4 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Éomer was totally, utterly, and completely lost. He could not pinpoint the precise moment, during the last days, when Lothíriel had captured his unwavering devotion—but if he had to guess, it was the moment he first kissed her in the corridor to escape Lady Amdriel. Something about the way the princess had fearlessly and breathlessly kissed him back had stirred something in him.

His own response to her had come as a surprise; at the moment their lips had meant, his heart had begun to beat out of his chest, which he knew now was entirely for her. Before, he had been burdened with the cares of sudden kingship, floundering in a foreign court he knew little of—now he lived to hear her laugh again, or to once more taste her breath on his lips.

He knew he was acting nigh on a fool, but he could not care. Even in the company of her father and brothers that night over the evening meal, he was hard-pressed to remove his attention from Lothíriel. There was a lovely pink tinge in her cheeks, perhaps lingering from their day in the city (which Éomer remembered with no small amount of pleasure on his part, either). It might have surprised him how often they had found one excuse or another to indulge in a bit of kissing, but with her clear willingness—he could surmise she was enjoying their deception as much as he.

Imrahil did not seem to notice the tension between his daughter and his friend. He kept up a lively conversation, full of anecdotes and quips that would have normally made Éomer laugh, but now only to smile at Lothíriel across from him. She would then flush darker and suppress a smile before looking away, as if trying to force herself to pay attention to her father.

Desperately Éomer wanted to know all that was lurking behind her large grey eyes. This peculiar princess was unlike any other woman he had met, and he was prepared to spend the rest of his life answering the mystery of her smiles.

After supper was finished (and Éomer had not a clue what he had eaten), they retired to a sitting room, comfortably furnished and blazing with bright candles. He sat beside Lothíriel on a settee, as near as he dared under her father's eye, but was forced to keep from touching her as he wished. Amrothos slumped in a chair, picking up a book from a table and rifling through it absently. Imrahil, after a long glance at his daughter—who was sitting primly with no indication of mischief—engaged Erchirion in a low conversation near the curtained window, their words not quite audible.

Éomer was tempted to touch the stray, dark curls that lay on the nape of Lothíriel's neck. He imagined what she looked like with her hair loose, all silky and smooth against the creaminess of her skin—

He was at a loss for words. What could he say where they might be overheard? She was wringing her hands in the folds of her dark blue frock.

Amrothos had stood, pacing in front of the hearth with his hands behind his back. Lothíriel was watching him walk to and fro, her brow creased ever so slightly, and Éomer realized how odd this behavior must be for her brother. He supposed he himself had never seen Amrothos any less than lazily unperturbed.

"Lothíriel," Amrothos said abruptly, and strode towards the settee in quick steps. He sat upon his sister's opposite side, and ever more curious, Éomer tilted his head to better see the prince. Amrothos, blinking as he realized the interest his behavior was causing, immediately cleared his throat.

"Yes?" his sister prompted.

"You might draw for us. This evening is going to be dull if Erch and Father continue discussing business," he said, shooting a glance towards his brother and father, as if blaming them for his boredom. Éomer saw a hint of bafflement on Lothíriel's face, but her voice was perfectly serene.

"I can draw for you, if you wish. Providing you bring me my satchel."

Amrothos positively jumped from his seat, and disappeared behind them before exiting the room. There was a brief silence as all stared after him, and then Imrahil resumed his conversation with his second son.

"I did not know you drew," Éomer said quietly, relieved for the relative privacy, though he knew it would not last.

"Oh, hardly well," Lothíriel confessed, gazing up at him with those lovely grey eyes and a hint of a smile. "Art is part of every young woman's education, whether she wishes it or not."

"Ah, a forced talent then. I will pretend it is wonderful, in any case."

She laughed, and Éomer's heart might have beat out of his chest.

Presently Amrothos returned, and Lothíriel set about putting a large sheaf of parchment into a stretched wooden frame, balancing it in her lap. She insisted that Amrothos prepare her charcoal pencil for her, and Éomer stifled laughter at the prince's annoyance at being used in such a manner.

"What shall I draw?" Lothíriel asked, to no one in particular. "You, Amrothos?"

Éomer sniggered to himself as her brother said quickly, "Oh, no! There are enough portraits of me to satisfy even all my admirers. Do someone from court—that you have never drawn before."

Lothíriel glanced over at Éomer, and he grinned to see her bemusement. It was obvious to him Amrothos's feelings—a man in love rarely said so outright, after all. Part of him wished the prince would speak plainly, but there was hardly any fun in that.

"Lady Amdriel, perhaps?" Lothíriel asked, the laughter in her voice obvious to anyone paying attention. But her brother was not paying attention.

"Oh, no! But—perhaps her daughter." Amrothos was tapping his fingers restlessly against his knee, and his eyes darted from his sister to Éomer to his father and to the ceiling, and all back again. Lothíriel blinked, and glanced again at Éomer—but his only response was a shrug. He was not surprised that Amrothos appeared to have lost his heart—all the signs were certainly there. But that it was Lady Amdriel's daughter certainly was a surprise. Had Imrahil not said that Amrothos had once had to jump over a wall to avoid the incessantly forceful mother? What an odd match it was, then!

If Éomer doubted Amrothos's sentiments at all, it was soon lost as Lothíriel began to make smooth, even strokes on the parchment.

"You've made her face too long," he complained. Then, several minutes later, "Her eyes are rounder than that, Loth! Have you never seen Madriel before?"

"With different eyes than yours, evidently," Lothíriel said dryly. Her fingers were coated in black coal, but Éomer thought it suited her. As little as he could recall Lady Madriel's face to mind, the likeness seemed quite accurate, and he did not hesitate to tell Lothíriel so. She turned to smile at him, irritation at her brother fading from her face.

"You are too generous in your compliments," she said, her voice soft. "And Amrothos is too harsh—I must think my drawing only average."

He laughed, which in turn caused Amrothos to frown.

"Continue on, Lothíriel! Let us not be kept until after midnight for your dawdling."

Éomer saw the barest purse of the princess's lips as she returned her attention to the parchment. Her lips were beautiful despite her expression, and it was no difficulty to remember the taste of feel of them against his own… He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning nearer to Lothíriel to gaze over her shoulder at her work, just able to smell her lovely, flowery smell he had already memorized.

Her fingers hesitated briefly before continuing again, her fingers which held the frame clenched. Amrothos gave a sigh of frustration and stood, resuming his earlier path in front of the hearth.

"You are making me quite nervous," Lothíriel said under her breath, turning her head slightly towards him. She did not cease her work, so as not to draw attention.

"Oh, am I?" Éomer murmured innocently, watching the color rise in her cheeks. "So sorry!"

A snort escaped the princess; an utterly endearing sound, he thought. "If you are sorry, then I am the moon!"

"'Twould not surprise me," he whispered. "You are certainly beautiful enough, miting."

"Shh!"

Lothíriel's hiss was well-timed—a moment later Imrahil was above them, gazing down at Lothíriel's drawing with a nod. "A fair likeness," he said. "But not a subject I expected, daughter."

"She was Amrothos's choice," she informed her father.

"Lothíriel!" her brother said in agony from the hearth.

"Your secret is safe with me, son," Imrahil said placidly. "Stay here with your sister and Éomer, if you please. I have business to review and Erchirion has agreed to assist me."

"Yes, Father." Amrothos's voice was positively miserable, and Éomer noted that the tips of his ears had turned red. There was a shuffling as Imrahil and Erchirion left the room, and it grew silent once more. Amrothos's pacing resumed, though now he muttered inaudibly to himself, brows drawn.

"I wonder if he was in the gardens with Madriel earlier," Lothíriel whispered to him.

"I would not be surprised one bit," Éomer said back softly, grinning despite himself. "He was terribly upset to see us, no?"

"Indeed," she smiled. "Now I wish to know all the details of their affair! I do not think Amrothos will confide in me, however—I would tease him far too much, and he knows it."

"I will ask him, then," Éomer offered. "I should like to see you tease him."

Lothíriel giggled, and he hushed her—Amrothos was glaring at them. "I was resting my fingers," she said quickly, and bent her head once more over the parchment.

Éomer was impressed at her pace and her skill—he no longer believed that she was average. Somehow she translated the sheen of Lady Madriel's fair hair, and the pale brows above wide eyes. Vacant eyes, Éomer had always thought, but he was being uncharitable. He needn't worry of Lady Amdriel's matchmaking any longer. A lazy smile grew on his face to think of the lady's reaction to her daughter winning the heart of a prince of Dol Amroth…

"Are you finished?" Amrothos asked impatiently several minutes later, once again sitting beside his sister. "Oh—oh, excellent work, Lothíriel! She is beautiful!"

This change was so abrupt from his earlier criticisms that Éomer lifted a brow in disbelief, trying not to catch Lothíriel's eye for fear of laughing aloud.

"Why, thank you, Amrothos," she said mildly. "I can be done, if you wish it."

"Thanks," her brother muttered, and grasped the parchment in his hands as soon as Lothíriel held it out to him. He did not look at them again, but stood, wandering towards the door as if in a trance. A moment later, and he was gone.

"Well!" Lothíriel said after a pause. "Father told him to stay with us."

"So he did," Éomer admitted, unashamedly grateful that they were now alone. He did what he had been wanting to do all night, and touched her, placing his hand on her back, feeling her warmth through her dress. She shivered, and his fingers trailed upwards to feel the soft skin at the back of her neck. "I can go, if you want me to," he said, half-heartedly.

"Oh, I do not want you to go," Lothíriel said, her lips twisting into a wry smile. "Though perhaps you should."

"But why? We can behave ourselves!" Éomer's voice was more confident than he felt, though to prove the point he moved his hand to the cushion beside her. Their eyes held for a moment, before she sighed and looked away.

"Of course," she murmured.

"If you like," he said hastily, hating that he had caused her smile to fade. "I—I quite enjoyed watching you draw."

Lothíriel's brows rose. "Good heavens! And who would you have me portray? If you choose another young, beautiful woman, I may find myself jealous!" Her tone was teasing, but Éomer hoped he did not imagine the truth behind it.

"Oh, not at all!" he said. "Draw me, if that convinces you of my intentions."

"You?" she asked, her lips parting in surprise.

"Why not?" Éomer asked indignantly. "I am not so ugly."

"Indeed not!" Lothíriel laughed, and the flush was back in her cheeks. "I would be pleased to draw you. Stay there—" And she moved to sit at the opposite end of the settee, her back against the armrest and facing him, tucking her knees to her chest to rest the wooden frame against it, now holding a fresh parchment.

"You could have stayed by me," he objected. The loss of her warmth and presence was too perceptible. She dimpled in return, her eyes on his face.

"Not if we wished to convince anyone of our good behavior," she said. "There is no one here to pretend our devotion to, after all."

Éomer felt like protesting further, but refrained. Now Lothíriel's eyes were travelling across his features as she bit her lip in concentration, and he suppressed the blush he felt rising. Béma! He hadn't blushed since he was a youth. What was this? Awkwardly he tried to arrange his long arms and legs into a better position, but mostly only succeeding in proving that the settee was a bit small for a man of his size. He tried to grin at Lothíriel, and saw to his disgruntlement that she was withholding laughter.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

"Comfortable enough," he grumbled. "Do not make me regret asking you to draw me!"

Hastily her gaze dropped to the parchment, and she began scribbling away.

Trying not to move for fear of disturbing Lothíriel's work, Éomer itched. He might have adjusted himself after several minutes, if she had not been looking at him so often, likely to reference his position. Lady Madriel was fortunate not to be in the chamber whilst she was being drawn…

"Where did you get your scar?" Lothíriel asked quietly. Her eyes were presently on the parchment, though they darted upwards to him at his brief hesitation.

"Nothing so valiant as you are undoubtedly thinking," Éomer said with a chuckle. "I cut my brow falling off the roof of the royal stables in Edoras when I was a child."

"Oh! I was imaging it was some glorious wound, you know—or at least that you would claim it was. It is just the thing Amrothos would say."

"I cannot lie, not even for a joke."

Lothíriel smiled, and he offered one in return as she gazed at him. Then she said quickly, "It is a very handsome scar. You mustn't wonder why all the ladies are so enamored by you!"

"If they knew it was merely from a childhood mishap, they would not be so fascinated," Éomer intoned wryly. "I assure you, I am far more dull than they believe."

"Oh, I do not believe that for an instant! I am sure these past days with you have been the most exciting of my life."

He lifted a brow at this confession, and Lothíriel frowned slightly.

"It is not such a strange thing," she said, as if to defend herself. "Most women have not the liberties of men to seek excitement, or the bravery of your sister."

"You are mistaking my disbelief as criticism," Éomer told her. "I find it strange to think of you as having any life but an exciting one, with your—well, as you are."

"I try to enjoy what I can." Lothíriel's eyes were on the parchment again as she drew, and she added quietly, almost as if to herself, "And I try not to long for something more."

"You are not content?" Éomer asked, just as softly. She did not immediately reply, and he wondered if he offended her—but then she looked up again, and gave him such a beautiful smile that he forget what he had said.

"I was." There was an enunciation he did not understand, though she did not elaborate further.

The fire cracking in the hearth was the only sound for the next several minutes. Éomer was too caught up in his thoughts of this princess, and she too focused on her work to speak. It was a companionable silence, nonetheless. He felt no discomfort apart from the physical.

"There," Lothíriel said at last, and with a dimpled smile she returned her gaze to him. There was a smudge of charcoal on her nose, and she was utterly beautiful. She shifted to sit beside him again, and Éomer sighed with relief to move once more.

"I hope you like it," she added, taking his look of surprise as dislike.

"I do!" Éomer said at once, and then he grinned. "Is it a fair likeness, then? I am afraid I know less of my face than you do, now."

Lothíriel bit her lip, glancing down at the parchment and then up at him again. "It is fair," she said with a laugh. "And now you will always know what you look like!" She removed the portrait from the board, and offered it to him.

"Oh, no!" Éomer held up his hands. "I do not need it. I have to live with my face, I hardly require a likeness!" She was laughing again, and impulsively he added, "You should keep it, miting. So that you may remember me and our exciting days."

Her lovely lips parted in bewilderment.

"And you may provide me with a drawing of yourself," Éomer said to her silence.

Lothíriel's lips pulled downwards, and he was discomfited to see the appearance of a frown on her forehead. "But—" She stopped, and swallowed, her eyes wide before continuing carefully, "But you said that—that after this, we would not need to think of each other again."

Béma! So he had. Éomer did not appreciate his words flung back in his face this way, and he matched her frown. A knot of unhappiness was forming in his stomach. "I am sorry," he said shortly. "I did not mean to imply—"

"Oh! Do not be," Lothíriel placed a hand on his arm, her warmth seeping through his skin as she leaned forward in earnest. "Oh, Éomer!" And there was startling agony in her face, and the knot twisted more deeply.

"I have forgotten myself," he said lightly. "I have grown too used to your company that I quite forgot that we—that we are only supposed to be lovers temporarily." And what indication had he given her that his intentions towards her had completely changed? None at all! His stomach twisted like a vice.

"I have made you unhappy. Éomer, I have no qualm of drawing myself for you. You must understand—I—" She was twisting her hands together, her materials and his portrait quite forgotten on the settee as her voice trailed off. Éomer did not know how to interpret this show of anxiety from Lothíriel, and frankly, he wanted to see her smile again.

Tentatively, he lifted her chin with his fingers, and her eyes fluttered to his, wide and grey and lovely. There was no answer to the question he was not sure he could yet ask.

"Lothíriel…" Éomer breathed. Her lips were inviting him, and she trembled at his touch. Could she care for him, more than her words led him to believe? He could not believe that her kisses were of a woman who whose heart was indifferent. His certainly were not. She was leaning towards him, and he could taste her breath—

The door opened with a crash and a slam, and they broke apart guiltily. Lothíriel's face was scarlet as she stared at Éomer, but he thought she was no less pretty.

"There you are!" Erchirion's voice was sharp. "Where is Amrothos?"

"He left some time ago," Lothíriel said, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Éomer saw that her hands were shaking, and he hoped that Erchirion was not near enough to notice.

"The git," her brother muttered. "Well—Father is wishing to speak to you regarding the upcoming feast in Merethrond, Lot." And his eyes lingered on Éomer, as if to say, It is high time you leave.

"I will go," Éomer said. He was not a little annoyed at their interruption though he tried not to show it. He stood as well, taking Lothíriel's hand and bringing it to his lips. He met her gaze, trying to convey what he had not said—but she looked away, causing his stomach to twist with confusion and disappointment.

What must she think of him?

The night air in Minas Tirith was cool and comfortless. Éomer strolled aimlessly back towards the Citadel and his waiting guest chamber, though it held little appeal to him now. It was empty; no one would be waiting for his return, unless his squire had decided to wait outside his door in eagerness to perform some errand. Éomer's sigh was whipped from his mouth by a breeze, disappearing over the plains below with no sympathetic ear to hear.

It was no wonder that Lothíriel had questioned him; that she had reminded him of his very words that they needn't think of each other again. He should not have said it—but it was the only way he had thought at the time to reassure the princess that he had no intention to dishonor her or her reputation.

Again, he wondered: what must she think of him?

Likely that he was a cad, as Lady Amdriel had called him—or at the very least, a man lacking serious intention regarding his own future. Had Lothíriel not been astonished when he admitted to not having thought of marriage before? That is was very much on his mind now, Lothíriel of course would not know. How would he be able to convince her otherwise, with her opinion of him based only on their deception?

Had he known his attraction towards her would blossom into far more, he would not have kissed her that first day. And now he regretted it.