7 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
They saw little of each other during the following days; Éomer was unfortunately drawn back into councils and Lothíriel was kept busy, recruited to assist in organizing the parting feast for the soldiers of Rohan. She did not mind doing so, not really—but she lamented her removal from Éomer. For she found, when he was not near, her heart was more susceptible to the doubts which had begun to bloom.
He could not possibly think seriously of her. He had said himself that he had never considered marriage, and after all—they were only pretending their devotion. Éomer was kind and his company enjoyable—but he was only a friend, and so would remain. This stern reminder barely helped, and she readied herself for the feast with considerable nerves. She was both anxious and keen to see him again, and she could scarce sort of her own feelings.
Lothíriel paid little heed to her surroundings in Merethrond, instead wandering through the crowd upon Erchirion's arm with her eyes flitting, this way and that—
Éomer was standing beside a pillar, his hands clasped behind his back and looking frightfully stern. Lothíriel's heart quailed at the sight—and to see the lovely, fair-haired, though equally grim woman beside him. Her knees began to quake beneath her skirt as Erchirion steered her in their direction.
"Hullo, Éomer!" Erchirion said, oblivious to the tenseness. "I have brought you my sister, as you so requested."
Lothíriel flushed warmly; the lady beside Éomer flushed red. But Éomer was able to gaze at her then, his usual handsome smile not quite reaching his eyes, though his expression was plenty warm as he took her hand from Erchirion.
"Lothíriel," he said, and there was a caress in his voice, though she felt he was reluctantly attempting to keep her at a distance. But he drew her near—not too near. "This is my sister, Éowyn; I do not believe you have been introduced."
"Indeed not," the lady said, and her voice was cool. "Everyone in the city is evidently aware that the pair of you are attached, and yet this is the first time you think it prudent to introduce us, Éomer." Éowyn's bitterness was clear, and Lothíriel attempted a smile.
"I am glad to finally make your acquaintance," she managed. "I have heard much of you, from both my cousin and your brother."
Éowyn's eyes were now studying her intently; Lothíriel flushed, and without realizing she had clenched her fingers 'round Éomer's rather tightly. He cleared his throat, and said,
"Éowyn, you have already taken me thoroughly to task for my error—do not hold it against Lothíriel. She is innocent."
The lady's brows lifted in disbelief. Lothíriel's stomach began twisting with nausea and unhappiness; to be scrutinized in such a way would be regretful under normal circumstances; to have Éowyn's discontent so clear made her eyes burn with unshed tears. Lothíriel hastily swallowed—why did it matter what Éowyn thought? Well, that she was Éomer's sister, of course—but herself and Éomer had no future. It was only a charade, and of course Éowyn did not know. Her resentment was unnecessary, but understandable.
"I would very much like to know your secret, Princess Lothíriel," Éowyn said ironically. "For in a matter of days it seems you have gained complete control over my brother—I daresay I have been attempting to curb his behavior for years, and to no avail."
"I think you will find I have less power over Éomer than you may believe," Lothíriel said, and her voice was quiet. "I assure you, I have no ulterior motives."
There was a huff of derision.
"Believe her words, Éowyn," Éomer said sharply. "For I sought her out, and I have happily been under her influence for these days, and would be so for every day to come."
Lothíriel flushed deeply at this, and Éowyn's lips pinched into a frown. There was a tense, silent moment—and Erchirion broke it, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"Ah—well…er—"
"Will you take me to Faramir?" Éowyn turned abruptly to address Erchirion. "We may leave the lovers alone; it is for the best, I am sure." And without waiting to take leave of them, she took Erchirion's arm and steered him away, disappearing into the crowd.
Éomer gave a long sigh, running his empty hand through his hair as he watched his sister go. "Béma! I am truly sorry, miting, Éowyn is—are you crying?"
"No!" Lothíriel said, and her voice was thick. His face blurred as tears filled her eyes, and she bit her lip painfully, trying to clear them.
"Oh, Lothíriel, my sweet girl…" And he dropped her hand, pulling a white blur from his vest and lifting it to her face, cradling her chin upwards. Once the handkerchief dried her tears, Lothíriel was left blinking up at Éomer, drowning in his lovely eyes, so full of concern and affection…
"Éowyn is…confused," he tried to explain softly, tucking the handkerchief away. "And between you and me, she is a tad jealous. Like she said, you have exhibited far more control over me than she ever has."
"B—but—this is all fake!" Lothíriel said, her voice wavering. "You should have told her, Éomer, really—and not just for my sake. She is unhappy!"
He still held her face, and he frowned thoughtfully as his thumbs stroked her damp cheeks. "I trust your insight," Éomer said softly. "I will tell her, as soon as I can."
"Thank you." And Lothíriel felt a surge of relief—to know that she did not really deserve Éowyn's censure—at least as she understood it. The impulse to bury herself in Éomer's arms for comfort nearly overwhelmed her, and she stumbled as she held herself back, her gaze dropping from his.
"I did not mean to make you unwell," Éomer said. "Perhaps I should not have introduced the pair of you—"
"No, no; it is quite alright," Lothíriel sniffed. "Everyone would expect it, being a part of our false devotion."
A pause. Then, "I suppose you are right. Are you well enough to stay tonight? I can take you home, if you—"
"I will not retreat," she said. "But—but a breath of fresh air would do me well. I would not like anyone to know—to know that I—um, perhaps cried a little."
Éomer was smiling as he picked up her hands, bringing them to his lips. "You are no less pretty when you cry, Lothíriel, I hope you know," he said solemnly.
"It was foolish of me."
"I do not mind one bit. I was glad to have a chance to use my handkerchief; my manservant insisted I take it, though I was sure I would not need it. Now—to the gardens—"
Lothíriel leaned into his strong arm as much as she could without either drawing undue attention to them as they made their escape, or to alert Éomer to know just how much she relied upon his strength and goodness. She had been purposefully forgetting that this would be their last night…and then their charade would be over, and she would not see him again for a long time; perhaps months or years. And when that day came, he would have a queen with him, for every king needed a queen…and Lothíriel did not think she would be able to bear the sight.
"You are quiet."
The green lawn of Merethrond stretched before them, and their steps shuffled softly on the smooth stone walkway. Lothíriel took a shuddering breath, forcing a smile for Éomer, who returned it.
"I am only thinking," she said.
"It is not a night for thinking!" Éomer said gaily. "It is a night of celebration. It started rather badly, though. Hmm—it may be best if we start over, what say you?"
Lothíriel laughed. "Shall I call Erchirion back? And must I return all the way to my house to begin again from there, or—?"
"Nay! That will take far too long, and I am not wishing Erchirion's presence at this moment." They wandered around the fountain, drawing further away from Merethrond with its glittering lights and noise. Then without warning, Éomer stopped walking, and releasing her hand, swept into a very deep bow.
"Princess Lothíriel," he said in opulent accents. "You are lovely tonight, as ever. You grace the—er, night sky with your beauty."
Lothíriel hid a giggle, her previous tears all but forgotten as she swept into an equally frivolous curtsey. "King Éomer, your comments are handsome as yourself! I am fortunate to be the recipient of such flattery tonight!"
He took her hand as they straightened, kissing her knuckles, and lingering, as he grinned down at her.
"Better," Éomer said with approval. "I am happy to see you smiling again."
Now she really did lean her head against his arm as they continued onward and eastward, to the jutting point of stone which overlooked the city and the plains below, and the mountains far beyond. It was quiet here; no guards, and not a shred of proof that there were festivities in the citadel. Only the moon shone down on them, and the breeze whipped by peacefully.
Éomer's arm had slipped around her waist, holding her close as they paused at the furthest point. Lothíriel did not wish to return; she was feeling too warm, too reassured by his presence to return to Merethrond. It seemed simply too hostile; she did not wish to be questioned, to be scorned, to be resented for supposedly stealing the King of Rohan away from the eligible ladies…
"I missed you," Lothíriel said in a murmur, without thinking. "These last days, I mean. Like you said a few nights ago; have grown too accustomed to each other's presence. I…do not wish you to leave tomorrow."
There was a deep chuckle in his chest. "Shall I stay with you forever, then?" Éomer asked. "I might not object, but others would—not least your father, for having another mouth to feed."
"Father would not mind," she said with a laugh. "He likes you too well."
"How comforting! But what of Rohan? Shall I send Éowyn back as queen?"
"Well—I can hardly comment on that," Lothíriel admitted. "But Faramir might resent it; he has every intention of making her his princess, you know."
"Oh, I know. Perhaps all the more reason or me to stay here with you—I have no other family in Rohan." His words were a bit wistful, likely more so than he intended. She pulled away from him slightly, offering a smile upwards.
"You will in time, I am certain of it. And you may visit us here as often as you wish; for soon we shall be your family."
"Oh!" Éomer said, and he laughed suddenly. "I had not thought of that—you will be my cousin! How very odd."
"Indeed." But Lothíriel did not much care for the thought, and she could offer no further response. After a moment Éomer turned her to face him, his eyes filled with smoldering fire and his brows creased with concern.
"You are troubled," he stated.
"But it is not your trouble," Lothíriel said gently. "And anyway, considering that this feast is in your honor—and that I have worked very hard to arrange it—you should probably return."
"I do not wish to return. I want to be here, with you."
Her heart thrilled at his soft words. Oh, goodness—his hands were warm on her back, drawing her nearer, and she gazed up at him feeling a hundred feelings in her breast which could not be differentiated. His eyes glowed, there was no smile—but his expression made her feel warmer than a thousand suns as he leaned down towards her.
"Éomer…there is no one around," Lothíriel managed to whisper.
"Good," was all the response he gave, and then he kissed her.
Her knees gave way, but his strong arms caught her about the waist just in time. Her fingers dug into his tunic, trying to steady herself, but mostly feeling the strength of his broad chest and the rapid beating his heart. A pace which hers was matching, she was sure. Though they had kissed many a time before, this one was different—the heat and tingles and exhilaration were all the time, but now there was a tugging in her breast, and an insatiable yearning in her body—
Eventually he pulled away, his arms tense around her as he drew in a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open, staring up at him.
"Lothíriel…" he murmured, and his nose nuzzled against hers. She felt herself go limp again, but he was strong as ever. "Lothíriel," Éomer said again. "I…I do regret bringing you into this."
He what?
She found her footing, pulling away from him as she felt her heart hardened and steel within her. "You regret this," she repeated stupidly.
"Well—yes."
Lothíriel released him, her chin lifting high as she gazed steadily at him. Éomer's expression was nothing short of confused, but there was a tick in his jaw.
"That is unfortunate," she said. "For I do not regret it at all! Even if my heart is broken for the remainder of my life, I cannot ever regret you." And with her eyes burning anew with even more shameful tears, Lothíriel picked up her skirt, and began to walk briskly back towards the Citadel.
Éomer called her name after her, saying something she could not hear—for her ears were ringing as a sob racked her body, and she ran.