Summer 3018 T.A., Minas Tirith and Onwards
Éomer never came.
The letters grew scarcer than she hoped, too; one in May, bemoaning her premature return to Minas Tirith following the outbreak of violence in Dol Amroth, and the next did not come until September, and it was hastily written.
I apologize for my absence, he wrote. Forces have been attacking Rohan with such haste and fury that I cannot but suspect evil magic at work. I barely have time for sleep, let alone to return to Aldburg in search of pleasant letters of yours, which I so miss. We also found a messenger from Gondor on the Great West Road not a fortnight ago, slain. Does Minas Tirith hold well? If you are in danger, I would that you flee to safety. Do not worry for me, either. I am well. Missing your friendship, but well.
The whispered gossip of Minas Tirith, of raids and skirmishes along the rivers, from Dol Amroth to Cair Andros, were already causing great anxiety for Lothíriel and Nessiel, left mainly on their own in the city. It seemed that all their time was spent waiting; waiting for tidings from Imrahil's household guards, who received more news than they themselves, and waiting for letters from Dol Amroth (and in Lothíriel's case, Rohan), to know that all was well with their menfolk. Rides outside the city were absolutely forbidden by the Steward, even when Faramir was in the city and could make himself available. Boromir was sent north on an unknown errand, and Lothíriel missed his admittedly rare company as well.
To occupy themselves, they spent most of their days in harmless pursuits. Alphros was a joy, of course, learning to walk on his chubby legs, and when he was sleeping Lothíriel and Nessiel busied their hands (though not their minds) with embroidery or weaving, sometimes browsing the city markets or even (one particularly desperate and rainy day) rearranging all the furniture in the household.
After the sun went down every evening, Lothíriel lit a candle in her chamber and wrote to Éomer, despite that he may not receive it, or the increasing unlikelihood of a timely answer. Most days, she wrote only a few lines of what activities she and Nessiel had done that day. Occasionally she wrote of the scant tidings they received from Dol Amroth, or even less often, of the dull, aching fear for her father and brothers which never seemed to fade.
Once, daringly, Lothíriel confided on these parchments of her anxiety for Éomer.
You have told me not to worry for you, but your request is in vain. I think of you nearly every day; we do not know how Rohan fares, but I think it is not good. I do not doubt you, but I do sometimes dread some unlucky day where you might be injured or worse. You are one of my dear friends, Éomer, if not the dearest of all, and I would not have you suffer. Dying certainly falls under suffering, in my opinion, so be wary.
After Éomer's assurances in September that he was well, Lothíriel happily bound up her collection of notes and sent them on their way to Rohan—they might reach him, but they might not. She had little power to influence the conditions one way or the other. But at least it cleared her desk.
A freak blizzard in early October granted a brief reprieve, the first since the spring, and Éomer returned to Aldburg to organize constant patrols from a central location. Those patrols would be terrible, he was sure, but he no longer trusted the Dunlendings and Wild Men to stay in their caves during with snow on the ground, not with sorcery abetting them. The most recent raids of their enemy had involved orcs as well, and Éomer's mouth was bitter whenever he recalled those snarling faces, devoid of humanity and gleefully cruel as they watched a village burn to the ground before his éored could destroy them with spear and sword.
The weariness of constant movement, of frequent skirmishes, of the desolation he had seen all too often, made for a heavy heart and a fatigued mind. Éomer slept in his chambers for two days after his return to Aldburg before realizing there was a pile of correspondence on the desk.
It was just after dawn, and after dressing absently he rifled through the letters. One or two from Éowyn, very short and not very informative (not that he expected many secrets when they both knew that their messages to each other were read by spying eyes), a few from captains or marshals across Rohan, which revealed even less (most messages were passed by mouth between them; which was why he had no letters from Théodred), and lastly, a single though very thick letter that he smiled to see, for it bore his name in Lothíriel's familiar handwriting.
Forgetting that he was due elsewhere in less than an hour, Éomer immediately sat upon his bed, opening her letter eagerly, desperate to know her thoughts and to forget his tenacious position for just a while.
He was surprised that this letter was different than he was accustomed to; rather than a long, flowing response it was a series of entries, almost like a record of her days. He did not mind this one whit—Lothíriel rarely ever wrote of her daily life. Éomer suspected that mostly her seclusion pained her, but he was both happy to learn she had company in the form of her sister by marriage, and that they were not fading away into boredom.
One of the last entries gave him pause, and he reread it several times to try to process it: You are one of my dear friends, Éomer, if not the dearest of all, and I would not have you suffer. Éomer blinked, squinted, and read it again. Then he laughed.
If not the dearest of all—well! He would wager that sentence had more meaning that she plainly stated. The hope he had long cherished of Lothíriel caring for him, even loving him and returning his affection, had been suppressed during the last, difficult months. It returned now in full force, warming him, comforting him, and bringing to remembrance that lovely day so long ago that they had ridden in the mountains outside Minas Tirith…
It was several more days until he had time to sit down and pen a response. He did so with no a small amount of nervousness, hoping that he knew Lothíriel as well as he thought. This letter could not go astray, and if it did Éomer would be greatly grieved and perhaps a mite embarrassed. He folded it tightly, slightly heavier than normal with the gift he included, and sealed it.
And he pushed himself into all the trials that were coming with that spark of hope and love to sustain him.
1 January 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
Lothíriel was not expecting another letter from Éomer; not with the winter conditions in the mountains (though rumors of no snow in the passes were trickling into the city, and frightening not a few), and certainly not with the tidings of increasing unrest in Rohan. Such was her astonishment to be delivered of a thick package one grey morning by her maid—Lothíriel's heart skipped a beat, she nearly squawked aloud, and her fingers were shaking too much to finish buttoning the front of her frock.
The five minutes she had to wait until she was alone was nearly too much. But eventually the maid left and the door was shut, and Lothíriel tore the seal, eagerly reading Éomer's words with such a smile that her cheeks began to ache. It began with the usual responses to her last letter, but the end…the end—
Since you were subtle enough to remind me that your birthday falls in January some years ago, and I do not expect this letter to arrive before then, I shall oblige your sure desires and wish you many happy returns. I remember you once told me that young men and women come of age at twenty in Gondor. It seems quite late to me as in Rohan we are considered full-grown at sixteen. But I digress—'tis a special day for you, and I wish you well.
I am sure you have already opened and admired the gift I sent. When a young woman comes of age here, she is usually given a family heirloom to declare her ascension into adulthood, and most often it is jewelry. This ring which I have enclosed was my mother's. Before you protest, I am determined that you keep it. Éowyn does not want it, for the sight of it pains her, and it is far too small for me. I would be gratified if you would care for it, and it would give me a good deal of comfort to know it dwells upon the finger of such a wonderful woman.
Would it be too much of me to hope that when you see it, you might think of me?
In Rohan, when one comes of age one may marry as they wish. I hope it is the same in Gondor, else I am about to make a terrible blunder. Would it also be too much of me to hope, that when you look at this ring you may think of me fondly? More than fondly, perhaps? Were this war not worsening, I might speak more freely, but please know, Lothíriel, that I think only of you.
Yours (and I do not mean that as an empty pleasantry, for I assure you I am devotedly and completely yours),
Éomer
Her breath was short. Her knees quaked. Her stomach was fluttering. With numb fingers Lothíriel turned open the second parchment, and into her hand fell a ring—a thin, gold band and a polished, blood-red garnet set amongst tiny, shining rubies. It fit upon her third finger perfectly, and she bit back a smile, admiring the glint as it caught a stream of sunshine from the window.
Éomer loved her!
At least, she was fairly certain he did—she read the letter again, and thrice more before determining that that it was true. He loved her! All the anxieties of the last months disappeared in a moment, and Lothíriel laughed aloud.
She threw open the windows to the unseasonable warmth outside, stuffy with the ripe smells of the city—but she did not care—she spun 'round the chamber, hugging herself tightly, sure that she had never been so happy in her life—
Éomer loved her!
Eventually the happy tears overwhelmed her, and Lothíriel collapsed upon her bed, gasping for breath as she hid her face in her hands, sobs wracking her body. Éomer loved her, and she loved him—he rode to war, and she was in exile.
But those were concerns for another time. Her happiness still bubbled, and she composed herself with several, steadying hiccups. War could not possibly last forever; she needn't despair of their future yet—
Lothíriel rushed to her desk, nearly tearing a piece of parchment in her haste to respond to Éomer's letter. It must be sent as soon as possible, before the unrest prevented the messengers from travelling between Rohan and Gondor. She hoped with all her heart the messenger carrying this missive would not be slain on the Great West Road like his predecessor, for she felt, in all the urgency of her heart, that there must be no delay in Éomer receiving her response. Did he fret? Lothíriel could not be sure—but she did not wish him too.
Dearest Éomer, Beloved Éomer, most Darling Éomer—
I cannot pretend subtleties such as yours when my heart overflows. Éomer, I love you! If I have mistaken your suggestions then I am likely the greatest fool in the world, but I cannot care! It is a relief to pen it at last, for my heart has been yours for many years. I could not name the day I first loved you, even if I cared to try—only know that I am completely, utterly yours; every part of me.
Would that this war would end! It is such a contradiction in my heart to fear death and destruction and yet to yearn so fiercely for you! I feel as though I ought to be more worried and frightened, but somehow I think I shall be smiling myself silly for the next days and weeks.
I will wear your ring always, and with honor.
Love, love, and more love always (until you grow quite sick of me, I should think),
Lothíriel
She sealed the letter clumsily, and it was on its way.
