealthy arrogance and indignation turning her against her brother.
But these angry thoughts soon faded away, and were replaced with a desperate serenity. There was nothing Amrothos could really do to prevent her and Éomer from marrying; assuming Éomer still had that wish. Father had approved the match months earlier, surely nothing would have changed to affect that…
She jolted awake some hours later, cramped and stiff from folding herself into a comfortable to fit into the tiny bed. How it fit sailors much larger than herself, she would never know. There were shouts above, and Lothíriel recognized the sound of the a gangplank being thrown onto a dock. She stood quickly, brushing down her rumpled skirt before rushing out of the room.
The sight of the white marble palace sparkling in the sunlight filled her with both relief and fear. Surely now that they were in the city, Amrothos would not deem it necessary to separate herself and Éomer...where was he? With the only remaining sailors in the rigging, she darted across the deck to lean over the rail, shielding her eyes as she searched the crowd on the deck below.
There! Éomer stood out, his golden hair gleaming and standing a head taller than most other men...her heart fluttered as she heard his laughter float up on the breeze towards her. He was surrounded by a knot of other blond men, dressed in the livery of his guard and who were greeting him with enthusiasm. A surprising tremble of disappointment faded the smile from Lothíriel's face. He had not waited for her before departing the ship...had he even asked of her? He had said he considered himself rejected of her, did he still think such a thing? After those kisses? Had he merely taken his pleasure with no intention of resuming his suit? Did he hold whatever feelings she might have developed in so little regard?
Soon the men of Rohan were walking back towards the city. Éomer had glanced back at the ship one last time, a concerned expression visible to Lothíriel's sharp eyes, but she ducked quickly behind the railing, embarrassed to be caught staring. When she looked again, his back was retreating, and her stomach was filled with lead.