A/N: My muse is hyperactive and shows no signs of slowing down. Here's the result: the ball.
Also, thanks for the comments and support!
He had bathed and scrubbed himself. He had washed his hair and trimmed his beard. He had even sought a cleaner's services and had the golden brooches of his clothing polished so that the jewellery shined like the day it had been made.
But now he was dressed in his usual green and gold, his hair was neatly combed, and there was nothing more he could procrastinate with.
Sighing, he turned to look at the bouquet of flowers on his table. He had no idea of what they were called, but they were blue and white – closest thing to the colours of Dol Amroth. Éothain had picked them for him earlier that day, no doubt thinking his king was planning to give them to some lady he fancied. He had even put them into water to keep them fresh.
Well. This was her condition and he would meet it, and he'd be damned if he cared what anyone might say about it. Éomer knew he had nothing to prove: he had participated all three great battles of the War of the Ring and survived unscathed. No doubt people would deem him mad or at least peculiar, but that might even prove to be an advantageous reputation. And perhaps the unmarried ladies would leave him alone this time, if they thought him odd.
Yes, that would be good. After all, there was only one lady he had any interest in, and she was unlikely to mind it.
One by one, he picked up flowers from the silver vase and started arraying them into his hair. It probably looked ridiculous and Éowyn would no doubt sprain something for laughing too much once she'd hear.
He had just finished the task when there was a knock on his chamber's door.
"My lord? It is about the time", Éothain called from outside. He was one of those men who were loyal to the point of madness, and Éomer had always known he could trust his second-in-command with his very life. In fact, there had been some instances in past few years that he had done exactly that. They were not far apart in years, but Éothain had always been protective of the younger man, but he had also been a very good friend.
Éomer took a deep breath and strode to the door. When he opened it and Éothain saw his hair, the captain's look of confusion was so foolish that he couldn't help but chuckle. It was precisely one of those moments when one hoped one could immortalise an expression.
"Don't ask", he said before Éothain could speak.
"I certainly did not think that was why you asked for those flowers", the captain commented after regaining his composure.
"Éothain, if you had thought that, I'd be very worried of you", Éomer said. It was so ridiculous he couldn't suppress a grin. "Let's just say that there's this woman."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Éothain said and smiled. He was old enough to have seen young men do quite a few foolish things in the hopes of impressing their lady loves, so this was nothing new – nor was it the strangest feat he had seen done in the name of romance.
They started for the great hall where the ball would take place. Couple of servants passed them by on their way and gave some confused looks at the King of Rohan's chosen hair decorations, but Éomer pretended he didn't notice their glances. As a matter of fact, he was feeling more and more light by the moment. Who would have thought that wearing flowers would be such a liberating thing?
When they were in the small antechamber and waiting for the herald to announce him, Éothain grinned at his king.
"I must say, you look lovely tonight", he said.
"I always do, my friend", Éomer commented nonchalantly. "Perhaps I should have asked you to weave me a flower garland."
"That I would have done gladly, but I'm not sure if the Gondorian society is quite ready for that. Maybe we'll save the garland for your next visit in these parts", Éothain sniggered.
Their jest was interrupted then, as the voice of the herald announced: "His Majesty, King Éomer of Rohan!"
The two men exchanged a quick grin, and then the Lord of the Mark stepped out in the open.
A multitude of faces was looking up to the top of a staircase where he was standing – these Gondorians seemed to have a thing for dramatic entrances. A quick glance about indicated that green was in vogue, which probably wasn't so surprising; luckily, he'd blend in at least somewhat. It looked like Imrahil had invited all the nobility in the land if anything could be deduced from the size of the crowd.
The Prince himself stood at the other end of the hall, surrounded by his family. Éomer spotted them as he began making his way down the stairs, and his eyes quickly found her. Lothíriel was a vision of course, but he had not expected anything less. Her dress was of the traditional colours of her home, with silver glimmering on her blue raiment. He'd rather have liked to stare and admire her a bit more, but decided that was not a good idea unless he wanted to stumble in stairs. So he fixed his eyes on the back wall and summoned an aura of regal dignity.
He could have possessed the grace and splendour of all the Kings of Númenor combined but that would still not have changed the fact that there were flowers in his hair. So, like he had expected, there were wondering gazes, whispering and even some thinly-veiled smiles of amusement. At least no one laughed openly. Éomer pretended he noticed nothing, however; perhaps if he acted completely natural, he might even start a new fashion.
Finally, he reached the end of the hall, where Imrahil's family was standing. To his great pleasure Lothíriel actually looked surprised and he couldn't help but look at her with a smug little smile on his face. Yes, this all was definitely worth it, now that she was giving him that look. Amrothos was apparently trying hard not to snigger, and Erchirion looked a bit like someone surrounded by madmen. As for Imrahil, the Prince's eyebrows shot up when he noticed the flowers.
"Evening, Imrahil", Éomer greeted the older man lightly.
"Oh, there you are, my friend..." the Prince said gingerly. His expression implied he was trying hard to come up with something to say that did not involve flowers.
"Yes. I had no idea you were going to invite so many people", Éomer commented.
"I'm afraid my hands were tied in that matter. You know, the nobility here in Gondor can be terribly sensitive... and they'd probably have come anyway, even without an invitation. It's not every day you visit our city, after all", Imrahil said, his eyes travelling up to regard the blue and white flowers that adorned the young king's hair. Finally, the Prince couldn't help but ask: "I beg your pardon, but why do you have those in your hair?"
"Don't worry – I haven't lost my mind and there's no need to call Aragorn for help. I just made a deal of sorts", Éomer answered and offered his friend a smile. Imrahil looked confused at first, but then the light of understanding lit up his eyes.
"It's that mysterious lady of yours, correct?" the Prince asked.
"Indeed", answered the Rohir and sighed dramatically. "She's a bit difficult woman."
"Aren't the best ones always difficult?" Imrahil chuckled. He looked at Éomer in amusement, "You had me already thinking that perhaps all this sea air was not so good for you."
"Quite the opposite, I must say. I am finding I rather enjoy it after all", Éomer said, and it was all he could from glancing at the princess.
"That is good to hear", said his friend. Then he turned to look at one of the lordly looking men who stood closest to the Prince's family, "Come and meet Lord Fairion, one of my oldest friends."
After that, things rolled smoothly into introductions and re-introductions, as some of the lords Éomer had already met during the war or the celebrations that had followed. Actually, it was rather amusing to observe people's faces when they noticed the state of his hair – especially faces of those who had met him before and had considered him just as sane as any man.
Even more delighted he was at some of the doubtful looks he received from certain ladies... no doubt they were asking themselves very gravely if they really wanted a man who wore flowers in his hair. However, there were always those who didn't mind what they perceived as eccentric; apparently that was a forgivable trait in a king.
It wasn't completely unpleasant, though. He met some brothers in arms he had fought with in the War of the Ring and befriended afterwards, and though there was not really time for longer conversations, it was good to at least see they were faring well. Then there were the more awkward introductions, like with that one lady who wouldn't stop trying to impress him with her very basic Rohirric, not even after he told her he'd rather use Westron.
"And here's Lord Aradol and his daughter Lady Glosswen, who hail from Lebennin", Imrahil introduced yet another pair of father and daughter, both of whom belonged to the green-wearing segment of the guests. The lord in question was so much shorter than the King of Rohan that the top of his head would barely have reached Éomer's shoulder, and the man's daughter was even tinier. They both had auburn hair that picked up warm shades of red in candle-light (which went well with the green of their clothing), and the girl's eyes were very blue. Éomer supposed the she was pretty in a "fold me and place me in your pocket" kind of way. While Lord Aradol was busy trying to look like he wasn't attempting to catch a sight of Lord of the Mark's chosen head adornments (Éomer suspected the man wouldn't have even noticed them himself), Lady Glosswen was giving him a most charming smile.
"I am pleased to meet you", Éomer said for what seemed to be the hundredth time that night. Oddly enough, his voice didn't sound completely false yet.
"Likewise, my lord", Lady Glosswen answered while her father was still peering up towards Éomer's head. The girl had pleasant voice and she certainly knew how to come across charming.
"Éomer King", Lord Aradol finally spoke and bowed, "we met in the ball in Minas Tirith after yourself and King Elessar returned from Cormallen."
"Ah, yes. I am sad to admit that I did not recognise you at first. Those days in Minas Tirith were something of an uproar", the young king said. Well, that much was true.
"Oh, that is quite understandable, my lord", Lady Glosswen commented gravely, but then offered him a brilliant smile, "How are you finding Dol Amroth, Sire?"
"Very pleasant. Prince Imrahil is most hospitable host and his family welcoming. Time just flies by here", Éomer answered and cast a quick look about. The Princess of Dol Amroth was currently chatting with a circle of young people of about her age, and he felt a strange pang of jealousy when he noticed a young man (a lord from Lossarnarch, whose father had died in war) kissing her hand. But he quickly focused his attention back on the Lord Aradol and his daughter. It wouldn't do to come across as absent-minded.
"You flatter me, Éomer King", Imrahil said and smiled. "You know that friends and brothers in arms are always welcome here in my home."
"Yes, the House of Dol Amroth is quite known for its hospitality and geniality", Lord Aradol put in.
"And you would be just as welcome in any noble house of Gondor. The great valour and bravery of Rohan is well-remembered among us", Lady Glosswen said and smiled. Having lately witnessed countless charges from the unmarried female crowd he didn't miss the eagerness of that smile.
"I am glad to hear that our friendship is remembered here", Éomer answered. He wasn't sure if this conversation would ever go beyond idle compliments to each other, so he was happy to hear the court musicians adjusting their instruments. He was getting weary of all these pleasantries. Not that he'd have expected it, but the prospect of dance suddenly seemed like a good idea.
The musicians started with a light tune, and Imrahil smiled.
"I believe it is my duty as the host to open the dance... I'll go and see if my daughter would like to join me. Why don't you find yourself a partner too, my lord?" he said to Éomer, who muttered something in agreement.
Lady Glosswen looked at the young king and now she looked like she might just grab him if he said no, no matter the difference in size.
"Might you need help in finding a dance partner?" she asked in a bright voice that was much larger than her body and he refrained from commenting how much he did not need help. His mouth ran away with him:
"Would you accompany me, Lady Glosswen?" he asked, which made her beam.
"Of coure, my lord", she said cheerfully, and he offered her his arm. She quickly claimed it and followed him to the centre area of the great hall, where Imrahil already waited with Lothíriel by his side. Éomer thought he caught the princess lifting her eyebrows just slightly, but he could have imagined that. However, he did not miss the look of pride on his partner's face. Apparently one didn't get to open the great ball with the King of Rohan every day... even if he had strange ideas of what to wear in his hair.
The dance was the same one Lothíriel had taught him the other day. It wasn't too exciting or complicated, so he found his thoughts mostly idle as he followed through the steps and movements. He had to constantly mind his partner, though; she was so tiny when compared to him that it almost felt like dancing with a child. Perhaps that was a bit unfair thought, because she was actually a very good dancer.
Lady Glosswen tried to start up a conversation on Rohirric culture, but he was finding it hard to follow her as his eyes were constantly drawn towards the woman dressed in silver and blue. Fortunately the song ended and he could excuse himself (he didn't miss the girl's look of disappointment and he made a mental note of having to make up for it later). He began making his way towards Lothíriel – it took two more dances before he could pass through the crowd to her – for he had yet to speak with her tonight. And honestly, conversing with her seemed a lot more appealing than with any other lady in the hall.
The princess was currently speaking with two other women who looked like they could be about her age. All three fell silent when he stopped on the front of them, and only Lothíriel looked not so surprised at the sight of him.
"Éomer King", she greeted and curtsied. "Have you already met ladies Broniorwen and Nethiel?"
"I have had the pleasure", he said and quickly bowed his head towards the two women, but then he concentrated his eyes on the princess. "I was rather hoping I might exchange a couple of words with you, my lady."
"Of course", she said graciously, which surprised him. He'd have thought she'd throw some sarcastic comments at him and perhaps try to embarrass him on the front of her friends. Perhaps she had drunk wine and was on a better mood tonight? Be it as may, he was more than willing to enjoy the occasion of her good humour.
Spontaneously, he reached for his hair and found one of the flowers. He picked it up and offered it to the Princess. Finally some use for the damned things.
"May I ask you for a dance?" he inquired softly. He half expected her to give him a mocking smile and perhaps laugh that he'd actually do this, but instead, her face had that soft look again that had made him so weak before. As she took the flower, she smiled and put it in her own hair.
"Gladly, Sire", she answered and placed her hand on his arm.
He could barely comprehend that she'd actually be so sweet with him, but he quickly recovered: who knew how long this mood would last?
They joined the dancers and he felt curiously light as he looked at her. Lothíriel looked serene and radiant for once, like the moon gliding in the dark gardens of stars, outshining everything in her path. He wondered if she had any idea of how beautiful she was to him... and suspected that she didn't. A strange ache was starting to fill his heart as he looked at her and he wasn't sure what it meant.
On the beach, he had wanted her purely for carnal reasons. But now... a desire more profound was starting to take its place.
"You know, Sire, I didn't really expect you to fulfil my request. Though I must say that those flowers become you most beautifully", she commented after a moment of silence. Probably it was a good thing that she did speak, for it distracted him from staring at her, and he was under the impression that mindless ogling wasn't considered proper behaviour.
"You actually thought I wouldn't go through with it?" he asked in amusement. She shrugged.
"Most men seem pretty self-conscious when it comes to something like that. It's like you think that your... manliness will suffer, or something", Lothíriel said. He could only snort.
"Darling princess, I fought in the War of the Ring and survived. I don't think some flowers will damage my manliness", he said dryly.
"Hmm. Clearly I should have asked for something else", she muttered. Then she smiled and sniggered.
"What is so funny, if I may ask?" he inquired.
"I was just imagining you dressed all in pink. It is a very entertaining thing to picture", Lothíriel said and gave him a look that just about made him believe it would be the next thing she'd make him do.
"You wouldn't do that to me", he breathed, pretending shock.
"It is rather cruel, yes. I will have to think of something else", she decided and he twirled her around. Her hands in his were small and soft and warm, and letting go of her felt somehow wrong.
"So you plan on making me completely humiliate myself in order to have your good will and attention?" he asked, and as he spoke, an ill feeling gradually started to fill him. Éomer wasn't sure how he felt about that... perhaps he should go after ladies who wouldn't make his life so difficult. After all, wasn't it ease he sought in this part of his life?
But then, since the beginning this mermaid had got to her in a way he couldn't recall any woman doing before.
"I am considering it, yes. It'd be interesting to see how far you're willing to go", she said and gave him a bright smile, obviously ignorant of what thoughts were starting to fill his mind.
At that, he stopped and he pulled her towards himself, so that there were only several inches between them. People were still dancing about them and some were giving them very odd stares, but Éomer paid no heed.
"That is all this is to you, then? Make the poor little king run about madly with flowers in his hair just because you can?" he asked her, his voice harder than he had intended. But the realisation was a healthy one. After all, so far she had given no indication that she actually enjoyed his attention. Suddenly, he realised something: if he continued this, he'd only ever succeed in making a fool of himself.
Lothíriel looked surprised. She beheld him and for once, it didn't seem like she knew what to say. He stared back unrelentingly, wanting to get to the bottom of this for once and all.
"I..." she began, her voice failing her, "It's not like that."
"Then tell me what it is, for I am finding it very hard to understand", he demanded.
He never got his answer, though. Erchirion had arrived, apparently having sensed that the interaction between his sister and the Lord of the Mark had gotten a little too intense.
"Is everything all right here?" the prince asked. That more or less awakened Éomer and he took a step back.
"Everything is fine. I was just sadly mistaken about something", he said before Lothíriel could speak, and as the two siblings stood staring at him, he turned around and strode away.
He only stopped when he had walked out of the great hall, to the stone terrace that looked over a lush garden. The air there was heavy with the scent of sea mixed with the smell of flowers, and it was probably a very beautiful place. He hardly noticed, though, for he was too busy being angry at himself.
Of course he should have understood it from the beginning. The princess did not like him and had he not comprehended it in time, she'd have done exactly what he had thought she would do: humiliate him until he finally got the truth through his thick skull. What a fool he was...
Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and wondered if it would be too impolite of him to ride home tomorrow. Then again, if he departed right after a grand ball like this, it'd probably look like he had somehow been insulted. There was no way he could bring that kind of humiliation to Imrahil. No, he'd have to pretend all was well, and then maybe after a week he'd go home.
And once there, he'd take up the matter of his marriage. He'd find some agreeable Rohirric woman and forget about his childish hopes for personal happiness.
Éomer had about got back his resolve when a voice distracted him: "My lord!"
He turned around and saw one of the ladies there, and after a moment he remembered she was the one who had insisted on speaking Rohirric.
"Yes, my lady?" he asked somewhat wearily.
"May I ask something, my lord?" she inquired, looking a lot like someone who had enjoyed too much wine.
"You may, my lady", he answered, not even trying to hide the suffering tone from his voice.
"Why do you wear flowers in your hair?" she wanted to know, which almost had Éomer snorting.
"A Rohirric custom. It's hard to explain", he grunted with little grace.
Indeed. A custom for foolish men who don't know better.
