Happy Birthday to Me. Let's do things Hobbit-style: I'll give you a gift. How about an Extra Update ;)
16 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
Two days later Lothíriel departed from her from her father's house, walking with haste up the golden streets in the late afternoon sun, and to the familiar stables of the steward. But Faramir was ill in the Houses of Healing, and so the stables and guesthouse had been given to the men of Rohan important enough not to be sleeping in tents in cleared portions of the Pelennor below.
That entire day she had seen nearly no one; her father had left to meet with several councils, and her brothers either to councils or to oversee various duties. Lothíriel knew, by extension, that Éomer would be involved in the same meetings, and so she had refrained from seeking him out until her father at last returned. Knowing Éomer as she did, she hoped her presumption was not in vain—and indeed, it was not.
"I hoped I would find you here."
Immediately he looked up from where he had been methodically and absently brushing the awful tangles from his stallion's mane. Lothíriel could not help flushing in renewed awareness of Éomer's handsomeness, and she offered a smile. Surprise at her appearance delayed his answering grin by only a moment.
"Lothíriel," he said, and his smile faded ever so slightly. She perceived at once the weariness in the set of his shoulders, and the shadow of his eyes. So she stepped forward into the stables as he hung up the comb, and he took her into his arms.
"Éomer," she murmured. "Tell me what is troubling you."
A pause. "You mustn't worry for me, sweet one. My burdens are not yours."
Lothíriel drew away, frowning as she spoke fiercely, "They certainly are, sir! I will not have you bear them alone." Éomer pushed the hair escaped from her braid away from her face, his fingers gentle and a fond smile growing on his lips as he gazed down at her. But he said nothing.
"Let us go," she said. "If you will not confide in me here with the listening ears of beasts, I know of another place—"
With exaggerated obedience, Éomer laughed quietly, but still allowed himself to be tugged by the hand, out of the stables and through the winding, private paths of Merethrond. Lothíriel was intent on their destination, and meeting no one on their trek soon they arrived at the outer walls of the library. Through the arched window, the dark rows of books could be seen, but they did not come to read. She led him to the far side of the library, and a flashing smile over her shoulder, she pushed aside an enormous hanging of ivy to reveal a sturdy trellis.
Éomer burst into startled laughter.
"Come on, then," she told him, and delicately lifting her skirts, she mounted the trellis. It was a quick climb; she had been taking it for many years, and once they were planted firmly on the roof of the library, Éomer spoke.
"I have misjudged your mischief," he said, shifting nearer to her and placing his hand over hers. "Before this moment, I have only thought of you as more mischievous than usual. Now I can only declare you as the worst imp I have met!"
Lothíriel flushed, though she gave her own laugh. "It is a lovely view," she said. "And private."
The view was not particularly lovely that day. Still the Pelennor fields, far below, smoked; dark mounds were raised and half-burned banners flew. It was all brown and black in the light of the early evening, and at Éomer's silence she nearly regretted bringing him to this place.
"I remember how beautiful Pelennor was, that day that we met," he said quietly. "It will be beautiful again, I hope."
She smiled up at him, and their eyes met. There was a fluttering in her breast—she would never tire of looking at him, she was sure. And evidently he felt the same, for his smile turned genuine, the shadow in his eyes lightening.
"You are wonderful, Lothíriel," Éomer said. "And I do love you." His arm reached 'round her shoulders and drew her close. Resting her head against his warm, sturdy chest, she sighed happily before replying.
"I do hope you will speak plainly to me, for I wish to be of help to you, anyway I might."
His fingers were tracing lazily circles on her arm, and she struggled to keep from being utterly distracted by the tingles forming on her skin. Éomer's bearded cheek rested against her head, and she felt the rumble in his chest when he next spoke.
"Have you heard, my sweet? Have your brothers told you that we march for Mordor in two days' time?"
They had not. Her heart sank at his words, and instinctively she burrowed deeper into his embrace. Not trusting herself to speak straightaway, Lothíriel waited until the burning in her eyes ceased. "I did not know," she whispered, her voice wavering.
"I am sorry to tell you. I wish that it were not true—but we must. We must face the enemy once more."
Her hand found his empty one, and she squeezed it tightly. "That—that must be why Elphir is sending his family away," Lothíriel thought aloud. "Nessiel is to go back to Dol Amroth with her son. Perhaps it is safer; I could not say. Nor could my father."
"Will you go, also?" There was yearning in Éomer's voice, if she were not mistaken—and she did not think she was. She lifted her head, beaming up at him.
"Nay, I will not. Father wished me to, but I—" Here she flushed. "I refused. Much as I dislike Minas Tirith, I want to be here as long as you are. I cannot be separated from you so soon."
There was a hard, blazing look in his green eyes, and before Lothíriel could react he had tilted her chin upwards, kissing her fiercely. Heat shot through her veins like lightning, and she savored the taste of his lips and the feel of his beard; the hot skin of his palm as he traced across her cheek, her jaw, down her neck—she could scarce breathe; her heart was in her throat—
She was shivering when he pulled away, but not from cold. Éomer cleared his throat, drawing her into his embrace once more. His ears were red.
"I am sorry," he grunted.
"N—no," Lothíriel said breathlessly, laughing nervously. "Do not be."
"I have missed you too much. My control is…tenuous." The tremor of something she could not quite understand but somehow knew completely was in his voice. Then he added softly, "I can scarcely think straight, Lothíriel—too much has happened these last days. I apologize if I am not myself."
"Hmm. I cannot be surprised; anyone bearing such trials as you would feel tenuous." Thoughtfully she mused on what to say, and deciding that light teasing might be of most use to Éomer at present, she decided upon, "Should I refer to you now as 'your majesty?' I would not wish to breach proper conduct."
As she hoped, he chuckled at that. "Call me whatever you like, sweet one! As you never insisted I bow to you, I could hardly demand the same!"
"Well, it was tempting…"
This earned her a laugh, and she smiled up at him. "I thank you for easing my worry," Éomer said, tweaking her nose. "If you can think of my sudden inheritance on such easy terms, then I can, too."
"For what it is worth—and as always, it is very little, I believe that you will be an excellent king," Lothíriel told him firmly.
He blinked as if in surprise at this, and after a moment he asked cautiously, "Do you really?"
"Of course!" And sitting up straight, she held up her fingers to count. "Firstly, you love your land—that is obviously essential. Two, you have served your people for many years, and there are likely few others that combine your heritage and experience. Thirdly, you have proven that you dedicate yourself to the wellbeing of those you oversee, even at the cost of your own enjoyment—I am thinking of those judgement days you complained of so much, of course. Fourth, I have you heard of spoken of among your men, and they speak with nothing but respect and admiration. Fifth—"
"Béma, woman!" Éomer interrupted with a laugh. "That is enough! Do you ever cease speaking? Perhaps we should resort again to written letters, for the sake of my poor ears!"
Lothíriel knew he was teasing, but she took the opportunity to huff in indignance. She lifted her nose in the air, crossing her arms irritably and glaring at his grin. "Really!" she said. "That is poor repayment for my trying to be kind—I can revoke it all, if you wish!"
"Peace! I jest." And he tried to draw her close, tugging at her stiff arms until she laughed and allowed him to hold her once more. "I am sorry," Éomer kissed the top of her head, "I should appreciate your reassurances more."
"Indeed, you should."
"I suppose this shows all the more how much I need your influence." There was a wealth of meaning in his voice as he continued with a glint in his eyes, "And how much I need a queen."
Lothíriel's heart nearly halted, but picked up again frantically. Keeping her voice level, she said, "Kings generally do, I think."
"Being queen is not an easy task, I am afraid. I wonder if I could find a woman so inclined to take Rohan—and myself—in hand."
"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "It may be a long search, but I am sure you are up to the task."
"I am grateful for your confidence!" Éomer laughed.
"She must love you very much, if you are to be worth the effort," Lothíriel said decidedly.
"That might be the most difficult quality to find." His hand was stroking up and down on her arm most distractedly, and his voice was soft. "It would be simpler to find a woman who is merely...hmm, what should a queen be? Compassion must be her foremost value, surely. And kind, but not merely for my sake—wise in matters of state and of people. Willing to learn and adapt in her new station. Born to nobility, probably." Éomer paused for a moment before adding, "And she must have a sense of humor. I could not live my days with a sour-faced woman. Let me add happy to this list, as well."
"Good heavens! I am sure you shan't find this paragon of perfection anywhere. You are terribly particular for a man in your situation, Éomer."
"I prefer to think of it as being hopeful." He was grinning down at her, which she returned. "Do you not think you have these qualities?" Éomer asked her, a single, lofty brow raised.
"Perhaps one or two, as all women do," Lothíriel teased back. "I am not particularly wise; I try to be happy, but I do not always succeed, and my sense of humor does not always align with what is appropriate."
"Those could be issues." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well—there is always opportunity to improve."
She stuck her tongue out at him in annoyance (likely betraying just how poor her sense of humor could be), and Éomer laughed loudly. "My wife must enjoy banter," he declared. "That also, I have decided."
"I wish you luck in your search."
"I hope it may be a shorter search than you seem to believe."
"For your sake—I do hope so as well."
"And what of your sake, princess?"
Lothíriel hoped that she was inferring their teasing correctly. Not wishing to ruin it, she said simply. "For my sake, I only wish you to return from Mordor whole and hale. I—" Her throat burned, and she continued in a wavering voice, "I love you, Éomer. I—I do not wish to see you go."
His expression softened, his hold upon her tightening. "I am loath to be taken away from you so soon after being reunited," Éomer said quietly. "And no hope of your charming letters…"
"When I am downcast, I have only to reread what you have already written. It cheers me immensely," Lothíriel admitted.
"I did not bring your letters with me, my sweet. I have clearly erred!"
They laughed together, their attention turning in the companionable silence to the twilight spreading across the sky. Stars twinkled above, and in the dim, the distant shadow of the east was only a shadow and not the manifest threat forcing them apart. For that moment, they were safe, and they were happy, and however they teased their future, it was as hopeful as it could be.
