14 March 3019 T.A., Merethrond
The halls of the Citadel of Minas Tirith were eerily silent. Éomer's bootsteps made more noise than they ought, echoing in the empty corridors and massive Merethrond. Not even distant servants or nobles could be heard—all had been evacuated. The pale light of the setting sun made shafts around him.
Weary, he sat upon an uncomfortably cold, marble bench and allowed the stillness to swallow him. Imrahil would come soon, he had said, and arrangements would be made. But what arrangements, Éomer wondered dully. For his uncle's body, resting now in the empty feasting hall? For his sister? For the bodies of his men? Or to ride to Cair Andros for more battle?
These thoughts were unhappy. Distantly he wished for Lothíriel—but she was in Lossonarch. It would be days until she returned, and likely by then he would be gone… Something caught his eye, and he lifted his head to stare to his left, where another corridor intersected before going deeper into the citadel. There were shadows on the walls. He was not alone, and he stared as the shadows lengthened and turned into real flesh and bone figures, his mind slow. Éomer blinked.
A sweep of blue skirts, the smile which was seared upon his memory—and her eyes. Béma, her eyes! How could she express so much in a mere glance? He stood abruptly from the bench, walking in a daze to the corner which she had turned—
"Go on, Nessiel! I shall only be a moment!"
He saw down the corridor two women, one he recognized and one he did not. The taller of the two was urging the other on, and as he watched, the shorter continued her course, leaving the taller behind. Éomer swallowed thickly; his heart was in his throat; he had dreamed of meeting her again, though under better circumstances—he had hardly expected her to be in the city while it was under siege.
She turned to face him.
"Lothíriel," he said hoarsely.
Her smile wavered as emotion crossed her face, and a heart-shattering moment later she was rushing towards him, her cheeks flushed. He caught her in an embrace, breathing in her scent—she was real, his sleep-deprived mind was not playing cruel tricks on him after all—
"Éomer!" She half-sobbed into the front of his tunic, clinging to him with desperation. "I heard the horns, I knew you were coming—"
"Hush!" Éomer pulled away slightly, holding her face in his hands as he gazed down at her. Lothíriel, his Lothíriel, was smiling with the brightness of a thousand suns as she drank in the sight of him. She was no longer the young girl who had snuck into the stables to pet his horse; this was a full-grown woman, elegant and beautiful and fully bloomed, and his heart raced. Her fingers were curled around his forearms, as if unwilling to let him go. And he saw, upon her third finger, his mother's ring. He could not help smiling, taking her hand in his and bringing it carefully to his lips, murmuring over her knuckles,
"I can tell you plainly now, princess, that I love you with all my heart."
"Oh, Éomer, I—"
He dropped her hand, taking her 'round the waist and pulling her close. She only had time to emit a small, gasping, "Oh!" before he did what he had been wanting to for many years, and kissed her. Heat flooded his veins—he could feel the trembling in Lothíriel's slight frame as she leaned into him. Béma, it had been so long since he had seen her—four years, in fact. And two of those years he had loved her…
She was gasping for air when he released her in fear of her swooning. Éomer took in the sight of her glittering eyes, full of the love and passion he too felt as she blinked owlishly up at him.
"Oh, oh dear. I am not certain that letters will suffice any longer!"
He laughed, the sound echoing eerily in the empty corridor. "You may need to think twice, my girl! For you have yet to notice that I still wear the stink and blood of battle, and yet you still threw yourself into my arms. Once you realize this mistake, I am sure you will wish to retreat to parchment."
Lothíriel shook her head fiercely. "No, never! I love you no matter your smell, Éomer. Oh, I am sure that I have never been so happy in my life..."
One of his brows quirked upwards, but her smile was infectious. "An odd day to choose to be at your happiest," he teased, nuzzling his nose against hers.
"Oh—I mean to say, the battle was terrible; we could hear it even here...but my father is alive, my brothers are unhurt, and you...Éomer, you are well and you are here! I have dreamt of meeting you again for so long! How can I not be overflowing with joy?"
Éomer's grin did not fade, but the sinking of emotion within his chest must have been visible to her, to this wonderful woman who knew him better than anyone, for her brows creased as she studied his face.
"I am sorry," Lothíriel said softly. "I did not think—this is an awful day for you. I know—your uncle—your sister—" Her fingers pressed into his chest, and her care and compassion sunk into him with a warm glow. "I am sorry," she repeated in a whisper.
He kissed the tip of her nose, willing his well of grief not to overcome him. His voice unsteady, he said, "Lothíriel, my sweet...what a generous heart you have! I would not that you take part in my mourning."
"I must." Her eyes shone with determination. "I will."
Éomer sighed. "Simply having you here is enough for me. It has been too long…"
"Four years."
"Four long years. I wish never to relive them." He spoke bitterly, his eyes burning with pain as he recalled sights he wished to forget; Éowyn, pale as death, his uncle, broken and bleeding—
Her gentle hand was on his face, her eyes drawing him in, willing him to drown with her. "You will not have to. Éomer, I am here." His arms tightened 'round his waist, and she rested her head on his chest as he buried his face in her hair. Here. Here, there was nothing but Lothíriel and him and the relief from the ache of loving her and not having her… His grief dimmed, and slumbered.
The clearing of a throat nearby caused them to jump apart. Imrahil was standing some feet away, looking a tad exasperated and a good deal weary. He still wore his armor, though his face was clean of blood.
"Father!" Lothíriel said after an awkward moment. "I—"
But the prince held up a hand, forestalling any excuse that was likely forthcoming. Éomer clenched her hand tightly behind her back, though he was sure that Imrahil's keen eyes took note.
"I was intending to offer Éomer lodgings in our house, as beds are hard to come by in the city," Imrahil said dryly. "But I have changed my mind. I will ask around; I am sure there is something."
Both Éomer and Lothíriel protested this at once, for different reasons, and the prince shook his head.
"I am not hosting this sort of nonsense under my roof, Lothíriel," he said sternly. "And I do feel an obligation to see that the King of Rohan is not sleeping in the stables with his horse when I might extend my influence and procure more appropriate lodgings."
A blank silence met these words. Lothíriel stiffened beside him, perhaps at the words the King of Rohan, but Éomer remained too detached to think anything of it. Imrahil gazed between them with acute interest, and a sly smile grew on his face. Éomer had the grace to feel a sense of embarrassment for the position they had been caught in, and feared a reprimand—but none came.
"I will send a message with directions when I am able," Imrahil said unexpectedly. "Until then, I have business. Good night!" And he turned and strode away down the corridor, his footsteps fading until he took a corner and was gone. Lothíriel let out a deep breath, leaning into Éomer, and he tucked her into another embrace, kissing the top of her head.
"I am sorry," she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. "And I ought to go—I am supposed to be meeting with the noblewomen who stayed behind to organize efforts for relief in the city—"
"Go!" Éomer said gently, lifting her face to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. "I do not mean to detain you."
Dimples formed in her cheeks as she smiled up at him. "I do not mind one bit!" Lothíriel declared with a laugh.
"That is well. I should like to detain you again soon…" He could not help claiming her lips once more, and when he pulled away she gave an adorable little sigh, regretfully unwinding her arms from around him.
"I will discover from my father where you are staying," she promised. "Good—goodbye, Éomer."
"It is hardly goodbye," he protested, catching her hand as she made to leave, pressing a final kiss to the palm of her hand. Éomer watched the swish of her skirt and the gentle flow of her dark hair as she left, and she cast a final, shy smile over her shoulder before turning a corner, and she was gone.
Lothíriel's nerves were all aflutter when she at last took a place in the sitting room, surrounded by noblewomen. She was the last to arrive, though so happily delayed—and breaking the silence upon her entrance, Nessiel said curiously to her,
"Lothíriel, there is blood upon your frock. Are you well?"
"Oh—" And indeed there was a smear of black blood across the front of her bodice. Pulling a handkerchief from her reticule, Lothíriel tried to dab it off, but to no avail. She flushed; Éomer had not been wrong when he had said he was covered in blood, though she had seen none of it. Oh, dear. She hoped none would discover how she had come to wear the blood of the battle…
There were about eight ladies present. All, like herself and Nessiel, had refused Denethor's orders to leave the city. Minas Tirith was beloved to them, as were their fighting husbands, sons, and brothers. There was no hesitation to turn the conversation to relief efforts. The experience of the years combined between them made for simple plans to provide for those in need.
Volunteers would be taken, from among themselves and the hale citizens of the city, to assist in the Healing Houses, which one lady declared as to be overflowing with bodies. To no one's real surprise, food was beginning to run scarce, especially with the sudden surge of Riders from Rohan. They would each search their stores to donate goods which their households could do without, to be given to the barracks. Clothing would need to be found and given to those that had none besides that which they were, which were likely to be torn, stained, and unsalvageable. Additionally, the ladies would send their servants to assist in other necessary tasks—laundry would be a terrible ordeal in the coming days, as would handling extra horses and finding food and board for the beasts as well.
"The Warden of the Healing Houses has been trying to take names of those wounded and those dead, from their comrades," the lady who had visited those Houses told them. "So—so that their families might know—" She broke off, unable to continue as her voice wavered and her face turned pale. Lothíriel immediately reached over to take the lady's hand; she knew that most of them still awaited tidings of their menfolk, which tidings were unlikely to come at all, except from the Warden's lists.
"I do not know how long the soldiers will be in the city," another lady said after an awkward moment. "Nessiel, will you try to discover such information from Prince Imrahil?"
"Yes, I certainly will."
"I will go to Merethrond," Lothíriel said. "The servants there may need organizing or direction; donations can be found from the steward's store as well—"
"Is it true, then, that Denethor is dead?" one lady asked. A silence followed this during which Lothíriel's stomach twisted with forgotten confusion and grief. She had thought little of her uncle since Imrahil had told her of the steward's fate some hours earlier. She cleared her throat at last.
"My father has confirmed it to be so. We must do our parts all the better, for the leadership of Minas Tirith is in shambles."
These plans made, they all departed in haste to accomplish these essential tasks. Nessiel and Lothíriel were the last to leave, and slowly returned to her father's house with unfortunately no glimpse of Éomer, though that did not surprise her.
Supper that night was late and thin; all their family was exhausted as they sat together in the kitchens at an old table as they ate. It was quiet, at first, and Lothíriel finished her meal quickly, gazing around instead with pride and relief to see her family whole. Elphir was sitting awfully close to Nessiel, and Alphros slept upon his mother's lap. Erchirion was nodding over his soup, and Amrothos appeared to have no teasing or jokes in him that night. Imrahil was the first to speak.
"Elphir, have you considered my proposal?"
All stirred; after a moment Elphir replied, "Yes, Father. I agree." And he turned to his wife and said, "Now that Dol Amroth is safe, we would have you return home at last."
"Home?" Nessiel blinked in astonishment, as if such a notion had not occurred to her.
"Yes; yourself and Alphros, and Lothíriel will go with you."
Lothíriel was immediately incensed. Despite her yearning for her sea-home for many years while she lay in wait in this gloomy city, the injustice of being sent back just as her family was whole, that Éomer was whole, and that she might assist in the war! She gritted her teeth, and said,
"I will not."
Several pairs of surprised eyes turned to her. Erchirion was aroused from his stupor, and Imrahil replied in his usual mild tone, "Whyever not?"
"Because—because—" She struggled to articulate herself, her veins aflame with emotion. "Because I can be of use in the city! I can help! I am going to help!"
Her father's gaze was level, but after a moment he nodded. "If your feelings are so strong, then I will not gainsay you. Nessiel, you may stay as well, if you like."
Nessiel's face was set, however, and she stroked her son's hair with single, slender hand. "I would return to Dol Amroth, sire," she said. "For I can be of use there. I might assist in putting the palace back to order, while Lothíriel labors here."
Imrahil smiled at this, and his gaze flitted from Nessiel to Lothíriel. "How fortunate I am to have two such wise daughters! Erchirion and Amrothos, you have quite the standards to fill with your own wives."
Amrothos was hiding a grin, and he replied, "Well, Father, if you ask my opinion, I think Lothíriel wishes to stay in Minas Tirith because Éomer is here."
"I wonder how blind you think me, son." Imrahil said blandly. "Lothíriel may have many reasons for staying, but I trust her fully. If she says she is going to help, I do not doubt her."
"Thank you, Father!" she said in relief before sending a vicious glare at her brother. "But how much longer will the soldiers be in the city? Are there not other roads to clear of the enemy?" Imrahil was silent after this question, and when he spoke again his voice was heavy.
"I cannot answer you yet," he said. "But I will, when I can."
But when Lothíriel found her bed soon after, her thoughts were not full of duties and tasks and worries, but of Éomer, and she remembered how he had kissed her…and sleep was delicious, that night.
