Well hello there! It's been a hot minute! After several life events that were pretty complicated (not to mention all of 2020), I have finally found my creative spark once again!
As such, I have started a new story with my all time favorite pair and my second faves right alongside them! I do hope you enjoy this story of finding love again after tragedy.
Goodness gracious! I missed doing this, and I missed you guys!
(P.S. For those of you still waiting on the Queen of Horses remake/reword/revision/re-whatever word you want to put here, it is still in the works! I have decided that I will not be posting that one until I have it entirely completed, but I came up with this story to work on while I whittle away at that big one!)
Anyways, on with the story!
Prologue
Spring 3020, Minas Tirith
Lothíriel sat on the ledge of the windowsill in her apartments in the citadel, one foot dangling precariously over the edge as she stared up at the full moon. Far below, the party was just beginning but she could already hear the trailing sound of faraway music and conversation. She rested her head against the side with a slight thud and closed her eyes as tears burned underneath her lids. She opened them to the sound of knocking and a few stray tears fell down her cheeks as she swiftly wiped them away and returned fully to her bedroom, leaving the window open to let the cool air filter inside.
"Enter," she said clearly, and the door opened. In the frame was the familiar silhouette of her father. "Hello, Papa," she said, moving to her small parlor seating area.
"Dearest one," he said, shutting the door behind him as he entered the room. "I thought you would have already been downstairs for the ball. Did something happen?"
"Nothing in particular," she said with a small sigh. "You would think that I could properly function by now. It's been more than a year since Eradan's death, but I still cannot seem to get past the loss."
"Love can be a funny thing like that," Imrahil said somberly. "After your mother passed, I didn't think I would ever move on. The grief consumed me entirely, but I at least had you and your brothers to remember her by. I cannot imagine the emptiness when you're left behind with nothing to keep but your memories." He paused after a moment, "Perhaps it was wrong for me to encourage you to return to court so soon. Are you sure you want to remain here for the wedding? I could set apart several Swan-Knights to see you returned safely home where you can be left in peace. Elphir and Miriel are about to have their second child soon, and I'm certain that could keep you busy."
"I'm certain the last thing Miriel needs is another person around her who might fall apart at a moment's notice, Papa." Lothíriel said wryly. "No, if I return home now, I fear I won't ever leave my despair behind. Besides, Dol Amroth has too many memories of Eradan. Of our courtship, our betrothal." Her voice broke at the last word, and she turned away, reaching for a lace handkerchief.
Imrahil was on his feet before the first tear fell. He reached out and gathered his daughter in his arms, stroking her back gently. How long had it been since she had been held like this? She felt as if she were a child all over again, running to her father after each bump or scrape to be comforted with his tender embrace.
"If you are certain you wish to remain here, then I really think you should at least try to return to social life. If you remain here, locked away from everyone else, it's almost as bad as remaining in the pain back in Dol Amroth, don't you agree?" he tipped her chin up to look at him with a single finger.
"Very well, Papa," she said, meeting his gaze. "I will do my best."
"And if it truly is ever too much and you wish to return him, all you need to do is inform me and I will see to it you leave that very day."
...
Éomer sighed in relief as he spotted an exit from the busy - almost raucous - ballroom throughout which were several new acquaintances who had all made themselves known to him shortly after his arrival for Éowyn's wedding - each with some strange contrivance or another. A noble lady carrying a basket with a broken handle, insisting he accompanied her throughout the whole marketplace. A woman who fell dramatically in front of his path with a twisted ankle so she could lean heavily against his arm as he helped her back him, only to spy her less than an hour later walking normally. Another taking an opportunity to fall into his arms, claiming heat stroke, only to turn away water or shade from anyone besides himself.
He rolled his eyes as he stepped into the cool night air. Aragorn had truly inherited a court filled to the brim with deceptive women, and for that he didn't envy the man. What he did envy him for was the love he and Arwen shared. He had seen the looks that passed between them during his visit; a look that was echoed in his own sister when she was with Faramir. He was happy for his sister, but he couldn't help the pang of fear that he would never find something like it as his advisors pushed him to make a good match that would benefit his realm which was still deeply scarred from the war. A wealthy, good-looking, well-bred woman was all they wanted for him. Someone who would make a decent enough queen and help their king father heirs, clearly securing his line of succession.
He didn't have long to reflect on the most likely course of his life when he heard a stifled feminine cry coming from beyond the hedge in the garden. Éomer was hesitant to check, certain it was some other plot from yet another noblewoman when he was caught off guard by the words that followed.
"My lord," her tone was clearly irritated but steady, "I suggest you remove your hand from my person this instant unless you wish for that hand to be separated permanently from your body."
Éomer let out another pained sigh. If there was a lady in need of his assistance in fending off the unwanted attentions of another man, he was obliged to come to her aid. His honor demanded it - even if he was certain it was indeed another contrived meeting. Though that certainty was shaken as he rounded the corner just as a ponce of a man doubled over to reach for his foot just before the lady's fist pushed upwards against his jaw, knocking the man onto his back, unconscious. But Éomer didn't look at the man on the ground for long. Instead his eyes panned over to the woman who had so stoutly defended herself from the attentions of a cad.
He was a bit surprised to see that she was dressed in a black gown. During his time in Minas Tirith he had learned quickly enough the fashions of this place were as colorful as the flowers in a garden. Waves of her equally black hair tumbled down her back, accentuated with pins dangling teardrop shaped pearls that the moon and torchlight glinted off of. Just past the ends of her hair, he could see her hands still clenched into fists as he let out a shaky breath and turned, only to halt as she caught sight of Éomer only a few paces away.
Her aquamarine eyes widened for an instant before she dropped into a graceful curtsy. "Éomer King," she said quietly - a far removal from the irate tone he had only just heard moments before. "I beg your pardon if you were disturbed."
"All is well with me, I can assure you, my lady," Éomer said waving a hand to dismiss both the formality and any discomfort she had about him. "Indeed, I was coming in order to aid you."
"That is greatly appreciated, sire, but as you can plainly see it was unnecessary." She straightened and turned her eyes upward once again and Éomer could see her face clearly, though the expression was less so.
"Well, while you might have not needed my aid in this situation, perhaps I could offer you an escort back to the ballroom? I believe we can leave your would-be assailant to his own devices, if he ever wakes from the strike that is."
The corner of her mouth quirked into a slight smile as she nodded and took his offered arm. Éomer knew that he should have asked for her name, especially because she knew who he was - though ever single woman in this place seemed to know who he was, so perhaps there was little harm. Instead, he led her to the same terrace he had just left the room in.
"I do hope the rest of your evening is less...intrusive, my lady," he said, bowing formally.
"I expect it will, sire," she returned an equally formal curtsy before turning and leaving him behind. He waited for a moment before returning as well when he saw something that granted him his first true smile of the evening.
Éowyn had finally entered the room beside Faramir. He word the tunic of Gondor with the white tree clearly embroidered into the front and back of it, while Éowyn wore a simple white dress with a red belt. Her long blonde hair tumbled freely down her back in a similar manner to how the woman in black had worn her hair, though rather than the pearls that had adorned her hair, Éowyn's pale locks were decorated with a multitude of flowers. She caught sight of him immediately and her smile mirrored his own as she left Faramir's side to join him.
"Darling brother," she said as she arrived, giving him a warm hug. "Where have you been? I was looking everywhere for you when we arrived and feared the ladies of Minas Tirith had truly frightened you off for good." She laughed at the thought.
"Not yet," he chuckled as well. "I just needed a break from the atmosphere in this place. It began to feel a bit stifling and the more time I spend here, the more I long to return home." He turned to her with a mock-serious look on his face. "I don't suppose you might ask to have your wedding to Faramir pushed forward by about two weeks so I could go home the day after tomorrow?"
"Are you so eager to be rid of your dear sister?" Éowyn asked with another easy laugh, giving him a playful shove. "If I had my way, we would have been married months ago, but things had to be prepared." As Éowyn began to list off the preparations and other duties that she and Faramir had yet to finish, Éomer caught sight of the woman in black again. She had approached Faramir, and he watched with a raptor like gaze as his sister's betrothed gave the woman a warm embrace and kiss on both cheeks before taking her hand and leading her to a dance.
"Éomer," he felt a quick tug on his cheek and looked down at his sister as she crossed her arms. "You weren't listening," she raised her eyebrow. "What stole your attention away? Some painted lady of Gondor finally put on a face that's pleasing enough for you?" she mimicked applying powder to her face.
"I was wondering," he paused as he watched the stranger. "Who is that woman your soon-to-be husband is showing so much affection to?" Faramir was just leading the woman through a complicated dance throughout the entirety of the floor. Her black dress among each of the colorful ones made it seem as if a single drop of ink had fallen into a flower garden, and yet was not shattered among them. She was distinct and graceful in her movements. It didn't take long before Éowyn found the person he had indicated and her playful energy disappeared. Éomer stiffened at the change. Seeing her like this was too like how she looked during the war.
"That's Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."
"Éowyn," he said quietly, touching her arm gently, "is there someting I should know? Do you know her?"
"I do," she said, nodding. "She's Faramir's cousin through his late mother. She's wonderful, truly, but..." she turned her gaze away from the dancing couple.
"But?" Éomer prompted whens he didn't carry on. 'But she is a bit of a spit-fire and isn't above taking action if you touch her unprompted. Who moves as though she is both soft but also unyielding?' he thought with a small smirk.
"I don't know every detail, but I do know that she was engaged to a man during the war and that he died from his wounds shortly after the battle on the Pelennor fields."
Éomer didn't say anything as his smirk fell away. He couldn't. He wasn't in the ballroom any longer. Instead, he stood in the House of Healing in this very city, listening to the mixed sounds of healers giving instruction and medicine; soldiers moaning and crying out from the pain; all mingled with the muffled cries from several men and women as they found their loved ones dead or dying. He was standing, staring down at his own sister as Aragorn labored to save her life. He was helpless, useless in the face of it all.
Some pressure on his arm brought him back to reality as he looked downward at his sister. Her face wasn't pale and drawn. Her body was not battered or broken. No, she was healthy and happy, and he couldn't begrudge her that happiness she had so rightfully earned. She gave him a knowing squeeze and nodded to him. He must have shown his memories on his face.
And there we have it! The beginning of something totally new. How will fate intervene and help Lothíriel through her grief and Éomer fall in love with his future queen?
We shall soon see!
