Disclaimer: Don't own them. Wish I did, but I don't. Ah, well.

Author's note: I was aiming to update before Christmas, but events outside my control saw to it that I didn't finish the chapter. And since we can no longer reply to reviews in the updates I won't be able to reply to those who reviewed anonymously. But I appreciate all reviews, so don't stop with that! Thanks to all of you!

Things Worth Fighting For

Chapter 19

19 days after leaving Minas Tirith, Éomer once again gazed upon the proud city of Edoras, his home, the capital of the country of which he was now king. He was impatient to see Meduseld again, yet not for the reasons one might think. He simply wished to get away from the other people travelling with him in the funeral escort. Ever since the feast Gimli had been avoiding him and sending him strange looks, however Éomer did not think Gimli had told anyone of their little talk. Although he had his doubts that the conversation had gone unnoticed by some, in particular Aragorn and Legolas, but he had a feeling that also Éothain had heard of it, though none of them had mentioned anything.

Also travelling with them was Lothíriel, accompanying her father to Rohan to represent the royal family of Dol Amroth. Of Prince Imrahil's family only his daughter and youngest son had accompanied them, but of course to Éomer's great irritation both Lord Talon and his younger brother, Arlos, was part of Imrahil's company. It was getting harder and harder to look upon Lothíriel and not being able to talk to her or touch her. It had become hard to be near her, yet so far away. He had successfully avoided her since their encounter in the garden at the feast, but he could not say it was an easy task. Everywhere he looked he was somehow reminded of her. Sometimes he found her watching him. There were even times Éothain had mentioned her name, a few of those times just pointing out what a fool Éomer was for not fighting for her. Éomer could not disagree, but he was hardly going to admit to anyone, not even himself, that his friend was correct.

To add to the list of people Éomer had tried to avoid since their departure from the White City was Imrahil himself. Discussing political matters were one thing, but whenever he was in the company of the Prince he was in danger of showing too many feelings when the name of Lothíriel was mentioned.

It was not only to get away from certain people that Éomer was eager to return to Edoras. It was his home, and he was sick and tired of travelling between Gondor and Rohan. Gondor had many attributes to be certain, but Éomer didn't feel particularly comfortable in large cities of stone. Minas Tirith was a magnificent city, marvellous and held a beauty like no other city Éomer had ever seen, but he much preferred the simple beauty of Edoras. The capital of Rohan was much less formal than the capital of Gondor. The poor lived side by side with the rich, and those minor differences didn't matter.

What Éomer had noticed when he was in Edoras to prepare for his uncle's funeral was how every citizen of his city seemed to help each other. They were lacking enough food to feed the people, for not to mention all those who had taken refugee there, but those who had food had always given it to those who had none. They shared it, so that none would go hungry for a long period of time.

"It is good to be back, wouldn't you say?"

Éomer looked to his right and saw Éothain having ridden up next to him on the small hill, looking at the city with a look which must have resembled the one he wore a few moments before.

Éomer gave his friend half a smile. "Éothain, once my foot touched the soil of Rohan the very day we crossed the border, I promised myself to never leave this country again. Unless there is a very good reason for doing so, of course," he added, just so he would not have to break his own word whenever Aragorn called upon him or he wished to visit his sister once she was wed.

Éothain laughed. "Well, my friend, let's hope that after a long time of travel, we will always be able to return to gaze upon this beautiful sight," he gestured to the city.

"Then speak no more of the beauty of Edoras, my friend, for we shall ride and be in the city before the sun has travelled any lower on the sky."

And the two of them rode, followed by the escort of Théoden King, and the Rohirrim broke into song, even those who were wounded in the battle and were now forced to ride in wagons, when they came closer to Edoras, the heart of Rohan.

Nine mounds, nine kings. Seven more mounds, seven more kings. All the kings from Eorl to Thengel lay here and now Théoden King would rest with them, in the mound which was added to the line where the seven kings rested. It was with a heavy heart that Éomer realised that upon his own death, a new line would be started, and there he would rest alone until the day his own son died and was buried in a mound next to his, all mounds covered with simbelmynë, white as the whitest snow.

Éomer let his gaze travel over the mounds where his forefathers rested. In his mind he pictured Eorl the Young leading his people from the north and to this land which would be the home of the Éothéod, the people who would be known as the Rohirrim or the Eorlingas, as they called themselves. He thought of Brego who built the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and of Helm Hammerhand, the last king of the first line, and of all the other kings of Rohan, and wondered if he would ever live up to their expectations.

There was now eight mounds on the east side of the Barrowfield. Riders of the King's House rode round about the barrow on white horses, and they sang a song of Théoden, made by his minstrel who made no other song after.

The slow voices of the Riders stirred the hearts even of those who did not know the speech of the Rohirrim, but the words of the song brought a light to the eyes of the folk of the Mark as they heard again afar the thunder of hooves of the North and the voice of Eorl crying above the battle upon the Field of Celebrant; and the tale of the kings rolled on.

And even as the voices of the Riders died away, the song did not end. Éomer and Éowyn, brother and sister, nephew and niece of the King, sang of the man they both had loved as a father, as he rode through the shadow to the fire, and died there on the Field of Pelennor, the sun again returning, gleaming upon the Mindolluin in the morning. And if the singing of the Riders stirred the hearts of all who heard; the singing of Théoden's niece and nephew touched the very soul of every person present, bringing forth a few tears from people grieving the death of their King.

The Golden Hall had never seen such a feast since the days of its building as the funeral feast of Théoden King. Not only was the people of Rohan well represented among the nobility, not that it were all that many nobles in Rohan, and soldiers, farmers and common-folks, but the hall was filled with nobility and royalty of Gondor and Dol Amroth, and Elves of Rivendell and Lothlórien, for not to mention the Elf Legolas of Mirkwood, which was now called Eryn Lasgalen the Wood of Greenleeaves, and the Dwarf Gimli of the Lonely Mountains, and the four Hobbits of the Shire.

The Princess of Dol Amroth sat on a bench by the wall, hiding, though she was not willing to admit it. Talon had been looking at her all night and it made her sick. What she truly wanted was to be wrapped in the arms of the man she loved, although this seemed naught more than a dream. He could not stand the sight of her, and she was to be another man's wife. It was truly hopeless.

"Lothíriel!" Éowyn came to her across the hall, a bright smile upon her lovely face.

"Éowyn," Lothíriel smiled. "What is it with that smile? It seems like Faramir has just promised you the moon and the stars."

The White Lady smiled dreamingly in response. "Were it possible to give someone the moon and the stars I am quite sure Faramir would have done so. But no, Faramir has made me no such promise."

"Then what is it that keeps you smiling so?" the Princess asked the woman she now considered a friend.

"My brother," Éowyn answered, smiling even brighter if possible. "Éomer just informed me he wishes to make my betrothal to Faramir official, before the end of the feast. I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, this is wonderful, Éowyn," Lothíriel smiled brightly and took her hands. "Soon I will have a new cousin." The two friends laughed together.

It was not long before Éomer appeared once again in the hall, and after a short conversation with Aragorn he rose. "Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden King," he said, "but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father of Éowyn my sister. Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing." As he spoke his gaze had travelled to Lothíriel. She stood with her brother, looking as beautiful as ever, but he could see a well hidden sorrow within her. Her heart was breaking. His was as well, and deep within he hoped their hearts were breaking for the same reason. He ripped his eyes away, and instead looked at his sister, who was sitting near him, unshed tears of happiness glittering in her eyes and a wonderful smile grazing her lips, and to Éomer his beloved sister had never seemed happier. He smiled gently as he nodded for her to stand next to him. "Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all," he finished and nodded to Faramir, who then came to them and Éomer put his sister's hand in Faramir's. Faramir bowed his head in gratitude, but his eyes never left his betrothed's. Éomer took a step back.

"Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn!" someone called out, Gamling most likely, and all there drank to them and were glad.

"Thus is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice," Éomer said.

"No niggard are you, Éomer," Aragorn said with a smile, "to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!"

"As if I truly have a choice!" Éomer exclaimed in mock horror, taking his seat next to his fellow monarch. "This is the only way I can protect myself from the harm that would have been inflicted upon me." This said in total seriousness.

"Faramir has not threatened you with harm?" Imrahil asked horrified, looking at his nephew who was seated between Aragorn and Éowyn.

"Faramir? No of course not. I was talking about Éowyn."

The feast was over and Éowyn wanted to speak with her brother before she went to bed, and she saw him standing near the doors. His eyes were intense, dark with some emotion she could not immediately identify. She followed his line of sight and was surprised when she saw Lothíriel with her friend Valinea, being escorted out of the Hall by Lothíriel's brother.

Éowyn looked back at her brother, surprised at what she saw in his eyes; desire. Yet she saw something deeper, something darker lurking beneath the surface. The minute the Princess disappeared from sight, Éomer's expression changed. He seemed sad, defeated, as if there was no hope left for him. He carried a heavy burden upon his shoulders; a burden which should never have been his to bear. But was it the burden of kinship that made him seem so defeated or was it something else?

Éowyn was asking herself this question when she snapped back to reality by the doors closing suddenly. Swiftly she crossed the room, opening the doors and seeing Éomer walking down the path, unaware of her following him. He went round a corner and she lost sight of him, but that did not concern her. It was only one place that path would lead him, and that was not to the old seamstress Borghild that lived in a small house at the end of that path. With absolute certainty of where her brother had wandered off to, Éowyn hurried down to the stables.

She found him in Firefoot's stall, his back towards her, speaking softly to the stallion.

"It would be so bloody simple to run my sword through him, but I'm no mere soldier anymore. I am a king, and I doubt that causing war between the Mark and Gondor will be a very noble act."

"I hope it is not my betrothed you are planning to run through, for then you would not only have a war with Gondor on your hands," Éowyn said, hands resting on her hips.

"Éowyn!" he whipped round in surprise, staring at her. "I did not hear you."

"No, that is obvious. You would not have been plotting with your horse to go to war with Gondor if you knew I was here," Éowyn said. "And who are you planning to run your sword through?"

"No one," Éomer answered, grabbing a brush and turning back to Firefoot.

Her brother could be a very difficult person to deal with, that she knew of experience. His temper could flare up in a matter of seconds, and she was now treading on very dangerous ground. She walked round the stall, but she did not go in. Firefoot usually tolerated her with Éomer nearby, but it was no telling what that horse would do if she in any way upset his master. Firefoot's temper was much alike Éomer's, and even the stable boys steered clear of him. He only tolerated being handled by Éomer, and Éowyn knew that her brother stood up early in the morning only to save the stable boys form being beaten to death by Firefoot's hooves.

She looked directly into Éomer's face, although he was not looking at her, keeping himself busy by brushing Firefoot. "I saw you watching Princess Lothíriel tonight." Éowyn, just as her brother, was outspoken and didn't waste her breath on needless words.

Éomer stiffened for a split second, but didn't look at her. "So what if I did?"

"Brother, she is to be another man's wife. She is not for other men to desire, not even a king."

It took all of Éomer's self-control to keep from hitting her. Beside him Firefoot stiffened, sensing his master's anger. "Careful with your words, Éowyn, for you know naught of what you speak!"

Éowyn did not back down. "I saw you, Éomer. I saw your desire when you looked at her. She is no wench you can take to your bed and forget the next morning. She is a Princess and she is to wed a nobleman of Gondor. You cannot have her."

"I know bloody well she is no wench! And I couldn't care less who she weds. Let her be a peasant's wife if she so wishes, it is of no consequence to me."

"Then why are you so angry?" Éowyn asked.

"I am not angry!" Éomer roared. Firefoot took an aggressive step forward, and Éowyn raised a brow at her brother. "I am not angry, Éowyn," Éomer growled.

"Why am I not convinced?"

"Éowyn, back off. This does not concern you," Éomer said warningly.

Éowyn stared at her brother, searching his face for any evidence that she was mistaken. But she knew she was not. She knew with absolute certainty that she was right. "You love her."

"What?" Éomer was totally unprepared for that statement, and could only stare at his sister in shock.

"You do, don't you?" Éomer didn't answer, but then again he didn't need to. Éowyn could see in his face all she needed to see. "Éomer, she cannot be yours."

"I know that!" Éomer almost shouted, stepping out of Firefoot's stall, towering over his sister, barely containing his temper. "I don't care, Éowyn!"

"Do not lie to me, Éomer, son of Éomund!" Éowyn shot back. "You love her, and you care, but you must let her go. She is promised to Lord Talon."

"He doesn't deserve her!" Éomer shouted. "He is naught but a manipulative fool! He weds her because her father is a prince."

"Perhaps so, but still she is his to wed," Éowyn said. "You must let her go."

"You know nothing of this, Éowyn. Nothing!" he turned away, not looking at her.

"Then tell me," she pleaded, taking his arm.

He shook his head. "No," he said in a whisper.

"Éomer, it's tearing you apart. Now I know you would never allow yourself to fall for a woman you have just met, yet you love her as much as I love Faramir. Do not deny this; I've seen it in your eyes. Tell me."

Éomer shook his head, leaning against the wall. "I can't." His voice cracked and he sank to the floor.

"Éomer, I only want to help," she said, kneeling next to him. Her heart was breaking of seeing him like this. Her strong and proud brother, her hero, was looking like a lost child, sagged against the wall.

"I shouldn't have let myself fall for her. It was foolish. We were at war, and I should never have let her ride with us." And he told her everything. He told her of when he discovered her to be a woman, of how she rode with them to Helm's Deep and Gondor, how she had captured his heart, although still he could not understand how that had happened, and he told her how he'd lost her.

"I was a fool, Éowyn. I was a fool to fall for her."

Éowyn shook her head, wiping tears off her face. "You are a fool if you let her go," she declared. "Fight for her, Éomer. Steal her away, kill Talon, go to war with Gondor, I don't care. Just don't let her go."

Éomer shook his head. "It's too late for that."

"No, it's not," his sister protested. "You deserve to be happy, Éomer. No one deserves it more than you. And it is obvious that Lothíriel do not love Talon. It was probably a match arranged by her father. Talk to her and talk to Imrahil. Perhaps you can convince him to free her of that snake of a man."

"I don't know."

"Do not give up," Éowyn said. "I won't let you."

Lothíriel was up before dawn the next morning, unable to return to sleep after awakening from a nightmare. She'd dreamt about her wedding day. The sky was dark and soon it would start raining; yet the wedding was on the beach. She was wearing a black dress, and a veil was hiding her face. She walked down the path of stone, clutching Elphir's arm hard. Talon was waiting for her. Suddenly it started raining. It was like a sign from the Valar. A bad sign.

Lothíriel shuddered, drawing her cloak closer around her as she thought about what had happened next in her dream. She had stood next to Talon, her face blank, all feelings hidden deep underneath an exterior of ice. He looked at her, smiling, knowing that he now had her in his full control. And suddenly Éomer had been there, sword drawn and charging at Talon. The man had simply smirked, and a few seconds later Éomer was lying dead on the ground, an arrow standing out of his chest, his open motionless eyes staring right at her. She'd screamed and bolted upright in bed. After that sleep had eluded her, and if her dreams were to be like this one she'd rather not sleep at all.

She walked down the corridor and into the Golden Hall, still thinking about the nightmare, when someone grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows. Before she could even scream, a large hand covered her mouth.

"I want to talk to you."

She recognized the voice immediately, and when the iron grip on her arm lessened and the hand disappeared from her mouth, she spun around and stared into the face of the person she'd last expected to see.

"Éomer!" she gasped in surprise.

"Hush!" he looked around, to ensure that no one else was nearby. His dark eyes shifted to her again. "Come with me." And she of course followed.

He led her to a backdoor leading to the overgrown garden behind Meduseld. Queen Morwen of Lossarnach, wife of King Thengel, had made it, but to Éomer's knowledge the garden had not been tended since the death of Queen Elfhild, Théoden's wife. So now it looked as wild and dark as the Fangorn forest.

"Why have you taken me here?" Lothíriel asked, coming to a halt.

Éomer turned and looked at her, staring at her strangely. "Bema, I have been such a fool," he said quietly.

He touched her face with his fingertips, but she brushed his hand away. "Do not play games with me, Éomer," Lothíriel said.

"I'm not playing with you, Lothíriel."

She snorted and shook her head in disbelief. "Why should I believe that?" she asked. "You've pushed me away for months, unwilling to hear me speak a word of apology and now all suddenly has changed?"

"I don't play with the feelings of other people," Éomer insisted, a bit harshly.

"But I do?"

He snorted. "Well, you've certainly messed around with my mind more times than I can count."

"That is not fair. I never meant to hurt you, nor did I keep the truth from you with the intent to hurt you."

"I know," Éomer said quietly. "Nor was it ever my intention to hurt you."

"Yet we both hurt each other, didn't we?" Lothíriel asked. "But where do we go from here? How can we continue with Talon always in the shadows?"

"We'll just have to get rid of him."

"How?" Lothíriel asked in a disbelieving manner, crossing her arms.

"I'll think about that later," Éomer said.

"Why continue down a path of futile hopes? My father will not dishonour Talon or his father by breaking the marriage contract. And how can you trust me after what I've done? How can I trust that your love for me is true when you have already claimed many times that you don't love me any longer?"

Before Lothíriel realized what was happening she was pressed against Éomer's hard chest, her lips captured in a slow kiss. His lips briefly passing hers, teasing her, making her beg for more yet she said not a word. She didn't have to. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. He deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding her lips to part and she gladly complied. His hands found their way to her head, her back, moving from her shoulders to her hips, his touch like fire to her skin. She moaned, pressing herself against him, her hand moving to his neck, the other down to his chest. When his lips released hers she gasped, filling her lungs with air as if it was something that had long been denied her.

Éomer still held her close to him, fearing she would disappear if he let her go. With one hand he brushed away her hair, exposing her slender neck, kissing her shoulder, nipping lightly on her earlobe, gently kissing her neck and placing a brief kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"Éomer," she sighed.

"I love you," Éomer said, smiling. "I don't care if your name is Farabor, Liriel or Lothíriel, and I don't care if you're promised to a farmer or a nobleman, for no man but me will have you in the end."

"I hope so," Lothíriel said, smiling back at him. Éomer captured her lips again and didn't let her go until they were both gasping for air. A while later they sat on the ground, leaning against the wall. Lothíriel sat leaning against his strong chest, and he was lovingly stroking her hair.

"Éomer."

"Mm?" he continued to stroke her hair.

"I love you too."

Trondheim: Godt å se at det er andre fra Norge på denne siden. Jeg kommer fra Nord-Norge, ikke så veldig langt fra Tromsø. Håper du følger med og liker dette kapittelet også;)

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everbody!