Chapter Seven

The Day Fast Approaches

Eomer stood out on the terrace of Meduseld five days after his return, troubled eyes staring at nowhere in particular. They drifted across the grasslands, touched on the peaks of the Misty Mountains, but his thoughts were not of them. They were instead consumed by his exasperatingly confusing betrothed and they refused to shake free of her, no matter how hard he tried.

That first day he had thought her timid, but not unapproachable. She had actually been quite pleasant company, fun to tease but not so wilting she couldn't give a little back. That is, before Faramir showed up. Then something had happened after that morning, for now she no longer seemed to show any interest in what was around her at all. Faramir had said she was eager to learn anything new, yet so far she had kept herself mostly confined to her room, only coming out at meal times and when she was directly asked. And when she did make an appearance, she was distant and cold instead of the sweetly shy and curious creature that had first drawn his eye. Imrahil and Faramir both tried to assure him when he'd asked that she was not upset or angry, yet her actions directly contradicted them.

What had happened to sour her against him? Or was her delight in the Mark at Dunharrow merely feigned, and now she could no longer hide her distaste for what was to be her new home? His advisors were growing restless with their uncertainty, questioning his decision to marry her. No one wanted to appoint a Queen who hated her country.

Yet Eomer feared he was fast approaching a point where he would have no other choice in the matter.

The King faced into the strong wind, letting it tear at his cloak and hair, bringing water to his eyes, hoping the force would tear away the frustration and anger that ate at him as well. Would that he could grow to dislike or hate her because of this behavior. He would promptly return the supplies Imrahil had given and profess that this marriage had been a mistake, then send them home with Aragorn.

Yet . . . he couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, how firmly he attempted to steel himself against her, telling himself that she had been playing him false and wanted nothing to do with him or the Mark, it wouldn't work. Lothíriel had done something to him, under the mountain. Carved out a place for herself in him, and now he couldn't seem to get her back out. Every once in a while he would glance at her and catch a glimpse of interest on her heart-shaped face, her wide blue-gray eyes lit up and fixed eagerly on some curious thing. He would begin to doubt himself all over again, and then she would go back to being cold and disinterested in everything once more.

And, damn him, but he wanted her.

Ever since he'd ridden with her on Firefoot and discovered that he could be physically attracted to such a tiny little female, it had been eating at him constantly. Thoughts of her plagued him during the day, making any councils or meetings with his subjects practically useless. And at night . . . He groaned now, raising a hand to scrub at his face. At night his dreams were haunted by visions of her, granting him little or no rest at all, his body so bound up in knots he thought he'd never come undone again. He refused to take another to his bed to ease his frustration, either. He had sworn a vow to the little princess when he had promised to wed with her, and until such time as death claimed him or they absolved that vow, he would be touching no other female. It was simply killing him, however, that he couldn't touch her.

And it was reaching a point where Eomer feared he might ignore his avowal not to put another woman through his mother and sister's hell, that he might marry her anyway despite her distaste, if just for the chance of getting her in his bed. Eomer groaned again. He sounded the worst sort of lecher, and he felt worse. Yet nothing was helping.

Eowyn had had her own suggestions, when she had noticed his despondency after the evening feast.

It had been a grander affair than usual, as King Elessar and Queen Arwen had just arrived. His impossible sister had finally decided to make her announcement that night, to everyone's overly shocked dismay and disbelief. Eomer suspected Faramir had had to have his discussion with more than just him. Yet Eowyn remained blissfully oblivious to the deception, and Eomer was truly glad for the happiness he could see in her face as she and Faramir stood to accept Aragorn's toast.

The dark-haired King of Gondor had raised his tankard and grinned.

"I have wished you joy from the first moment I saw you, Lady Eowyn," he murmured sincerely. "It does my heart well to see that you have found it. Congratulations, and may the babe you carry be blessed for all of its days."

The Queen had stood to raise her goblet as well, and Eomer had tensed at the mischievous twinkle in the normally very serene elf-maid's blue eyes.

"Indeed, the Kingdom of Gondor shall be doubly blessed, in five months time."

Eomer had gaped, as many others did around him. It had taken a moment for Aragorn to catch up. He had whirled, eyes wide, and Arwen had burst out laughing at the stupefied expression on his face. The hall had erupted into thunderous cheering, so loud it was hard to hear anything over the din. In that moment King Elessar took his Queen into his arms and lovingly confirmed her condition, then turned back to the assembly to raise another toast, near to bursting his seams with pride. The Rohirrim were more than happy to comply.

Yet afterward Eowyn had noticed that Eomer was less than delighted. His thoughts had turned dark, wondering if he married Lothíriel, would he even have a chance to sire his own children? Or would she avoid him and fight, and curse him to a cold and lonely future. His meddlesome sister would not leave it alone until he confided in her what troubled him. She had started to say something, then seemed to change her mind, and instead bade him to seek out the princess and speak to her himself.

"If you are troubled by her feelings and intentions, then ask of them. Do not sit over here in the corner brooding yourself into an early grave wondering what she is thinking. Go and find out!"

Of course, it sounded easy enough. The reality of it was far more complicated.

Wherever he turned, it seemed the fates and everyone else around him were conspiring against him. When he did manage to pry himself free of council meetings and feast preparations, he could not seem to get Lothíriel alone long enough to speak to her. What was more, she obviously was not inclined to the notion herself. It seemed she went out of her way to prevent it. So where did that leave him now? Did he marry an unwilling woman, or did he break the betrothal and send her home?

Eomer's attention was suddenly caught by the sight of three lone riders approaching the gate. One looked to be a painfully white-robed individual astride a silver horse, barebacked. The other two were notably smaller, riding ponies that struggled to keep up with Shadowfax's greater strides. Eomer smirked. Gandalf and the Hobbits had arrived. His smirk soon fell again, however, as he realized that they were the last of their guests. A huge feast would be held tonight, and tomorrow . . . he would either wed the Princess of Gondor or send her home.

Lothíriel glanced up from where she was feeding Gyldenfax an apple when the sound of hooves reached her ears. She did just in time to see a white-robed man astride a saddleless silver stallion enter in a roll of thunder. The great horse reared to a stop well away from her. The robed man sighed contentedly, patting his horse, then he suddenly peered down at her and gave a warm smile.

She returned it somewhat uncertainly, not sure who he was exactly. Her attention was taken off the bearded man when two smaller ponies rushed in after him.

"Ah, here at last," one of the small boys announced cheerily. "Just in time for elevensies."

He had curly brown hair and an elfin appearance, wearing a fine blue wool jacket and silver silk waistcoat beneath, a dark green scarf wound around his neck. His companion's curls were more strawberry blonde, wearing a dark maroon jacket and a gold waistcoat. Both had on black knee trousers, and they both had furry bare feet she suddenly realized with a gasp. Their ears were also large and pointed. They must be two of the Halflings that her brothers had told her about, not children as she'd first assumed. Hobbits of the Shire.

"They don't have elevensies here, Pip," the blonde one droned with a roll of his eyes, then he dismounted his gray pony. The one he'd called Pip got a rather disgruntled look on his face, then heaved a sad sigh and carefully got off his chestnut pony.

"No elevensies," he groaned, "no second breakfast, no dinner and supper. It's just not natural, I tell you. I'm starving, and now I'll have to wait at least three hours before the feast!"

The older man glanced down at his companions and shook his head with a sigh and a muttered, "Hobbits."

Then he dismounted his huge stallion, and she noticed then the pearly white staff he had in one hand and the sword strapped around his waist. Something about that tickled her brain, yet she still couldn't quite place it. He patted the horse again and murmured something to it she didn't catch, and then the silvery-white creature ambled right into an empty stall all on his own.

Rohirrim stable boys came to see the ponies unsaddled and cared for. Meanwhile, the blonde had noticed her standing a little ways away. He cocked his head slightly, then suddenly reached out and tugged on the older man's robes. The man bent down, and the blonde murmured something. The bearded man glanced at her, smiled a little, then nodded. The Hobbit grinned, then motioned to his friend and both of them started toward her. The white robed man just chuckled and turned to leave the stable.

Lothíriel soon found herself being sized up by two little men no taller than her breastbone.

"Hello my lady," the blonde one called. "Given your manner of dress and colorings, I assume that you must be the Gondorian princess that Eomer is to wed."

"I am she," she confirmed somewhat uncertainly, her hand still resting on Gyldenfax's neck. "I am the Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth."

At this their grins broadened.

"Well, it is an honor to meet you," the other piped up.

"I am Meriadoc Brandybuck, Knight of Rohan," the blonde announced officiously.

"And I am Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith," the other cut in eagerly, obviously struggling to sound as important if not more so than his fellow. They both extended their hands and, bemused, Lothíriel found herself shaking them both. The blonde chuckled then.

"You can just call us Merry and Pippin though, everyone else does." She nodded.

"I am honored to meet you, sirs," she murmured. "Ah . . . who was the man who accompanied you?"

"Oh, that's just Gandalf," Pippin announced with a dismissive wave of his hand. Her eyes rounded.

"The White Wizard? Mithrandir?" They both nodded, oblivious.

Lothíriel groaned. She had just been in the presence of one of the most powerful and influential beings on Middle Earth, and she had stood there staring at him as if he were some nameless traveler. Perhaps that was why he had smiled at her, amused at her lack of manners or intelligence.

"So, what brings you to Rohan and Eomer's company?" Merry questioned eagerly.

"We were most curious to find out just what sort of woman would brave a man like him," Pippin cut in.

Lothíriel frowned. "And what is wrong with Eo—the King?" she quickly corrected herself, blushing. The Hobbits didn't seem to notice her misstep, shrugging nearly in synchronization.

"Nothing really, except that he's a mite . . . ." Merry glanced at Pippin for assistance. They shrugged again, then turned back with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes and announced together,

"Grumpy."

"If I am grumpy," came a deep growl from behind her, "it is from having to deal with exasperatingly annoying Hobbits like you."

Lothíriel whirled, heart in her throat. For a moment she thought that Eomer might truly be wroth. But his black look lasted only until both of the Halflings in question called his name excitedly and then rushed forward. She watched, bemused, as the King of Rohan grinned and knelt to the ground so that he could accept Merry's warm hug of obvious friendship, and Pippin's hearty handshake.

She realized then that they must have seen him approaching, and had said those things only to tease him. She shook her head a little, for the moment forgotten by the other three. It boggled her mind that anyone would dare to tease a man such as Eomer. Yet it obviously did him good. For just a moment, the darkness that had lurked in his eyes of late had faded, his smile was just a little easier to come, and he actually looked his relatively young twenty-nine years.

"You three are the last to arrive," Eomer was saying pleasantly, getting back to his full height. "Faramir and my sister, as well as Aragorn and Lady Arwen are already here."

"Excellent! I should like the chance to see Faramir again," Pippin exclaimed, and Merry nodded.

"Aye, and Lady Eowyn as well. We have to give our congratulations. Gandalf said that she is expecting her first child."

At that Eomer laughed. "Poor Eowyn, it seems only she thought her pregnancy was still a secret."

"Where are you off to, then?" Merry questioned, taking note of Eomer's manner of dress, which was less fancy than usual now that he was a King. The blonde man shrugged.

"I was thinking of taking Firefoot outside the city walls for a while." Lothíriel tensed as he suddenly glanced in her direction. "Perhaps the princess would like to accompany me."

A ride outside the city sounded heavenly after nearly a week of being practically confined to her room. It was one of the reasons she had risked Elphir's displeasure by sneaking out here to the stables by herself in the first place. She couldn't give into the temptation, however. So instead she bowed her head.

"I am sorry my lord, perhaps another time. I . . . I do not feel so well. I think I will retire back to my room until tonight."

She quickly turned about, then hurried back out of the stables. Therefore she completely missed the Hobbits' shared looks of confusion, or Eomer's black scowl.

The feast that night was a grand affair. It was the pre-wedding celebration, she had been told, a taste of things to come on the morrow. Ale and good food were plentiful, and in the very center of the hall the tables had been cleared away from the hearth and a merry round dance was currently being preformed along with minstrel's instruments.

Meduseld seemed stuffed to its capacity, as everyone who could manage to get invited was here. Kings and wizards rubbed elbows with soldiers and common men, and the mood of the hall was undeniably festive.

One good thing about the amount of people was that it had been quite simple to become lost in the press and overlooked.

Lothíriel sagged with relief near the perimeter of the room, half-hidden in the shadows. She let out a deep sigh, praying that her nerves might one day come unwound and she would again remember the feel of tranquility and contentment. Right now they were nothing more than a distant memory.

Having to stand on the dais earlier, in between her father and Eomer had been a trying experience. The tension in the room had been almost palpable as the King of Rohan had officially announced their betrothal and his intentions to make the union official on the morrow. She had done her best to maintain her serene mask, yet it was very hard, especially when the feeling of the room had been anything but joyous. If anything, the people of Rohan seemed skeptical at best, hostile at worst. Her very worst fears confirmed.

She raised a hand to her elaborate hair dressing, wincing as the weight and the pins were beginning to make her scalp sting. Despite Freda's reluctance, Lothíriel had insisted on the complicated style, though now she was beginning to regret it. Her thigh-length hair had been completely bound up in intricate coils, held in place by sapphire-topped pins, jeweled strings and silver netting, matching the deep sapphire velvet and silver silk gown she was wearing. She had looked a vision in the looking glass she had brought with her from Dol Amroth, yet now she felt over-dressed and out of place among the other Rohirrim women. Only Lady Eowyn, Queen Arwen and her sister-in-law had dressed anywhere near as fancily as she had, and even they had not gone to such legnths.

She had heard no complaints as to her look, yet Lothíriel couldn't help but feel like a fool. She stared out at the happy people surrounding her, and very suddenly she felt near tears.

"Lady Lothíriel."

The princess gasped so hard she nearly choked, whirling to see Eomer standing in the shadows of one of the larger pillars behind her, largely hidden from the rest of the room. It was one thing for her to disappear in the crowd, but how a man so large or so important managed to skulk around and remain completely unnoticed she would never know. "Lothí, come," he suddenly urged, his face and his voice strangely fierce. "I would speak with you alone for a moment. Now."

The look on his face and the sound of his voice whispering her pet name was nearly stronger than she could bear. Yet she held firm somehow, desperately trying to remain strong.

"I cannot, my lord," she whispered back, praying no one near by would turn to witness their covert conversation. His expression darkened. Desperate to make him understand, she sent him a pleading glance. "Please, sire, it would not be proper!" He scowled then, his anger coming full out.

"Hang proper!"

Before Lothíriel could even blink, Eomer reached down and took her by the wrist, faster than an adder strike. She couldn't even manage to yelp in protest, as in the very next breath the larger man was yanking her into the shadows and out of the hall completely.

Despite the young King's best efforts, his departure did not go completely unnoticed. Riana turned when she felt her husband's body go completely stiff at her side. She glanced up and saw his expression one of rigid anger, eyes seething. She turned quickly to see where it was he was staring, and just managed to catch a glimpse of Lord Eomer disappearing down a darkened hallway, pulling Lothíriel off behind him. She smiled at the sight, then reached out and grabbed Elphir's tunic when he made to go after them.

"Release me, Riana," he growled. She met his glower with her own pointed stare however, her grip remaining firm.

"Leave them be, Elphir," she advised softly.

"He cannot just drag her off into who knows where—,"

"In several hours time he will be her husband," she interrupted sternly, frowning. "You have already risked much, interfering as you have. Elphir . . . you are going to have to learn to let her go. Lothíriel is a woman now, or soon will be. She cannot remain your little Lothí forever."

Where most would have seen an overprotective, stodgy man concerned only with reputations, Riana saw a fiercely loving brother terrified to loose his baby sister to another man. She saw the pain flash in his silver eyes, and the indecision. Her smile was sad as she reached up, laying her palm across his cheek, fingers sifting through his black curls.

"I know it is hard, beloved, but it is for the best. Trust her to know how to make the right decisions for herself. Let her go."

Elphir hesitated a moment longer, then his entire body loosened again with a weary sigh. He nodded, though obviously pained. Then he smiled a little, and raised his hand to hers. At first she thought he would pull it away, though she would not have been offended. Riana had learned long ago that Elphir was not a man who easily showed softer emotions or affection in public. He was not nearly so shy behind closed doors, however, and she had two healthy babies to attest to that fact. That was enough for her.

Yet he surprised her this time by merely capturing her hand in his, then he turned his head to press a kiss to the center of her palm.

"I do not know where I would be without you, ninorë," he murmured for her alone, his deep voice gruff with emotion. Riana felt her eyes tear, but her smile was as wide and light-hearted as ever.

After all, her gruff husband would be a very sad man indeed without her constant teasing to force him out of his black moods.

"You would be alive and well I am sure, my lord," she murmured, eyes twinkling. "But I venture to say you would not be near as happy." He chuckled, then bent to press a kiss to her brow.

"And I venture to say that you would be right."