Chapter Five

To Edoras

Dunharrow, Rohan

May 1st of the year 3020 T.A.

Lothíriel rose early the next morning, just as she thought she would. She was normally an early riser, as one of her favorite things to do back home had been to watch the sunrise over the water from her balcony. Though she had been exhausted the night before, the huge tent she found herself in had been lavishly comforted with a nest of blankets and furs that served as an excellent bed. She had slept soundly the whole night through, and now she was wide awake at just before dawn.

The idea of lazing away the next three or four hours sat very unwell with her. Besides, she had an important thing to see to that needed her immediate attention. With this in mind, she got silently to her feet and quickly dressed in a dark blue gown and fastened her cloak about her shoulders. She couldn't get her hair up into a proper coil without Riana's help, so settled instead with brushing out the night's tangles and then putting it into a simple braid. The tips swung down well to her thighs. Hopefully not many would be up at this hour to catch her in her less than proper state.

Lothíriel slipped into her boots, then crept to the front of the tent. She carefully pushed the flap aside, glancing about. As she had hoped, the man her father had placed near-by to keep an extra eye on her had grown lax with so many armed and well-trained Rohirrim about, and slumped over at his post, dozing. She allowed herself a slight smirk of triumph, then she slipped out of the tent and crept away.

She never noticed the green-cloaked man on the opposite side, who had been inconspicuously kneeling in the shadows of another tent. He got silently to his feet and began tailing her. Instead Lothíriel made her way through camp, careful to avoid anyone who was awake, skirting around tents when necessary. Until, at last, she made her way to where the horses were kept.

She had worried last night over Gyldenfax, but her father would not hear of her going out to see to the mare herself, as she had done ever since the mare had been given to her. The Rohirrim who had accompanied the horse on her journey had told her that it was customary for the rider to care for his own mount in Rohan, even nobility. The chores increased the bond between horse and rider, and the stronger the bond the more loyal the horse.

And a loyal horse could well save your life one day.

The large golden mare was secured off to the side, away from most of the other horses. As soon as she sensed that Lothíriel was near, she let out an excited nicker, tugging at her restraint. The princess smiled, then hurried over. Gyldenfax nudged her soft pink nose directly into Lothíriel's hands.

"Hello my beauty," she murmured affectionately. "I missed caring for you last night. I apologize for that. Father wouldn't let me." She ran her hands down the powerful neck, smoothing down the golden fur. It was soft and clean, obviously someone had cared well for the horse. Not that she expected anything less of the Rohirrim, though it still chafed her to have the chore done by someone else.

Lothíriel continued to pet the mare, smiling when she nudged at her skirts. Usually she would bring a treat in the mornings, though there were none at hand now. She sighed, reaching up to smooth away the forelock of white hair out of Gyldenfax's eyes.

"I am sorry if I scared you yesterday," she murmured. "I scared myself a little. I would never have forgiven myself if you'd been hurt. Something tells me you would not have forgiven yourself either."

At this, Gyldenfax suddenly dropped her head and almost seemed to nod, making Lothíriel smile wider. It was the reason she tended to carry on conversations with the mare, despite her brothers' teasing. At times such as these, it was almost as if Gyldenfax could actually understand her.

After a moment Gyldenfax let out another nicker, this one louder, almost plaintive. Surprisingly she was answered by another from behind her, a louder whinny. Lothíriel turned and laughed when she saw the King's stallion, Firefoot. The great dapple gray was posturing—no doubt for Gyldenfax's benefit—tossing his head and pawing the earth.

"Taken a fancy to him, have you?" she murmured teasingly, rubbing her mare's nose. "He is a handsome brute, I will give you that."

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

Lothíriel whirled around with a sharp gasp, and her eyes widened in dread at the sight of Eomer standing near by. He was dressed in a simple pair of dull brown breeches and a white under tunic, untucked and half undone from the neck as if he had dressed in haste or not given much care to the chore. What concerned her most was that the monstrous breadth of his powerful shoulders and barrel-wide chest had not been from the armor, as she had half-hoped. The bronzed ridges of muscle she could glimpse now were apparently all his own. His golden hair fell in a curly tangle down around his face and over one shoulder, completely loose now and tugged slightly by the stiff breeze that suddenly washed over them.

Lothíriel gulped, uncertain. Eomer's expression now was neutral, and she could tell nothing of his mood from it or the tone of his voice, which had been carefully flat.

"I distinctly recall telling you to stay abed this morning," he continued. His voice remained controlled, but there was just something in the way he was looking at her that somehow told her he was teasing her. She frowned, instantly nettled by his presumptions.

"And I distinctly recall that you are not my husband yet, Eomer King," she snapped back, then nearly swallowed her tongue. Her eyes widened for a split instant of cold terror. Where in all the holy places of the world had that just come from!

Yet, instead of take offense, her words caused a broad grin to suddenly twist his features and Eomer threw his head back for a loud bark of laughter.

"I-I . . . I am sorry," she started, but he waved her down. Instead he came nearer, still smiling.

"Do not apologize for that refreshing flash of temper. You are right, I overstep myself. Nowadays Eowyn is the only one who dares to tell me so. I am glad you do not feel too intimidated by my title. Yet . . . I am sure that your father must have given you similar instruction," he heaved craftily as he came to a stop next to the wooden post the horses were tethered to. He leaned his hip against it, crossed his arms and gave her a look beneath his raised brow that made her want to squirm like an errant child. "What could possibly be so important you would risk such censure, from me and your father?"

"I was worried about Gyldenfax," she revealed reluctantly on the tail end of a sigh. "That and I have always been an early riser, and staying in bed for no other reason than to be idle does not sit well with me. I feel perfectly fine," she assured when he would have said something else. She hesitated, then, "I assure you, I am not made of glass, my lord. I will not shatter at the first hint of strain."

"Indeed," was his reply after a moment, and that strangely thrilling rasp had come back in his voice. Lothíriel found herself blushing, not knowing why, and looking away again.

They were interrupted by another loud proclamation from Firefoot. Eomer laughed.

"It seems he's a little desperate for attention," Lothíriel chuckled when they both turned to the larger stallion. Eomer nodded.

"He became infatuated with Gyldenfax last winter, and wouldn't even look at me for weeks after I sent her away," the King revealed with a boyish grin. "It appears as though he's eager to make up for lost ground." He shook his head then, heaving a pained sigh. "Have some dignity, man," he snapped out when Firefoot started to rear back, striking a pompous pose for Gyldenfax's dubiously snorting benefit. "You're acting no better than a love-struck yearling."

Lothíriel could only laugh.

"They would make a fine foal, I should think," she ventured after a moment, taking pity on the stallion. He nodded.

"I had thought of it. We shall see. Perhaps next year, or the year after. It wouldn't be fair to lose your mare to foaling just after you got her."

Lothíriel started to say that she didn't mind, but was interrupted by a new voice.

"Ah, what a fine morning this is."

They both turned to see Faramir loping toward them, hands behind his back and an unrepentant smirk on his face. Lothíriel groaned inwardly. When her cousin was wearing that particular expression he was feeling especially devious. Eomer didn't look too particularly pleased to see the Prince of Ithilien either, if his dark glower was to be any indication. Yet Faramir seemed completely oblivious to either of them.

"It is good to see you up and about, cousin," he announced pleasantly, bending down to place a kiss on the curve of her cheek. Lothíriel blinked, somewhat taken aback. Faramir had not greeted her so familiarly in many years. It wasn't that she was upset by it, more confused, wondering why he would choose to do so now.

Lothíriel completely missed Eomer's reaction to it, which was to let a fierce scowl blacken his features for an instant, which might have shed some light on the reasons.

"You might want to make your way back to your tent," Faramir advised pleasantly. "Your father and brothers will not be far behind me. I doubt they will find this impromptu outing as humorous as I do."

Lothíriel blanched. She would rather not be caught outside by her father if she could help it, in no mood for a lecture. Therefore she bade both men a hasty goodbye, then hurried back the way she had come.

"It seems Firefoot is not the only one posturing and preening," Faramir observed with a grin as soon as the princess was out of ear-shot.

Eomer gave his sister's husband a scowl that was largely wasted, as it was no doubt impossible for any man to appear intimidating while their face heated with guilty embarrassment.

Truthfully he did feel a little like Firefoot. Twisted up with wanting and more than a little unsettled by it. Yesterday upon their first meeting, he had recognized that Lothíriel was female and not displeasing to his eye, but that had been about all. In fact he had put more than one passing thought to her tiny body and wondered if he could come to see her as more than a child in his eyes.

Then the disaster under the mountain had occurred, and he had ridden for a number of hours with her tiny body cuddled up and practically wrapped around his own. This had led to the discovery that, while small in stature and slender in build, his future wife was very much not a child. Her curves were like the rest of her—delicate, but most certainly there. Yet that still hadn't proven a problem . . . until he woke her up.

She'd balked at first, letting out the sweetest little kittenish murmur of protest and burying her face deeper into his chest. Grinning at the adorableness of it, he'd leaned down to speak in her ear, so he wouldn't be overheard by the others around him. Lothíriel had finally stirred at that, murmuring again and slowly turning her face up to his. She had stared up at him uncomprehending for several moments, her huge eyes heavy-lidded and misty with sleep, full lips parted and now only inches from his. Eomer had been momentarily stunned by the fierce jolt of awareness that had shot through his every pore. Hot need pooled in low after it.

Lucky for him, she was too innocent to recognize what it was he was thinking or feeling. That it had only been the twenty or so eyes watching them that kept the King of Rohan from bending his head to close those precious few inches between them and find out just what his little bride would taste like. His discomfit had only increased as she wriggled and writhed in his grip, naive to the fact that her hip was tucked into his groin and that every little move she made was an erotic torture that soon had him in a cold sweat.

To hear her ill-hidden excitement and delight at her first glimpse of the Mark had only worsened his sudden need. The knowledge that his little bride could speak and write more languages than the whole of the royal court in Meduseld did nothing to dampen his mounting desire either. Indeed, by the time he'd deposited her in front of her father, Eomer was twisted up so hard into a knot of raging lust he could barely walk. He had been very glad for the heavy mail he wore, else he'd have died of shame.

His sleep last night had been a long time in coming, and fitful by the time it did arrive. Only to be awoken by one of his Éored at dawn, informing him that Lothíriel had just snuck out of her tent and was making her way toward the horses. Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, for a moment he had been seized with fear. What if she thought to flee him? Did he repulse her that much?

Eomer had stormed out of his pavilion barely dressed, and practically ran to the ropes. Yet he didn't find his future wife trying to mount her mare and slip off into the morning fog. Instead he found her standing at Gyldenfax's side, petting the Mearas and . . . talking to her. Eomer stood silent, unseen, and watched as she spoke to the horse, utterly entranced. And her inky black hair—Béma preserve him—was only secured in a simple plait that fell down her back, the tips swinging down well to the backs of her thighs. The young King found himself consumed with a sudden, fierce desire to release that binding and see those inky tendrils completely loose and wanton. To see them spread out around her on his bedfurs in the Golden Hall . . . .

Needless to say, he was now just as hard and uncomfortable as he had been last night. And something told him Faramir knew it, curse and rot the man. He was far too clever for his own good.

"It would sadden me to have to widow my sister so soon after becoming a wife, Prince of Ithilien," he ground out, tone rough. Faramir's grin only widened.

"Would it indeed? Well, there's a comforting thought. I must profess; it would sadden me as well." Eomer started to snap then that he had best shut his mouth, yet he didn't and what Faramir said next had the young King of Rohan gaping like an idiot. "I would hate to leave this world before getting the chance to see my first child born."

Eomer just stared, blinking, and Faramir's mock-serious expression melted into a deep chuckle at the sight of his stupor.

"Eowyn . . . she is . . . ?"

"At least three months along," Faramir confirmed with a nod. His blue eyes twinkled with humor. "But you mustn't say a word. She has been trying to keep it a secret from everyone, including me. I think she wants to make a surprise announcement once we reach Edoras. So you will have to give me your word that you will act astonished when she does reveal it," Faramir demanded then, his tone suddenly serious. "I would not have her surprise ruined."

It struck Eomer then, just how very much this man loved his sister. Faramir was a sometimes frighteningly astute man, no doubt he had figured that Eomer would end up discovering Eowyn's little secret ere they reached Meduseld. He had already guessed that she was hiding something after all, just not what. Now Faramir was trying to ensure that, if not a complete secret by the time she finally revealed it, Eowyn would still get the reaction she craved. Eomer just shook his head with a grin.

"I shall save my congratulations then, until my exasperating sister decides to reveal that she's breeding Ithilien's heir." He laughed then, and Faramir joined him. "Only Eowyn would have the audacity to keep something so momentous a secret from one and all, including the babe's father."

Eomer stepped over to his restless stallion then, and set about calming the poor lad. Faramir accompanied him, and sighed at his words.

"I do not think she even suspected the truth herself until a few weeks ago. I only guessed it due to her odd sickness, purging her food at all hours of the day for no reason at all and then be perfectly fine afterward. That, and the naps." Eomer glanced at him with a lifted brow and Faramir nodded with a grin. "She has started to take naps in the afternoon. And my little warrior is not one to idly sleep away the hours of the day."

"True enough," Eomer agreed with a chuckle. He settled Firefoot with a few chunks of apple and some murmured words in Rohirric. Then he moved to treat Gyldenfax with the same, his voice softer and more gentle than the one he'd used with his own stallion. The pretty mare nickered softly in return, gently nuzzling his face, while he ran his hands down her powerful neck. Faramir was silent at his side for several moments, then,

"It would seem you have taken to our little Lothí." Eomer shot him a glare, but Faramir raised his hand. "I do not tease you, my friend. I only seek to know your true feelings on the matter. Lothíriel is very precious to me. We have always been close, ever since early childhood. Out of everything she might claim for herself, her only thought is to please you and your people, and to not become a disappointment to her father. She thinks nothing of her own happiness."

Unaware of just what it was he was revealing to the clever Prince, Eomer turned suddenly with a fierce frown.

"You do not think she will be happy in the Mark?" he demanded. "Has she professed any doubts to you?" Faramir kept his expression carefully neutral.

"Why would they matter? The betrothal is sealed, you are all but wed."

Eomer scowled. "If she is unhappy with the match, I will not go through with the ceremony," he announced in a growl. "I will return every kernel of grain her father sent me and they can march right back to the sea. I will not marry an unwilling woman."

Faramir hesitated a moment, then, "you sound especially fierce, my friend. Why is that?"

Eomer glanced off to the side for a moment, and when he finally turned back, the Prince of Ithilien was slightly taken aback by the ravaged expression on the young King's face.

"When I was a still a boy, I watched as my mother slowly withered away and died of sorrow after my father was cut down by Orcs," he heaved, tone hoarse. "And then I watched my sister—weighted down by her grief for our parents and our enfeebled uncle—start to withdraw from the world around her. In the Houses of Healing she very nearly died of that same gnawing despair that took our mother." His voice was shaking with resolve at the end. "I will not sit idly by and watch a third!"

Lothíriel didn't manage to sneak back into her tent unscathed, unfortunately. Elphir was waiting for her inside, his expression extremely disapproving. She sighed heavily, but refused to hang her head as she might have done in her youth. Instead she glided back inside and struggled to maintain her mask of cool indifference.

"You must be more careful, sister," he announced sternly after a moment.

"Careful of what?"

"Of your reputation," he snapped back at her airy disregard. She blinked, turning to him in surprise, and he scowled down at her in return. "You represent our entire fief, Lothíriel. Anything you do will reflect back upon us. You must remember that."

"Elphir, I haven't done anything wrong," she protested, but her eldest brother shook his head.

"You may be betrothed, but you are not married yet," he inserted sternly. "You have to maintain a level of distance until after the wedding. Else people will start to talk. You don't want your new subjects getting the wrong idea about you."

Lothíriel blanched, eyes wide. She bit her lip in sudden worry. Had her behavior really been so bad? Were the Éored speaking ill of her behind her back? She winced, as she realized that in Gondor her behavior would have been seen as utterly scandalous at the very least, completely shameful at worst. Elphir sighed then at her aghast look, and reached out to grip her shoulder comfortingly.

"I am only trying to look out for you, Lothí," he murmured. "I know it can be hard, and you would certainly wish to get to know the King more personally before you are wed. I understand that. To do so however will be seen as . . . highly irregular. You must try very hard to conduct yourself more properly for the rest of the journey, and especially once we reach Edoras. In these coming weeks you will be under the very close eye of the full court of Meduseld, and eventually the King and Queen of Gondor themselves. Such close scrutiny can have very strong and lasting effects. Please remember that."

Subdued, Lothíriel nodded, eyes falling away.

"You are right, Elphir," she murmured softly. "I am sorry if I have shamed you or father. I . . . I will try to act more properly from now on."

Suddenly Elphir's hand was beneath her chin, lifting her eyes from the floor. She was graced with one of his rare smiles then, his silver eyes darkening to a soft pewter.

"I know you will," he murmured. "I know." He leaned down and planted a gentle kiss to her brow, quirked her chin, then turned away.

Elphir ducked out of the tent then, completely missing his sister's very troubled and anxious stare at his back.