8 April 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth

Éomer laced his fingers behind his head, gazing up at the canopy of his opulent, and admittedly frivolous, bed. It was blue, of course, as were most of the decorations in Imrahil's house. Somehow it did not surprise him.

Dawn would be approaching soon; it had been a long night of dancing and feasting and mingling with people he barely cared to know. But he played his part as King of Rohan, just as he ought. And somehow, despite it all, he had only felt his true self when he had had Lothíriel in his arms.

Lothíriel, Lothíriel! Even her name made his heart beat faster. He smiled up at the canopy, remembering how beautiful she had been that night. The lovely shade of green she'd worn had complimented her skin perfectly; she had glowed in the torchlight. He had been startled to see her so different than he was accustomed to, but the urge to hold her, to tangle his fingers in her hair, to kiss her…that had not changed. She was still his Lothíriel, and still he loved her.

It was a relief to admit how deeply he still cared for the princess. His love had not changed since Minas Tirith those years ago, unless it had strengthened with time and stubborn denial. Still his heart burned as fiercely as ever for her, for the woman he had loved for so long…despite the months that love had slumbered.

He remembered the curve of her throat, the shadows the candlelight had cast across her skin. The glitter in her eyes, which had appeared so dark when they rested upon him, and the feel of her slender waist. But he also remembered her stiffness, her distance…the indifference she pretended. The yearning which drew him to her, drew her to him, he was sure…

Éomer found no sleep that night, but when he rose from bed at dawn he did not feel the least bit weary. He splashed water on his face and dressed for riding, penning a brief note of explanation where he was going. A hard ride might ease his mind from lingering on Lothíriel…but he hardly cared if it did or not. He wanted her in his thoughts.

The trek along the cliffside disappeared beneath Firefoot's eager hooves. With the golden dawn breaking across the sky, the sea shimmered in shades he had not known to exist. It was a lovely, yet reverent sight; he paused at the top of a bluff to gaze out at the Bay of Belfalas for several moments, until the sun yellowed and the sky turned blue.

There was much exploration to be done in this wilderness. Many paths twisted and turned and crossed; the road he had taken with Erchirion and Lothíriel was only one of them. Éomer turned east, to open plains and eventually to rolling hills. The sea disappeared along with its salty breeze, but was replaced by greenery all 'round, more wildflowers and patches of forest where no man lived. He rode on 'till noon, absorbed within his own thoughts, before deciding to turn back.

Éomer dismounted, walking out his stiff legs and allowing Firefoot to rest beside a bubbling brook by a copse of trees. He drank the sweet water, splashing some on his face; the morning had grown hot! If this was merely spring in Dol Amroth, he was thankful he had not come later in the season.

There were provisions in his saddlebags, and he ate beneath a tree, feeling nothing short of lazy. This sort of solitude was rare, and he could not help but enjoy it. He was on no-one's time but his own, and when he was ready, he mounted Firefoot once more and rode back west.

The trek back was longer than he expected; the afternoon waned before they saw the sea again. Firefoot was finally wearying. Éomer was certain that a direct ride north, once they reached the cliffs, would lead them back to the palace. But while he was searching for that road, an odd sight caught his eye.

A decrepit tower of marble, set upon high bluffs, just on the edge of the cliffside. Curious, for he had heard no mention of ruins by Imrahil nor his family, Éomer turned Firefoot towards it. To his surprise, upon coming 'round the north side of the building, he saw a horse tethered outside. A familiar horse—Wilwarin. He dismounted, winding the reins on the same ragged tree branch, and stepped through the crooked doorway with great curiosity burning in his veins. There was no hesitation, no question of finding Lothíriel. He knew she was there, with the same certainty that he should speak to her. Were Éowyn to see him in such a mood, she would laugh and call him fey—but Éomer did not care.

It had once been a lovely building, that much was sure. The faded stone bore marks of having been carefully carved; winding designs and symbols he did not recognize surrounded him. He stepped through the overgrown ground, skirting fallen stones from the crumbling ceiling. Ivy had claimed the south-facing wall, and flowers burst between stones and distressed wooden planks. It was a single chamber, he had to guess.

Éomer stopped where he was, at last seeing Lothíriel ahead of him—she was standing before the western wall, from which was carved a large overlook to the sparkling sea below. Had she heard him approach? He did not think so, and cleared his throat.

She startled, whirling around before blinking in pure astonishment to see him a few feet away. Then her astonishment turned to annoyance, and finally anger.

"Why are you here?" she asked, and her voice was accusatory. He decided not to be offended by this; it was clear she had not expected company. Indeed, it was likely she had been avoiding it. So he merely said,

"I was passing by. I was curious to explore this—what is this, exactly?"

"It was a temple of Ulmo, many centuries ago. Completely out of use."

"I had guessed as much," he said, withholding a twitching smile. She frowned at this, turning her back upon him and crossing her arms tightly, as if to protect herself. A few moments of silence passed, until she spoke again.

"Why do you do this?"

Éomer shrugged, though her back was to him and she could not see. "I like to ride," he said. "It—"

"That is not what I mean." Lothíriel's voice turned sharp, and she threw an angry glance over her shoulder. "Since you appear to be determined to make light of it, I will speak plainly: why are you tormenting me so?"

"Tormenting you? Why, I am only being kind."

"Your kindness hurts." Her voice was nearly whipped away by the breeze, and Éomer strained to hear. "I do not understand why—after—after everything—why you are treat me as though nothing has happened. Why must you be so oblivious—so kind?"

"Should I not be?" Éomer asked mildly. "I would hope that you know me well enough to acknowledge that I am not in the habit of unkindness to those who are not my enemy."

"But I have done you wrong."

He noticed a rigidity to her shoulders. She was stubbornly standing her ground, and Éomer surmised that if wished to understand her...he must speak more plainly. He steeled himself and asked in a gentle voice, "Tell me, then. Why did you refuse me?"

Silence met his question. He gave her a long, steady look, which she met with determination, though there was a tremble in her lips.

"Please," he coerced softly. "May I not know the reason of my misery?"

A moment more she gazed at him, and then with a sigh her eyes drooped, and her shoulders slumped. "I was in mourning," Lothíriel murmured. "I saw death in the Healing Houses and the destruction of families and livelihoods and homes. When Amrothos lost his leg…I could hardly think! I—I felt that I had no right to be happy when everyone around me was suffering. And when he held rites for Boromir and my uncle...I suppose something inside of me shattered. I had only been pretending that all was well in the world...well enough that I could justify my own hopes."

Éomer listened to her patiently, his heart thumping with relief. Lothíriel's misery was all too-easy to understand, and how he wished he might have understood two years earlier! His assumption that she was fickle and capricious were unfounded.

"Then I simply asked you to marry me at the wrong time," he said.

"Yes." Lothíriel's legs were weak, drained from this honest telling, and she sank onto the mossy ground with a sigh. Knots were unravelling in her stomach, and for the first time in many months, there were no barriers around her heart. Éomer knew now, her reasons for refusing him. She could expect nothing more from him; it had been too long, and whatever his kindness, she did not think he would offer for her again, no matter her hope. After all, she had refused once...a man would be a fool to risk rejection again.

"I am sorry, Lothíriel."

She glanced up with a wan smile. Éomer's brows were creased, and he was frowning. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "For it seems the situation is to blame."

"Nay, I was too eager," he said. "I should have divined your feelings before speaking."

"My feelings have always been clear to you, I think," Lothíriel said quietly. "You knew that I loved you desperately, and would have married you in an instant had you asked on a different day. You know me...too well."

"Not well enough, evidently."

There was silence, and she heard Éomer sigh. Then he stepped forward, stretching out upon the ground as she shied away. His presence, so near, sent her heart racing and heat to spread across her cheeks.

"I was angry," he said by way of explanation, staring ahead of them at the decrepit south wall of the temple. "I did not understand, and so...I blamed you. I thought that you had stopped loving me, that you were young and fickle and did not know your own heart. But when I saw you in Ithilien, I realized you were suffering. Odd that your misery should bring me such hope, yet it did!" Éomer gave a hollow laugh. "My advisors were plaguing me to marry, to find a queen. I might have agreed, too, had I not realized that you were as unhappy as I."

Lothíriel blinked stupidly. His eyes were on hers now, boring into her with his usual intensity—blazing warmth, and fierce love. She was not mistaking it, she was sure—and her heart thumped faster. Éomer offered a tentative smile.

"Tell me, princess—was I wrong to hope?"

Her eyes burned with hot tears, and immediately he took her face in his hands, his gentle touch brushing away the moisture. "Lothíriel…" Éomer murmured. "Lothíriel, I love you. Do you not return my love still?"

Numbly she nodded, and the relief that simple action gave made her laugh suddenly; a strangled, desperate sound.

"I love you, Éomer," Lothíriel cried. "Oh, I have loved you for so long, and I fear I shall love you until I die!"

His fingers were replaced by his lips, and he kissed away every tear on her cheek as she clung to him, growing dizzy. His scent, his touch surrounded her and comforted her, as he always had.

Éomer's lips found her mouth, and Lothíriel leaned into him with a whimper. A moment later, or perhaps an hour, she did not know—she was tipped onto her back, laid gently on the soft moss. Her eyes fluttered open. Éomer's smiling face was above her own, and instinctively she smiled back as he brushed hair away from her face.

"Do not fear love, my dearest, sweetest girl! There is nothing to be afraid of, not when we are together."

She felt the strength of his arms underneath her hand, the fine weave of his tunic...the warm skin of his neck and his soft, golden hair as she tangled her fingers there. His smile grew feral, and he dipped his head to kiss her again, and again, and again—he held her tightly by the waist, their bodies melding together perfectly as they lay there, in the middle of the ruined temple with only the setting sun to see.

They wandered into the palace some hours later, hand-in-hand and looking utterly pleased. This was immediately taken note of by various peoples, and Imrahil did not bother hiding his relief when they declared to him privately their intention to marry. It was announced to the family at supper, and while no one was truly stunned (apart from a wide-eyed Careth), there was a clinking of coins beneath the table as Amrothos collected his winnings from Erchirion. This thankfully went unnoticed by the soon-to-be bridal couple, who were absorbed only in each other, speaking in low tones as if trying to make up for the months and years without each other.

Towards the end of the meal, when everyone's attention was elsewhere, Éomer lifted the thin chain from around Lothíriel's neck with attempted solemnity, breaking it and sliding his mother's ring into the palm of his hand. "I hope you have not grown," he teased, stroking the knuckles of her hand with his thumb. She laughed.

"I do not think I have! I suppose this shall be a test." And he put the ring on her finger, where Lothíriel had every intention of keeping it forever. She admired the candlelight glinting off the deep-red garnet, smiling so hard that her face ached. "I shall never remove it," she declared.

"Well—if you truly need to, I shan't be offended. One must be sensible about these sorts of things, my sweet…"

She laughed. "I am not certain I can ever be sensible again."

"I suppose that is alright, too."

And he kissed her lips, lingering there despite the lack of privacy. They did not notice the various glances sent between the members of her family; bemused, revolted, smug, horrified, and shielded by a hand (Amrothos felt keenly about preserving his bride's innocence, which said bride did not appreciate).

Imrahil, for his part, felt the most satisfaction from this outcome, and did not mind witnessing a little kissing. Providing it was merely 'a little.' They ought to stop at any moment. He tapped his fingers on the rim of his wineglass impatiently, ignoring the burst of snickers from his sons. Really, this was getting out of hand—

Oh, great Ulmo below! Was this the reward for his daughter's happiness? He decided not to notice, and loudly, tried to begin a conversation on methods of preparing binding mortar.