7 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Éomer chased Lothíriel as far as the silver fountain, but she was too quick and he too startled. And the sight of a lovely lady, both daughter of a beloved prince and in clear distress, did not endear him to the guards of the fountain. Despite his rank, he was sternly stopped and questioned, and Lothíriel was able to disappear.

He was allowed to return to Merethrond at last, and his eyes wildly searched the crowd for his princess. No luck—and his temper wavered with anger.

How could he have been so foolish? Where had his wits gone, that he somehow thought it prudent to tell the woman he loved that he regretted her? Not that he had meant to convey the sentiments which she had understood, but neither had he been quick enough to explain himself to her. Éomer merely wished they had begun differently than embroiled in deception! Then he might prove to her his constancy, his devotion, and his sincerity. He had lost Lothíriel, and it was of his own making.

Really, it could not have gone more badly.

Éomer deduced that Lothíriel must have fled, for she could not be found anywhere. But Éowyn could, and when she was left alone for a moment as Faramir was dragged aside for some business or another, Éomer approached her with his temper barely in check.

"Oh! I did not expect to see you again so quickly," Éowyn said, her eyes shrewd but her words quiet. "I saw Lothíriel depart the hall not twenty minutes ago; what has happened? Have you offended her?"

"I'm hardly the only one," he growled. "Éowyn, how could you treat her so shabbily?"

His sister stiffened slightly, and she waved her fan delicately at her face. "I would ask you the same in regard to me! I did not realize that your falling in love would separate you from me so thoroughly."

Éomer's jaw twitched with withheld anger. He and Éowyn normally got along very well, but the last weeks had strained them somewhat. Her disguise, her nearly-dying, their uncle slain, and finally her turning to Faramir and him to Lothíriel had prevented any of the resolution which was so desperately needed in their relationship. Unbidden, Lothíriel's commendation of earlier that he tell Éowyn of their deception returned to him, and knowing too well his princess's keen wisdom, he let out a long breath, running his fingers through his hair.

"Éowyn," he said softly. "You have misunderstood the nature of things between Lothíriel and I."

This startled her, more than he expected, and she remained silent throughout his explanation. Putting it to words, Éomer's stomach sank as he realized his own reproachable behavior—it was no wonder Lothíriel thought so little of him! There was so much he could have done differently; not only to curb the interests of Lady Amdriel and her like, but to assure Lothíriel that his feelings were not as indifferent as she surely believed.

"Well," Éowyn said after an awkward silence, when he had finished. "I—I did not know."

"That was the point," Éomer said dryly. "No one was to know. Only Imrahil was informed."

"Imrahil?" his sister asked in surprise.

"Well, naturally—we did not wish him to think I was compromising his daughter nor trifling with her feelings."

Éowyn's lips were twitching upwards. "I can hardly believe he gave his permission," she murmured. "I am quite astonished by all of this."

"There is more yet—I truly did fall in love with her. And…I do not think she knows. Or would believe it."

A squawking laugh was quickly cut off as Éowyn held the fan to her face. Above the rim, her eyes were dancing, filled with tears of mirth as she regarded her brother. Éomer's annoyance flared.

"Well!" she said. "That is your penance for lying, then."

"You hardly have the right to judge—!"

But Éomer's angry protest was cut off by Faramir's return, and the subject was put to rest.

The remainder of the feast was bittersweet—but mostly bitter. In his newfound despair, Éomer yearned to depart early, wishing more than anything he might see Lothíriel again. Somehow, in that glittering hall, he became certain that she was his sole happiness—she had been, at least, and he was loath to depart any city where she was.

His mood must have shown, for he was little bothered by the guests. That, or the excitement of the festivities outweighed any concern for him, in whom no doubt whatsoever was expressed.

Éowyn did continue to cast him strange, alternatively perturbed and amused glances from where she was mingling, and Éomer surmised that she must be in the process of both understanding and forgiving him. That was good enough, but he needed more forgiveness than from his sister. When he was finally able to depart the Citadel after midnight, he felt awake and alert rather than exhausted, and he fell into his bed with his thoughts in hapless disorder.

He wished to marry Lothíriel, and to have her companionship and insight and affection always; this much was more than certain. It was more difficult to consider her own feelings, and whether she might be persuaded to accept him. Éomer had sensed that her heart was not indifferent to him, when he had kissed her that night… Could she forgive him his blundering? He believed so; never once had he sensed that she had a propensity towards holding grudges—even her treatment of the indomitable Lady Amdriel had always been amusedly courteous, not spiteful.

The most certain thing of all was that Éomer could not allow himself to be misunderstood, the next time he spoke to her. Even if it was two months in the future.

8 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Lothíriel sat upon the stone railing of her terrace, sore but perfectly balanced, and gazing out at the city below. It was barely after dawn; she had not slept at all for the turmoil in her heart (and the shock of Amrothos's letter, which was less important to her at present.) Were someone to ask what in Arda she was doing in such a dangerous position, she would simply say that she was enjoying fresh air. That the air of Minas Tirith was not particularly fresh would be a moot point. But if she were to be honest, she was moping, trying not to think too much about the guests which would be departing the city, likely within the hour.

A long night it had been; hours of misery and regrets and confusion and doubts, and of loving Éomer with no hope of reprieve for their sudden breach. Despite the pride which withheld her from seeking him out in the guest-wing of the Citadel to apologize, she was desperate enough to sit upon her terrace for a final glance of him as he departed the city.

She was absurd, ridiculous, and foolish. But knowing so did not ease her pain one whit.

The sun was brightening the sky at last, and Lothíriel began to grow restless before the gate from the Citadel was opened. She could hear nothing else for the distance, but her heart began to pound in her chest like a drum. She nearly stood to retreat into her chamber, but there was no need yet—it would be quite some time before she was in danger of being seen. So Lothíriel waited to hear approaching hoofbeats, watching the turn of the street from the Citadel with shallow breaths.

Oh, she was a fool! Had he not said he regretted their deception? And here she waited eagerly, just to see his handsome face one last time, despite her expecting him to find a woman of Rohan to be his queen within the next months, and yet still willing to let him into her heart and to break it if he wished…

She was fiddling with a torn seam on the end of her sleeve when the noises of approaching horses drew near. Immediately Lothíriel glanced up to see a few horses turning the corner. She swung her legs from the railing to the floor of the terrace, ready to run—

"Lothíriel?"

Oh, no! Oh, goodness. Her face flushed red—how did she know his voice so well? There were brisker hoofbeats now, and Lothíriel jumped to the floor, placing her hand on the doorframe for her escape—

"Stop! Wait!"

She paused, turning her head slowly to glance down. Éomer was dismounting from his horse below her terrace—what was he doing? His men were proceeding at a much slower pace, still coming 'round the bend. But her eyes were all for Éomer, who walked tentatively forward, gazing up at her with an unknowable expression.

"Lothíriel," he said again, and his voice was hoarse. "I—"

"I bid you safe travel, my lord," she called down primly. "I hope your journey is uneventful."

"Well, thank you, but—Béma, Lothíriel! Let me come up. I need to speak to you."

Her heart was thumping out of her chest. Feeling her face grow quite pale, Lothíriel gave a base nod and sunk back against the wall of her father's house, suddenly and completely unsure—how could she have been so stupid to be watching for him in full view! And in her dressing gown!

Instead of entering Imrahil's house through the courtyard, as she had mostly expected, Éomer instead took a deep breath and jumped, his fingers barely reaching and grasping hold of the base of her terrace. Lothíriel nearly shrieked in surprise, rushing to the railing and glancing down to ensure that he did not fall—but he was laughing at the expression on her face.

"You doubt me, miting!" He swung his long legs upwards, and within a matter of moments he was alighting the terrace railing, and standing tall next to her.

Lothíriel stared up at him. Immediately she wished she had worn a more attractive dressing-gown; this one was faded—certainly not one she wished Éomer to see. Her second thought was that he was smiling that smile she had fallen in love with, and her heart wrenched.

"Well?" she said stiffly, holding her hands awkwardly at her sides.

"I am going to miss you," he blurted.

Carefully she forced a smile upon her face, but before she could stop herself, she said, "Um, Éomer…if you, ah…if when you return in the summer, you have similar problems to your last stay in Minas Tirith…I would be willing to assist you again. If you need me."

He blinked down at her, his lovely green eyes full of confusion and hesitation. "What?" he said.

"If you need me to pretend to be your lover again, I will," Lothíriel repeated, feeling a hot flush creep up her neck.

But Éomer shook his head. "I do not want you to pretend to be my lover, Lothíriel," he said, his voice low, urgent. "Nor do I really wish you to be my cousin, if it comes to that."

"Ah—oh." It was all she could do not to show her disappointment. But she tilted her chin upwards, attempting to appear nonchalant, and likely failing.

"I want you to be my wife."

Lothíriel's heart stopped. Had he just said—no, surely not. "What?" she said in a shrill voice, and promptly blushed.

"I want you to be my wife," Éomer repeated. "I want to marry you. Today, if I could. Béma, Lothíriel! I think about you every single day! Every hour! I should not have said what I did last night, when I said I regretted bringing you into my situation...you misunderstood me!"

"I—what?"

"I meant that I regret beginning our relationship on a sham, in such a way that has somehow prevented you from thinking of me sincere. I am in earnest, Lothíriel. I knew from the moment I first kissed you in Merethrond that I wanted to marry you."

Her face was definitely hot now, and likely bright red. Distantly she could hear his men drawing rein below, muttering amongst themselves, but Éomer's eyes were boring intensely into her…how could he not know her feelings already?

"I told Éowyn the truth," he added carefully. "I told her I was in love with you and that it was no mechanism on your part, she was—confused at first, to be quite honest," Éomer said ruefully. "But in time she believed me, and has said she is not angry with you. She would tell you herself, but she is prolonging her farewells to your cousin."

Lothíriel blinked. "—Ah."

"Anyway," He appeared to relax now, and that charming grin lit up his face. "That is all I wanted to tell you. That I am sorry for misspeaking, that I do not wish to leave you so much I feel as though I might burst, that I love you desperately and want you to be my wife, my queen…I want you to be mine. Because I am already yours. I have been, for quite some time."

She let out a long, wavering breath. She could feel the tension between them now, and it hummed through her being with anticipation and heat.

"Please," he added, and his eyes were twinkling. "I forgot my manners."

"Well!" Lothíriel said at long last. "Well! Really, Éomer! All these things, and you let me go on these last days without an indication of hope. For a gold crown, I could give you a sound thrashing, I really could!"

He laughed aloud then; a sound of relief and happiness and joy, which echoed easily on her small terrace. "If you are teasing, that must mean you forgive me," Éomer said after a moment, and he lifted his hands to pick up hers, drawing her near in an embrace. Her heart leapt into her throat, she could not speak— "May I kiss you?" he asked awkwardly, pausing before the fact. "I am forgetting my manners again."

"I suppose you may; since you have asked so politely."

And he did.

Lothíriel pulled away a moment later, breathless. "Éomer," she said. "I must tell you. Amrothos has eloped with Lady Amdriel's daughter. Last night—they left a note, and everything is in an uproar."

Éomer had dipped his head and was nibbling on her ear, sending shivers up and down her spine. He murmured in her ear, quite making her knees weak, "I am not the least bit surprised, miting. But why are you telling me this now? Could it not have waited? Or are you hinting to me you wish me to cart you away and marry you?"

"Oh—oh, dear, I did not mean to imply—" Feeling hot, Lothíriel lifted his head and gave him a stern look. "I was merely telling you, Éomer. I thought you might gather some amusement from it."

"I am amused," he said, and his green eyes were twinkling. "But shame on you for gossiping! For a gold crown, I could give you a sound trashing, I really could!"

"Gossiping!" she squeaked in indignation. "It is hardly gossip; it is fact, and I shall have to endure Lady Amdriel's varying complaints and exhilarations all—" But the remainder of her sentence was to remain a mystery, for Éomer conveniently forgot his manners again and kissed her upon the lips without asking.

She did not protest.

Imrahil, bewildered by the large group of men which seemed to have congregated outside his courtyard, strode out into the sun utterly annoyed to be distracted from his morning business. But his irritation soon faded, for through the iron bars he saw that these men were Éomer's. The departing party from Rohan had evidently been delayed.

"Good morning!" Imrahil called to the captain. "Where is Éomer? I should like to farewell him properly before he leaves."

There were snickers from the men, and with a sardonic grin the captain pointed a finger upwards. Imrahil strode out a few steps from his gate, confusion growing—

The King of Rohan was kissing his daughter on her terrace and in fully plain view. But Imrahil decided he could not be annoyed; not really. It was certainly not for any deception this time, he was sure of it. The entire scene smacked of realness, or he was an oliphaunt's uncle. Even Éomer's newly-apparent sense of dramatics were not so…dramatic.

Imrahil congratulated himself on his daughter making such a match, and returned to his house whistling.