8 August 3015 T.A., Minas Tirith

"He usually bites, you know."

The girl jumped and whirled around at the sound of his drawling voice, and Éomer could not help smiling. Smiling was rare for him, but the sight of this young Gondorian girl romancing his stallion, and quite successfully, too, was an unexpected sight in this unfamiliar and unfriendly city. And certainly a better one than he'd been expecting, straight from a disastrous interview with the Steward.

"I—I am sorry, my lord," she squeaked. "He has not bitten me, that is; I have been very careful and—"

Éomer strode further into the stables, noting out of the corner of his eye as the girl pressed her back against the stall door as if in fright. Which he could hardly blame her; she was not tall, and he knew his own intensity. "I shall tell you a secret," he said, leaning down as if to whisper. The girl's eyes glittered hugely as she stared up at him; they were the purest shade of grey he had ever seen. "He already ate three of the stablehands' fingers today, so he must be satisfied. That is the reason for your success."

She blinked, and her brows furrowed together. "You are teasing!" she declared, with all the plainness and indignation of youth. Éomer bit back a laugh.

"Do you think so?" he asked lightly, as if in dare.

"Of course! A horse eating the appendages of stablehands could hardly be kept a secret."

Éomer could not help himself—he laughed. There was something about this girl that reminded him of his sister, and he could not help liking her. After a moment, he asked, "What is your name, my lady? For you must be a lady to have gained entrance to the Steward's stables."

Her lips were pinched together. "I am Lothíriel, my lord."

"Oh, there is no need to my-lord me! I am foremost a marshal of my king, and a poor one at that." He betrayed more bitterness than he meant, and disliking bringing shadow between them, he continued with a grin, "Do you live in Minas Tirith, Lady Lothíriel?"

"Ah—no." Her cheeks were flushed as her eyes met his with determination. "My home is in Dol Amroth."

"Then why are you here?" Absently Éomer stroked Firefoot's mane, his eyes not leaving Lothíriel's forming frown.

"Dol Amroth is not safe; corsairs and pirates attack almost daily. My—my father sent me here."

"I see. And who is your father?"

Her lips twisting into a grimace, and he heard her heel digging into the ground as she said quietly, "Prince Imrahil."

Éomer blinked in surprise. "Oh—ah. Princess Lothíriel, then."

"You do not have to call me a princess!" she burst forth. "Certainly not if I am not allowed at my own home!" Éomer saw with some astonishment that her eyes were shining with tears now, and she turned her face away, as if to disguise her own sorrow by giving her attention to Firefoot.

He did not wonder that she was homesick; who would not be? He could admit to feeling similarly himself in this strange city of stone. But he did wonder how old this girl was, to be bearing such a burden. She seemed so young! But as he looked again, Lothíriel was not as young as he first supposed—she was no girl, certainly, but nor was she a woman. Her face still bore some of the roundness of childhood, though there was an undeniably fresh beauty just emerging. It was an awkward stage where Éowyn still hovered, and he felt a surge of regret that yet another innocent woman be caught in the wiles of unrest.

"Do you ride very much?" he asked without thinking. Lothíriel blinked in astonishment at this, before her lips turned upwards into a stunning smile.

"Indeed, I do!" she said with vim. "'Tis my one true joy—when I can go, that is." Here she appeared suitably shame-faced, and she hastened to add, "There are few guards available to accompany me. I am often disappointed."

Éomer again was reminded of Éowyn, and he quickly offered, "I can take you, if you like."

"But I do not know your name, my lord," she said, her voice quivering with uncertainty. "I cannot leave the city with a stranger."

"Ah! Allow me to rectify that." Éomer swooped into a low bow, liking the sound of her burst of giggles. "I am Éomer, princess. Ah—Marshal Éomer, if you like, but I will respond to nearly everything. You can call me a stodgy old git if you like; my sister does."

"Oh! You are the nephew of your king." Her eyes were wide as saucers as he straightened.

"Aye."

"Are—are you here on his errand?" Lothíriel's expression betrayed only frank curiosity, and Éomer paused before answering, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

"Aye."

"I have heard your name before," she said, her head tilting to the side. "I suppose that must mean that you are trustworthy."

"If you mistrust me, I will summon some of my riders to accompany us. 'Tis an advantage to being a commander, you know."

"But—" Her hesitation was wavering; a blind man would have seen the half-hidden eagerness in her eyes. But she seemed intent on finding reason to refuse. "Why? Why are you so kind to me?"

"Why should I not be?" He pretended affront, and another smile bloomed on her face.

"Well, it is very odd, I think. We have only been acquainted these last ten minutes."

"I have a sister," Éomer said. "I would do the same for her." Lothíriel's grey eyes were searching upon his face. The tips of his ears burned at this unfamiliar scrutiny, and he offered a smile.

"I would be very pleased to accept," she said at last, returning his smile with a joyful beam. "Oh, happy day! Thank you, my lord—er, stodgy old git."

Éomer burst into laughter.

"I think that I shall call you by your name," she said, and her smile crinkled the edges of her eyes. "It is far simpler. Let me change into my riding clothes quickly and fetch my horse—can I meet you by the Sixth Gate in half an hour?"

"I shall be there, princess."

He was rewarded with a final smile before she left through the stables doors, and he could not help thinking that his day had improved drastically. Of course, it had begun so terribly that perhaps the odds were with him… Éomer gave Firefoot a final pat, and went about making his own preparations.


In her excitement at the prospect of escaping the city, Lothíriel was early to their meeting place. The scarce household her father kept in Minas Tirith did not allow her much in the scope of freedom, and while Boromir and Faramir were always willing to take her riding when they could, her uncle kept them away on business more and more often, and so she was usually left on her own. And the idea of asking her stoic uncle to accompany her on a pleasure ride brought such amusement that she was laughing to herself when she caught sight of two men approaching, leading horses to the gate.

It was Éomer, of course, and a man of Rohan she did not recognize. That would be his cautionary measure, and she was quick to leap up from the wall where she had been sitting, unwrapping her mare's reins from a nearby post.

"I was worried we would arrive too early," Éomer said with a grin as soon as they were in earshot. "I did not realize princesses of the Gondorian variety were so punctual!"

"I am the only princess in Gondor," Lothíriel could not help pointing out with a miffed air. "My standards are, by default, my own!"

"A shame, really. I looked forward to meeting more."

"Are there princesses in Rohan?" she asked curiously.

"Nay. My mother was the only one for many years before she married my father." The two men stood beside her, and she noted Éomer's keen interest as he scrutinized her mare. Lothíriel immediately stroked Wilwarin's chin, as if in defense from any fault-finding.

"She has fine lines, your mare," Éomer said at last. "And very well cared for. What think you, Éothain?"

His companion grunted in response, and Lothíriel surmised from his distant expression that this was not how he wished to spend his afternoon. "Weak ankles," Éothain said at last.

She was not certain if she should laugh or take offense, but Éomer evidently knew—he laughed loudly. "Do not take Éothain's criticism to heart, princess," he said with a conspiratorial smile. "He can find fault even in a mearas. I think she—what is her name?"

"Wilwarin."

"She appears to me perfectly well," Éomer said, and his eyes were twinkling as he reached out to ruffle Wilwarin's ears. "A handsome lady, too. Now what do you think, Firefoot? Perhaps you know mares better than any of us!"

Lothíriel hid a giggle behind her hand even as her face flushed scarlet. What teasing! Éomer's handsome stallion was now nudging his nose forward, sniffling around Wilwarin's neck as the mare stood perfectly still. At last he gave a decisive—or derisive—snort, and Éomer chuckled.

"He says she'll do," he said, grinning at Lothíriel. "Shall we follow your lead, princess? I'm afraid we know little of Minas Tirith apart from the route from the Gate to the guesthouses in the Citadel."

"Of course," she said politely. With introductions complete, they mounted, and Lothíriel lead them southeast through the winding streets. Éomer fell in beside her, tall in his saddle. He had the most admirable seat she had seen in a long time, she reflected privately—his back was straight, his shoulders relaxed, and the reins loose in his hand. Firefoot reacted to every nudge of his master's knees. Clearly living in the land of the horselords was beneficial to one's riding; but really, Lothíriel could hardly be surprised.

"Where are we off to today?" Éomer asked after a moment.

"I thought we might go into the mountains," Lothíriel said. "There is a fine riding path that overlooks the city. It is quite nice; one of my favorite trails. I have not taken it since Faramir was here last, though I have very much wished to."

"Faramir?"

"My cousin. The youngest of my uncle's sons."

"Ah. Denethor's son, then."

"Indeed."

There was a silence, and Lothíriel noticed Éomer's eyes looking anywhere but at her. At length he inquired, "Is Faramir very much like his father?"

"Ah—it depends on whose opinion you seek," she said. "Faramir is warm, but my uncle is…not. Boromir—the elder—is like his father in many ways; they are both proud, but while Denethor's pride is of his own making, Boromir loves the people of Gondor and he is proud of his heritage. Faramir takes after his mother, at least in looks; or so my father explained to me. She was his sister."

"I see. We have heard of Boromir in Rohan, but not of his brother. That is why I am curious."

"Faramir is kind to me when he is in the city," Lothíriel said. "He always makes time to take me riding, or even just to talk to me. He understands most, I think, how lonely Minas Tirith can be." She cast Éomer a glance, relieved to see his humor somewhat restored. "You hoped that there were more princesses of Gondor," she teased. "I confess I feel the same! To have equals to speak to sounds a wonderful prospect!"

He gave a bark of laughter. "I can understand! Were it not for my cousin and sister, the dreariness of the world might overcome me."

"Tell me of your sister," Lothíriel said boldly. She had mostly forgotten that this man was quite older than her, certainly larger than her, and held an earned rank. But Éomer showed no offense at the order, smiling warmly over at her.

"She is quite like you, princess," Éomer said. "Young and full of life. Éowyn came of age...four years ago, I believe, and yet she still has impetuous starts. But she has a good heart; a wild heart."

Lothíriel was surprised at this, and exclaimed, "You call her young and yet she is twenty-and three!"

"Nay, she is merely twenty years of age!"

"But you said she came of age—"

"At sixteen," he interrupted. "In Rohan, we are considered full-grown at sixteen. She is now but twenty."

"Ah," Lothíriel said, satisfied with this explanation. "In Gondor, we come of age at twenty. It does seem quite old to me, for if I was in Rohan I could now be my own woman. What an inviting concept!"

Éomer glanced at her then; a guarded, searching look. "You are merely sixteen?" he asked, his tone perfectly level. She could not help feeling indignation at this; as the youngest of her siblings, the subject of age was a tetchy one with her. So she lifted her chin and said,

"Yes."

"Ah."

They had arrived at a gate which led into the mountains from the Fifth Circle. Éothain came up behind them as they drew rein, and a small boy appeared, leaping over a low wall to bow before them.

"My lords and lady," he squeaked. "I would use my meager strength to open the gate for thee, should thou be gracious enough to grantest me a token—"

"Oh, do hush, Baldir!" Lothíriel interrupted with a laugh. "Do you not recognize me?"

The boy straightened, pushing dark hair from his eyes as he stared up at her, wide-eyed. Evidently, he had not expected her in any company other than her cousins, but he recovered his wits quickly enough. "Princess Lothíriel! Good afternoon to you!" And he bowed again.

"Who is this?" Éomer asked in an undertone. But she did not respond; she unwound a pouch from her saddle, which she had filled before departing her father's house. Baldir's eyes saw this, and he licked his lips.

"The gate, if you please," Lothíriel said primly.

The boy nearly tripped over his bare feet in his haste to open the gate. He pushed against one side of the massive oaken door with all his strength, grunting and digging his heels into the ground, until at last it was wide enough to admit a fair-sized horse. He was breathing heavily when he leapt out of the way, his gaze not leaving Lothíriel.

"Thank you, Baldir," she said, spurring Wilwarin forward to toss him the pouch, which he caught eagerly. "We will return in a few hours; do watch for us!"

"Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady!" And immediately he pulled an apple from the pouch, biting into it with the vigor of youth as the trio passed under the gate.

Lothíriel was quiet for a few moments as they mounted the trail. Once it widened to allow for riding side-by-side, again Éomer took a place beside her as Éothain fell behind. Recalling his question, she was quick to explain.

"Baldir's father makes himself ill with drink," she said, keeping her voice from trembling despite the strong feelings she nursed in her heart. "He has no occupation, and his wife is dead. The man sends his children to beg or steal—he cares not. I must give Baldir coin so that his father does not beat him, but I also give him food because the money he takes home only buys drink for his father."

Éomer did not respond straightaway. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. His expression was contemplative as he glanced at the trees 'round them. "I see," he said at last. "Can the magistrates do nothing?"

"They have tried," Lothíriel said miserably. "And I have tried. The man is careful to leave no marks, and he has no qualms against lying."

There was a growl in his throat. "A bastard if there ever was one."

"Yes, it is so."

"You are kind to look out for Baldir, then."

"Hardly kind," she protested. "For I can only better his situation, I cannot change it. I cannot feed his sisters, either, for his father would take note and Faramir prophesied that he would start demanding their food as well! And that would do far more damage!"

Éomer nodded in agreement. "It does seem likely."

The path, dappled with sunlight which streamed through the trees, rose sharply upwards. Lothíriel urged Wilwarin on, determined to reach the outlook before Éomer decided to turn back. He matched her pace, and they laughed as they crashed through the trees together. Lothíriel's spirits soared; outside the city she was free. The pangs of loneliness were left far behind, her hollow aches of fear for her family, her yearning for home…

The clearing of trees opened before them, and Lothíriel dismounted. A natural outcropping of rock jutted forward towards the city below. They tied their horses to a tree, just hearing Éothain approaching, and with a shared grin they made for the rocks.

It was one of her favorite places. Lothíriel sat down, her legs dangling over the edge as she peered forward, drinking in the beautiful sight. Below, the white marble of Minas Tirith sparkled in the sunlight and the fields of the Pelennor stretched in an expanse of squares and lines which made farms and crops. A silver, snaking line wove across the scene, winding south where before disappearing amongst distant hills. The looming mountains beyond were gloomy as always, but thankfully too distant to fear. Éomer took a place beside her, sighing.

"It is astounding, truly."

His voice was quiet, pensive. She fiddled with the end of her braid for a moment, then bravely asked,

"Why did you come to Minas Tirith?"

Éomer frowned, though not at her—his eyes remained on the plains below. "My cousin and I thought—we hoped—that the steward might renew the Oath of Cirion. The unrest in the world grows, and in such times, we must look to our allies."

Lothíriel bit her lip. "I—I suppose Denethor refused."

He glanced at her in surprise, before his lips formed a handsome smile. "Were you eavesdropping, princess, or are my thoughts so obvious to you?"

"Neither," she said primly. "But I know my uncle rather well. He mistrusts nearly everyone, you know, even those who ought to be his allies." Lothíriel paused for a moment, then added, "For what it is worth, and I imagine very little—I think your desires are quite correct. Were I the steward, I would renew the Oath in an instant."

Éomer laughed, startling several birds nearby into taking flight from their leafy abodes. "Were you the steward, I would have been quite startled to enter your presence," he teased. "A young girl only sixteen with Gondor in her hands? I might have fainted!"

She felt her cheeks grow warm. "Many lords have come into their inheritance in their youth," Lothíriel pointed out indignantly. "Why would it be so surprising—"

"Peace, princess! I only jest." His green eyes were clear in the sunlight. "I daresay you would make a fine steward."

"Er—thank you," Lothíriel returned instinctively, unsure if he was still teasing.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and Éomer turned quickly to glance at Éothain. Then he sighed, and said, "I daresay we have lingered long enough. My men and I have been invited to sup with the captain of the city tonight; he keeps early hours, and we cannot be late."

Lothíriel hid her disappointment behind a smile as Éomer helped her to stand. The skin of her hand tingled strangely at his touch, and as soon as he turned away, she rubbed her palms together to relieve the sensation.

The ride back to Minas Tirith was less exciting; knowing she was returning to an empty home made her heart ache. Éomer likewise was silent, but she could not guess at his reasons. The sun lowered, the dappled light in the forest darkening to a gold and the trees around them growing eerie. Soon the gate which Baldir manned appeared ahead of them, and he opened it for them with many bows. Lothíriel did not fail to hear Éomer barking to Éothain in their language, and the clinking of coins. The ache in her heart turned to a glow at this marshal's kindness, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

"I thank you for your company," she said at length. "It was a relief to escape the city. You were too kind to offer yourself, truly."

Éomer's smile flashed brightly in the dimming light. "It was no sacrifice, princess; I assure you."

"When do you depart for Rohan?"

There was a silence following her question, and he answered, "Tomorrow morning at dawn. There is no other business to detain us."

Lothíriel could not help feeling disappointed. Fortune gave her companions to keep her from despairing loneliness, and fate took them away…

"Perhaps I may return," Éomer added, as if sensing her unhappiness. She managed a smile for him.

"I hope you do. And I shall be here, I expect." They were stopped outside her father's house, and Lothíriel dismounted as an ostler hastened out of the gate to take Wilwarin's reins. As she was wearing trousers, she could not curtsey to Éomer and so felt strange, and settled instead for a nod. "Thank you again, Marshal Éomer," she said properly. "I wish you safe travels."

He nudged Firefoot forward, reaching down to pick up her hand, which he brought to his lips. "And I wish you all the luck in the world," Éomer said with a heart-stopping grin. "Good evening to you, princess."

Her hand burned for many hours afterwards.