December 3020 T.A., Ithilien

Everywhere Éomer seemed to go during the following days, Lothíriel was there, too.

He had noticed, though he pretended otherwise, that preceding the wedding she had stayed mostly to her rooms, for he had not caught even a glimpse of her. But now, clearly at the urgings of her family, she appeared at meals and at the various activities Faramir provided for his guests.

When he had the opportunity to study her before she saw him, she was visibly reluctant to be wherever she was, usually flanked by her brothers. Her eyes flitted around absently, she spoke amongst her family rarely, and she was often wringing her hands or fiddling with the ends of her belt. Such nerves made him anxious.

Éomer wondered, then, if he was the cause of her discomfort—she never appeared to have any issues speaking to anyone else—nay, she was positively polite and engaging as far as he could tell. Lothíriel was not awkward in the general sense, though he could not describe her behavior of their previous encounter as anything but.

His theory was proven correct, and more than once. When she saw him, usually covertly studying her, Lothíriel immediately dropped her gaze, shifting to face away from him with red cheeks. One afternoon in the western corridors, Éomer was walking aimlessly along when he saw at a distant corner, the figure of the princess turning towards him. Her steps slowed as she stared at him, and a moment later she turned on her heel to disappear back behind the corner in haste.

It was all very odd.

Then there was, of course, the encounter in the stables—Éomer intended early one morning to go on a solitary ride through the famous woods of Ithilien, but when he had arrived at the stables, he heard Lothíriel's familiar voice in a murmur through the door, and it stopped him in his tracks. He peeked through the door, then, and saw her, dressed for riding with a fur cloak clasped at her throat, and petting Firefoot's nose with a smile on her face. He could not quite hear exactly what she was saying, but Firefoot was clearly happy.

Éomer could not help but stare for several moments, his thoughts a turmoil of confusion and affection and resentment, that he was forced to jump out of the way with hardly any warning as Lothíriel led her saddled mare through the doors. He was fortunate her attention was diverted elsewhere, and did not turn to investigate the crunching of snow as he quickly hid behind the corner of the stables. She checked the saddle expertly, swung herself upwards with amazing elegance, and without audible command urged Wilwarin into a gallop, south to merge with a well-worn track into the forest.

Well, Béma. He had wanted to take that path. Still he could not quite bring himself to happen upon her in a circumstance where they might converse, at least purposefully, and so Éomer retreated back to Faramir's house—he knew Firefoot was well, anyway.

That afternoon he decided he must have a conversation with someone before he was driven completely mad by himself, and he sought Éowyn out at once. But he was to be disappointed, for when he knocked on the door to her chambers, it was Faramir who answered.

"Éowyn is with Lothíriel," the steward said mildly, from behind his desk where he had been studying several piles of parchment. "They are making final arrangements for your farewell feast tomorrow night, I believe." There was a keen light in Faramir's eyes as he met Éomer's, and Éomer wondered just how much Faramir knew. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and said he would find his sister later.

Blast the woman! Was she intent on placing herself in his every path, to distract him from every possible direction? At least he could take a ride in peace now.

Likely it was for the best that Éomer was to leave Ithilien in two days' time. He was growing restless with so little to occupy him and to keep his mind from dwelling on the princess. For if he scrutinized her behavior, the more likely it was that he would find reason enough to try to understand her better…

But this resolution was tossed completely to the wind, and by his sister no less—for her mechanisms the night of his departure feast.

There was dancing following the sumptuous feast, and Éomer was happy to lead out his sister for the first of them. But when she gestured for Faramir to take a place beside them, and saw that Lothíriel was upon her cousin's arm, Éomer was less pleased.

"If you do not know the steps, follow Faramir," was Éowyn's helpful suggestion as she took her place in the line, and he was left to himself.

It was a style of Gondorian dance of which he knew very little, but could remember snatches of from his most recent visit to Minas Tirith. His attention was drawn instead to Lothíriel, who stood beside Éowyn. The princess was looking startled to find herself so near to him, though after a moment she tore her eyes away from him. Her gaze was kept firmly upon Faramir, but Éomer did not miss the rigid set of her shoulders, which looked about how his felt.

The music began, and Éomer tried to focus on the steps. It was not complicated, and he hoped no one was scrutinizing him too much—he glanced often at Faramir, who was smiling and conversing with Lothíriel. Then without warning the steps drew all four of them to a center point at the same moment, and Faramir and Éowyn reached out to place their hands together, turning in a circle. Éomer barely kept up to keep Faramir from bumping into him; he instinctively reached out his hand—Lothíriel's was already there, and their palms met—

His heart was in his throat, lodged there as a jolt climbed up his arm. Éomer kept his eyes forward, determined not to look at her. Then the steps turned, and he was forced to turn about, still not looking at Lothíriel as their opposite hands met with the same physical assault upon his senses. Béma! This was torture. Had Éowyn done this a-purpose?

But his sister was merely smiling benignly as they reverted to their original positions. Éomer gazed shrewdly at her, trying to divine another purpose—but none was visible. There were, unfortunately, two more passes with the four of them, and it was all he could do to appear perfectly composed when the turmoil in his chest was anything but. And when the dance was over, Éomer took the first chance he had to leave the hall without being rude, tugging at the ties on the front of his tunic as he escaped, for he could barely breathe—

He strode through the dim corridors, away from curious eyes and the suffocating nearness of the princess…his princess, he still thought of her when he lost hold of himself.

Éomer was going nowhere in particular, only away, when he was stopped by a sound of sniffling drawing near. His steps paused, and he saw a puddle of skirt on the ground, peeking from around a corner. A blue skirt. A familiar blue skirt—

Creeping forward, it took only another moment's observation to recognize Lothíriel, likely escaped from the hall through a different door than himself. She was sitting upon the floor, her dark head resting against the stone wall and facing away from him. She sniffled again, choking back a sob as her shoulders shook, her head bowing.

It took every mite of Éomer's control not to sink beside her then, to take her into his arms and to comfort her in any way he could. This reaction startled him, and he backed away quickly before he betrayed himself. His heart was pounding. Béma! He had hoped to be indifferent towards her…but seeing her so miserable, so defeated, and wishing to care for her proved that he was not entirely apathetic, despite trying to be so. He wanted her still. No matter that she had refused to marry him…he still loved her.

The slight workings of reason in his mind suggested that if she was so unhappy, it was possible that she was not indifferent to him and their breach. But the bitterness in his chest he had built up for so long revolted against this—and Éomer only grew more confused.

Well, perhaps he should give it more thought. Away from her.


1 January 3021 T.A., Edoras

Éomer twirled the quill in his fingers, the familiar itch stronger than ever. The habit of writing to Lothíriel for all those years had not died lightly; indeed, the urge often battered at him. Until today, he had never given in. But in his continued bewilderment of the princess; her motivations, and her heart—he found that his heart was softening. He sat forward in his chair, unheeding of the snowstorm outside rattling the glass panes of the windows, and dipped the quill in ink.

Lothíriel,

He stopped. What in Arda was in doing? Being a fool, that was what he was doing! He scowled at himself. But since he had started, there was no halting altogether—

I can truthfully say now, that I hope you are well. I confess to have hoped every distress and unhappiness upon you several months ago, but it was uncharitable and unchivalrous of me. And now that I have witnessed with my own eyes your misery, that desire slinks away in shame. I have always preferred your smiles to your frowns, and now it seems that I am the cause of your grief, though I cannot fathom precisely why.

Whatever my perceptions are, I must judge that you are not as unfeeling as part of me has hoped. How else can I reason away your behavior?

Now I must declare that I have no intention of your ever reading this letter, and so I can be plain-spoken as I like. Lothíriel, you have made me angry. Angrier than perhaps I have ever been before. It is such an incongruous feeling, to have a woman I once loved more than life itself to cause me such misery. But beneath that anger, I wonder if my love for you still smolders… Some nights I dream of you, for better or worse. Sometimes I wake cursing your name, wishing we had never metand still other nights, I wake and wish you were beside me. Oh, if you were beside me! What would I do? Would I make love to you, forgetting all trespasses? Would it resole matters between us, or worsen them? Béma, as if knowing you has not been a test of my self-mastery already…

But Lothíriel, do not misunderstand me. I never simply wanted you for the sake of sharing my bed. I have always wanted you in every facet of my lifeevery day, every moment, every circumstance. I want you beside me in council meetings, to doodle on the backs of my decrees, to offer your ever-insightful thoughts to my sometimes-frustrating councilors, to be beside me with your alluring jasmine perfume. I want your compassion to rule Edoras, for I have learned I have little head for people. Soldiers and war, certainly, but not individuals. That is your strength, my love. Would you have been content, my wonderful Lothíriel, to be a marshal's wife? To bear the children of a mere military commander? I think of that sometimesour stolen life, which was torn from us.

I wonder if you saw my weakness and that turned you against me. But I cannot believe it! I think too highly of your heart. Why, why, why did you refuse to marry me? I cannot understand, and my mind grasps at faltering reasonsam I too ugly? Too eager? Too tall? Am I an unfit king? Did I not treat you as kindly, as singularly, as superior as a devoted lover ought? Still I wonder, every day. What could I have done differently? Is there anything I can change now, to earn your love again? For though we are estranged, I would do anything in my power to have you again.

There was a knock at his door, and startled, Éomer fumbled the quill, a splotch of ink distorting his words. Keeping his voice level, he called, "Come in!"

The door creaked, and a servant entered, bowing low. "A messenger has come from Gondor, my lord." And he held out a thick stack of letters. There were likely five or six, and Éomer grimaced inwardly at the amount of replies he would have to make. He gestured for the man to bring letters the forward, and took them quickly.

"Thank you," Éomer said gruffly, and the servant left. He rifled through the letters absently, unsurprised by any of them. Aragorn, Éowyn, Faramir, a lord he barely remembered, Imrahil—

With his thoughts still lingering on Lothíriel, and the bare flicker of flaming hope that perhaps she had written to him (she had not), Éomer broke the seal of Imrahil's letter first.

Éomer,

I hope you have returned to Rohan in good health. Our road to Dol Amroth was safe, and our winter passes smoothly. I write to invite you to Amrothos's wedding, to take place in Dol Amroth at the end of February. I fear that the weather will hold out against you, but I would feel remiss not to include you in an invitation.

If February is not an option, we would still very much like to see youin the spring, perhaps? In my experience, the roads are safe to take at the onset of April. I assure you that our fair city is full of life and color even so early in the year, and such a long journey would be duly rewarded.

In the meantime, please review the merchandising contracts I have included, and return them when you canby messenger, or your own hand.

All my best wishes,

Imrahil of Dol Amroth

Yet another invitation! Éomer's lips twisted in a grimacing smile. Was he upset by it, or glad by it? Years ago he would have leapt at such an opportunity, no matter how blocked the mountain passes were by snow. But he could not anticipate his princess awaiting him with her open heart and welcoming arms now.

Could he?

He hesitated.

But the desire to see Lothíriel again, despite their breach, was the winning consideration. He wanted to understand her, and he surmised that would be best served by visiting Dol Amroth. Quickly Éomer chose a blank piece of parchment, and penned an acceptance of Imrahil's spring invitation. Surprisingly, he did not grow more nervous, but hope and confidence, which he quickly tempered, made his heart feel light for the first time in many months.


5th March 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth

Lothíriel was feeling an overwhelming sense of oddness as she stared into the earnest eyes of Lord Dalgorn. Part of her pointed out the irony of this situation occurring once more—but then again, the circumstances with Éomer had been entirely different.

"I would be honored to have you as my wife," Lord Dalgorn said in his affected tones, his clammy hands holding hers.

"No," she said.

He blinked.

"No," Lothíriel said again. "I apologize if I have given you a mistaken notion of my affections. Good bye."

And she stood, straightening her skirt as she walked in the opposite direction. The solace of the gardens was almost eerie after such an encounter. Lothíriel had no prickling of conscience for leaving Lord Dalgorn behind; he could escort himself out of her father's house quite well, and she guessed, knowing of his pride, that he would do so quickly.

She turned her steps southward, and they faltered. There was a single bench facing the outlook to the sea, under the shade of the gardener's favorite lemon trees, and she sunk upon it as her eyes burned with tears.

Lothíriel had only meant to be kind to Lord Dalgorn! After all, his wife had died in childbirth not a year ago. He was perfectly amiable, and so she even sought his company when she could not quite tolerate the inanities of others of the court. That her apparent preference had given rise to such expectations…she was stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Princess?"

She blinked away her tears hurriedly, forcing a smile as she recognized the apothecary hovering near her, wringing his dirty hands together as he gazed at her through his spectacles with concern.

"Good afternoon, Malbeth," Lothíriel said, shifting so that could sit beside her, which he did.

"Did you see the allheal blooming, princess?" Malbeth said, pulling from the pouch at his waist a handful of crumbled blossoms. "So early in the spring, too! I wonder if we shouldn't have two harvests this year!"

Lothíriel bit back a smile; the red blooms in his hand were not allheal, but poppy. Malbeth's eyesight was terrible, and he so absent-minded that he hardly noticed. "That is poppy, Malbeth," she said gently. "But it is looking very fine; I am sure we shall have excellent stores of poppy this year."

"Oh! Oh dear, old me. I am sorry!" Hastily he stuffed the flowers away, his ears bright red. Lothíriel did smile then, patting his wrinkled, dirty hand affectionately.

"But I am glad you told me, anyway."

"I saw Lord Dalgorn leaving here not a few minutes ago," Malbeth said. "Nearly trampled the rosemary. A more careless man there never was!"

Lothíriel's smile faded.

"But there will still be enough for our guests...where are they coming from again? And it is not next week, I think…I cannot quite remember what the steward told me—"

"They are coming from Rohan," she said, trying to ignore the twisting in her stomach at this. "And they are to arrive the second week of April. I am sure the rosemary will be fully replenished by then."

"Ah, good. Good, good." And Malbeth stood, clumsily trapping his own hands in his long black robes. "Ah—I should check the poultice I am reducing. Have a good afternoon, princess!"

"Good bye, Malbeth."

Lothíriel was left alone with the sea as the old man departed in shuffling steps, but it was little consolation. The nerves whenever she remembered that Éomer—Éomer!—was to visit her home very soon were unpleasant at best. Her hands were prickling with sweat at the mere thought, and she wrung them in her skirt. She knew it was quite right for Éomer to visit, but somehow she wished she could be anywhere else but in Dol Amroth when he arrived. She did not wish to experience his coldness again. Oh, the times she had wept to remember the bitterness in his face!

Tears came again now; her heart was all in turmoil from Lord Dalgorn and Éomer and everything else. The happiness tinged with such sorrow at Amrothos's wedding still wrung her heart, and for the first time in her life, Lothíriel could not say, for the life of her, what she wanted.