In his heart he called her Tinúviel, that signifies Nightingale, daughter of twilight, in the Grey-elven tongue, for he knew no other name for her.
- Of Beren and Lúthien
Chapter 2
The biography of King Hyarmendacil II lay forgotten beside her on the window board, where Lothíriel sat gazing outside. It was a grey day in the realm of Gondor and rain had poured down since morning. She had sat down to read one of her favourite books but eventually her mind had wandered, travelling on green paths under the sun in west. Idly she thought of having to visit the royal libraries and find out if there was anything on Rohan there. Ever since she had met him in the stables her thoughts were constantly drawn to the strange country in north.
He had been away for week and a half now, along with her cousins Faramir and Boromir. No word had come from Ithilien as far as her father knew; Boromir was hoping to exercise secrecy as much as it was possible.
She told herself it was silly to worry. Remembering that first sight she had seen of him in the stables, and then how he had looked like when he rode, she had known he was not a man to be easily killed. Lothíriel's own brothers had been raised to be warriors... but she wondered if even them, renowned swordsmen and fighters, would have anything on the tall golden-haired Rohir. Heavily armoured and riding his large warhorse with the easy grace of long experience, the man had looked positively dangerous.
The princess sighed and leant her forehead against cold glass. He may very well be the mightiest warrior alive but she knew when her father was talking business. No man of Rohan could have her hand in marriage. And anyway, all of this was foolish. She didn't know him, and he had just been too polite not to disrupt her, or maybe he had thought it funny how she had poured out her heart to him... be it as may, she had made a fool of herself and he had probably laughed himself silly afterwards. What did men of war care about stupid little princesses? It was silly to even entertain an idea of some serious romance.
But these entirely rational contemplations brought tears in her eyes and her hands became fists. Was it so wrong then, if only for once she felt like someone understood and didn't think her thoughts foolish? If once someone who wasn't her father didn't treat her like a princess or act like she was a mockery of one?
Lothíriel wiped her eyes and told herself to toughen up. She was being ridiculous and childish, letting herself get so upset over a man she wouldn't probably see again after he had returned to his own land. Who knew what kind of life he even had there? Maybe he was married and had several children already.
Her thoughts were then interrupted as Father strode into the parlour where she had sat reading. He was looking like he was on his way out – she assumed he had business with Uncle up in the Citadel.
"There you are, daughter. I was just heading out, but thought you'd want to hear Elphir and Cuileth are on their way. They sent word from Harlond and should arrive soon", Father said as he leant down to kiss her brow.
"Oh", she answered, feeling her heart sink. Apparently it had been too much to hope she might be able to enjoy the quiet and peace in Minas Tirith.
Father knew of her strained relationship with Cuileth of course. He sighed and rested a hand on Lothíriel's shoulder.
"I'm sure it'll be all right. You just have to be patient with your sister-in-law", he tried. She gave him a sharp look.
"I've been patient with her since the day she married Elphir, Father, and I've yet to see that change anything", she said glumly.
Knowing this was an argument he couldn't really win, Father sighed and patted her shoulder.
"Your uncle had some business with me. I'll have to go up to the Citadel, but I'll try to be back for the supper", he said softly.
How wonderful! At least when Father was around Cuileth wasn't as bad as she usually were, but if he'd be away until evening...
"I'll see you then. Give Uncle my regards", Lothíriel said resignedly. Father didn't look too happy but he went along, and she was left alone in the parlour, thinking about her sister-in-law.
She and Elphir got along moderately well for the slightly distant relationship it was; he was nearly ten years older than her, and usually his duties kept him too busy to really be much of a homemaker. As far as Lothíriel could see, the two did not have much in common, but they got along adequately. Of her brothers Elphir had always been the most distant one to her. When she had heard his bride was closer to her own age, she had dared to hope maybe she and Cuileth could become some kind of friends. However, Lothíriel was quickly proven wrong.
She and Elphir had married some years ago and evidently their marriage was a successful one despite their differences. With a wife as dedicated as Cuileth, the future Prince of Dol Amroth could not want for nothing. She was single-minded and ran the palace with the precision and efficacy of a general. Cuileth was, in a word, a princess. But she was also prone to ordering people about and seeing little but her own point of view... something Lothíriel would have thought would result in many, many disagreements with her Aunt Ivriniel, who possessed similar attitude towards life. However, the two women got along extraordinarily well, as their ideas about most things were rather similar. Sometimes Lothíriel even suspected the two shared some kind of a spiritual connection. And as their disapproval was never directed at each other, the youngest of Imrahil's children was the usual target.
Lothíriel knew they meant well in their endless attempts to turn her more princess-like, but life-long education had not made her a better dancer or helped her learn the intricacies of etiquette or countless other little things like that. But it was more than just being the perfect princess: it was also how Cuileth considered it her right to order her husband's sister, and how both she and Aunt Ivriniel still treated her like a child. Lothíriel didn't think she couldn't really have been more different from her sister-in-law and aunt, and inevitably it caused tensions that eventually led into arguments, and then she'd take refuge in Minas Tirith with her father.
Grimacing to herself, Lothíriel decided that she didn't really care if it was considered rude of her to be away when her brother and sister-in-law arrived. She'd probably have plenty of time to deal with them if they were to stay in Minas Tirith for a while.
Her mind set, the young princess made her way out, thinking perhaps she'd hole up in the library until the evening.
The night was quiet in the woods of Ithilien. No camp fires were allowed here, and even the horses appeared to understand that making unnecessary noise would not have been wise. Though the land was fair there was also a shadow resting over it, and no wonder; only the mountains stood between these woods and the Black Land. The Morgul Vale, a place of terror and nightmare, was close as well.
It felt odd to Éomer to exercise such secrecy and caution after the great victory they had achieved over a force of orcs, even if he fully understood the necessity. They were on the road back to Minas Tirith, and he had observed that ever since crossing Anduin Gondorians had been on the edge. They loved not this eastern side of the river and feeling the heavy threat of shadow in the air he did not blame them for it. Still, it was sad to see this land so deserted, as it was fair and fertile.
Finding the orcish outpost had demanded all the sneakiness and discretion of Lord Faramir's Rangers, but eventually the place of their dwelling was found. The two Captains had lured out the enemy, and thinking it would be an easy win against the smaller force orcs had succumbed into a battle. But as soon as the Gondorians had them engaged Éomer had lead his riders in, effectively trampling down the vanguard left behind. After that it was only a matter of finishing up the enemy and destroying their camp. No orc would return to Mordor report this defeat.
Victorious as the battle had been he was happy to leave behind these lands. And he had looked forward to returning for more than just one reason. He had a promise to keep, though he knew not what would come of it... when they had ridden from Mundburg, Éothain his rider had urged his horse forward so that the two men could ride side by side, and the man had asked the inevitable question: "Who was that woman who reached for you?"
"A stranger. An odd bird. Nihtegale", had Éomer answered quietly, and his friend had known not to ask more.
His thoughts were still on her when he saw the shadowy shape of Lord Faramir approaching. Quietly Éomer made space beside himself under the tree, where he had been sitting, and the other man sat down next to him.
"Lord Faramir", greeted the young Rohir. During this campaign he had observed that of the Steward's two sons Faramir was more quiet and prudent. He didn't speak much but when he did, it was reason. Boromir was the louder one, the famed warrior, and more reckless. In some ways the older brother did remind Éomer of himself, but he found he got along better with Faramir.
"My lord of Rohan", answered the Ranger with a nod of his head. "I didn't have the chance to thank you for your help. It was quite crucial, I deem; I do not think we could have destroyed those orcs without you and your men. The White City will be safer now thanks to your help."
"Do not mention it. Gondor is friend to Rohan, after all. What friendship would it be, if we did not answer your call?" Éomer said nonchalantly.
"One is glad to hear you have not forgotten Eorl's Oath", Faramir said quietly, watching the shadowy woods.
"We have long memory, my lord, and we don't forget the favour and friendship shown to us", answered the young Rohir. The other man nodded quietly.
After a moment of silence, he spoke again, "I understand you're kin to King Théoden, my lord?"
"Aye. He is my uncle", Éomer answered, wrapping his cloak tighter about himself. A thought of Théoden was fond, considering all that the man had done for him and his sister... but there was concern too, for lately it didn't seem to him like his uncle was surrounded by faithful men. One Gríma, a man whom some called Wormtongue behind his back, did come into mind at least.
"Have you other family?" asked Faramir conversationally. It curiously reminded Éomer of something he ought to remember.
"Aside from my sister Éowyn, the King and his son the Prince are the only family I have left", he sighed.
"You don't have wife or children?"
"No. Until now it has seemed way too early, and I do not wish to wed just any woman", he answered reluctantly. This was not really something he felt comfortable talking about, and so he decided to turn the conversation away from himself. He asked, "What of yourself, then? Do you have family waiting for you in Mundburg?"
"No, I do not. My reasoning is about the same as yours. There never seems to be time, and to me sharing my life with someone should mean also love", Faramir said softly. How absurd it was, that the two of them – two men of war – were sitting in this forest and talking about love! And yet, as any Eorling would have agreed, love was what made life worth living.
"Speaking of family, I should note that we, my lord, are actually related. Well, it is a very distant relation to be honest, but still. You see, the Queen Morwen who was the mother of of your King Théoden was related to my late mother. I understand they shared an ancestress at some point in history", said the Gondorian then, smiling softly.
"Really? I was not aware of that. And anyway, we have not heard of Morwen's kin ever since her death. My own mother rarely spoke of the Queen, and I have only a very fleeting memory of her... she was beloved by her children and respected by the Rohirrim, but she never assimilated into our society very well. Some held it against her", Éomer answered slowly.
"I see. But they do say that nothing brings people together like love and marriage. Perhaps you should find yourself a wife here, like Thengel your grandfather in his time, my lord", Faramir said, obviously trying for a jesting tone. Éomer let out a low chuckle.
"Are you perhaps already planning to introduce me to some sister or a cousin of yours?" he asked dryly; this man had no need of knowing what had taken place in the stables.
"Sadly I don't have a sister, and my little cousin might be intimidated by you, my lord..." said the other man lightly.
But Éomer was not paying attention to the conversation anymore. Instead, he was scanning the dark wood with his eyes, and listening to the silence... really, it was too silent. Was it a sign of something foul or just the nature of this threatened land?
"It is too quiet", he murmured from the corner of his mouth to the man beside himself. He glanced at Faramir, who he mused should know better as he frequented these woods.
"You are right. I do not like this hush either", said the captain, and now his voice was without a trace of amusement. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and rose up. "I'd suggest you alarm your men – quietly, if you will."
"Of course", Éomer muttered, considering it a waste of time to stop and point out he wasn't born yesterday. As inaudibly as he could he got up on his feet and made way to Éothain, who was already fast asleep nearby. Being a light sleeper a touch on his shoulder was enough to wake him.
"What is it?" he asked, blinking away the sleep from his eyes.
"Have the men ready, but tell them to be quiet. Something ill is close", Éomer said under his breath. His friend nodded solemnly and got up to see to his captain's command.
Quietly he made way to his horse Firefoot. Rohirric steeds, especially those bred for war, had very keen senses. Sometimes the uneasiness of horses was the first sign that something was wrong, and orc-stench they hated above all else; Rohirrim had learnt to pay attention to their horses' reactions long ago already. Couple of times Éomer had even seen a warhorse killing an orc.
"See or hear anything, old man?" he murmured softly into Firefoot's ear, using his own tongue. The stallion seemed calm, though: perhaps it wasn't orcs that were stalking the woods tonight.
After some time Faramir returned, swiftly as a shadow.
"I sent couple of Rangers to scout the woods. They found a band of Southrons not far from here. They're laying in wait and expecting us to fall asleep, the way it looks like... I presume they're after your horses. Being able to steal even a few Rohirric horses would be quite a prize to them", he quickly explained. Éomer bit back a growl and his hand fell on his sword. Thieving horses was a severe crime in the Mark, and even less he had tolerance for it here.
"How many there are?" he asked.
"Twenty, maybe twenty-five. My brother says we'll let them think we're asleep and wait for them to fall upon us. You should be wary of their arrows – Southrons like to use poisoned darts", answered the Gondorian captain.
"All right. I'll have my men ready", Éomer answered and returned to talk with Éothain, so that the riders would be ready upon the attack.
The Southrons came not long after the men had settled down to wait. Indeed, they made for the horses, but looked like instantly got more than they had bargained for. A part of training a warhorse was to teach the animal to be wary of strangers, and especially of those who tried to mount him unless it was the steed's master. Thus he was not surprised when in the shadows of the evening Éomer saw one horse biting at the face of one Southron man. If he'd live, he'd sport some nasty scars until his dying day.
As they had known to expect an attempt of horse thievery the foes were fast surrounded and defeated. But fiercely and without fear of death they fought, so that until the end only five men of the original twenty-five remained. It looked like their leader had fallen and the survivors refused to talk, and Boromir decided they'd be brought to Minas Tirith for further questioning.
After the battle, silence fell in the woods again, and Éomer settled down in the hopes of some rest. But more than sleep he hoped he'd soon see the green plains of Rohan again.
"What are you reading?" Cuileth asked on that afternoon when Lothíriel was seated on her usual spot on the window board. The book in her hands was borrowed from the royal libraries of the Citadel: it was an account on Rohirric culture and traditions. It was a copy of the original commission of Steward Hallas heir of Cirion, who had sent his scribe Lemberion to observe the newly established Rohirrim. The scribe had stayed in Rohan for some years to record the ways of the horselords, so that the two peoples might learn to understand each other better. Lemberion's writing style was a bit tedious and Lothíriel got the impression that he had not liked his years in Rohan too much, but the book was filled with fascinating details. For one, the Rohirrim had not had a written language before they had come down from North. Eorl's son Brego had first started the project of defining such a language, and once one of his men called Hygelac had learned what he could of Gondorian writing systems he had started the great project that had taken his whole life. In the end a written language of the Northern tongue had come to be, but for all Hygelac's work it had never spread to a wider use – it was only used in the court to keep annals of the kings and by the Lord of the Mark himself when he sent messages to his Marshals, who were required to at least be able to read if not write. In the end, Rohirrim still preferred their songs over books.
"It's a book about Rohan", Lothíriel answered her sister-in-law, which unsurprisingly made the older woman snort.
"Isn't that waste of time? If you insist on reading, you should try some nice story about knights perhaps. That is more fitting for a princess. But if you truly were acting smartly you'd try and do some needlework", she said, that familiar lecturing tone filling her voice. Lothíriel hid her grimace.
"What can stories about knights teach me? Rohirrim are our allies, so it would be wise to know more about them. Who knows when that knowledge might come in handy?" she pointed out. "And you know what I think of needlework. I can do the basics but you can't make me see how embroidery is relevant to my interests."
"I've told you a thousand times every lady should master embroidery. You may one day marry a man who wants you to embroider his shirts", Cuileth answered in the voice of someone long-suffering.
The younger woman merely harrumphed, refraining from commenting that if she ever had the misfortune of marrying a man who thought embroideries in shirts were important, she'd probably run away and become a bandit. Or perhaps just push him into the sea and hope he'd drown.
Glancing at Cuileth, she considered briefly the wife of her brother. She was lovely, much more so than Lothíriel herself. With even and symmetrical features, raven-dark hair and wide green eyes, she was everything one would imagine when hearing the word princess. In addition, Cuileth knew how to dress and how to carry herself and bear the extravagant gowns she loved. It was for a good reason that she was said to be the most beautiful woman in Dol Amroth.
"Why did you and Elphir come to Minas Tirith? I thought you both were busy in Dol Amroth", she asked then if only to distract the older woman from the topic at hand.
"Oh, Elphir thought perhaps Father Imrahil would appreciate some company here in Minas Tirith, and it has been such a long time we've appeared in court anyway..." Cuileth began, talking away like only she could while Lothíriel frowned to herself and wondered if her company didn't count at all. Her sister-in-law continued, "... and I was also thinking maybe I could be so successful as to persuade you come home too, when we leave."
"You know I like to stay here", said the younger woman reluctantly.
"I can't imagine why that is. It's not like you even often mingle with the society", Cuileth pointed out.
Mostly out of duty, Lothíriel did participate some court gatherings at times and went on social calls, but she had never enjoyed those occasions and kept them rare as she could. Father had never disapproved of that; according to him, they were a family of such high standing that their fortune and livelihood did not depend on idle merrymaking among the other nobles. But she thought it was also in part because the way Lothíriel had never been much of a peacock for the courts reminded him of her mother.
"You know Father likes me to stay in the city with him", she said, her voice weary. This was one of those conversations that just kept happening again and again. Well, most of her relationship with Cuileth was defined by recurring conversations concerning things they'd never agree about.
"Yes, I suppose", Cuileth allowed and a slight frown appeared on her face, "but you always run a bit wild when you're here, and then it takes so much effort to get you representable again in Dol Amroth. I really think you should come back with me and Elphir – it would please your Aunt as well."
"Cuileth, please. You're not my mother. I'm happier here, so why can't you just let it be?" Lothíriel asked with a hint of exasperation.
"But if you just even once tried-" said her sister-in-law, but the younger woman did not give her a chance to finish.
"Maybe I don't want to try! For once in you life can't you just leave me alone?!" she exclaimed and dashed out without bothering to glance at the older woman.
Her emotions were in disarray when she strode out, not even bothering to make a stop at her own chamber to fetch a cloak. For the moment she just needed to get away from this house, and find some place safe and quiet. Tears of frustration were in her eyes as she hurried up towards the Citadel, not really looking where she was going.
In a way, it would have been easier if Cuileth did it all out of wanting to torment her. But it was worse because she knew Elphir's wife just meant well, and their worlds and ways of thinking were so different. Oh, she felt so misplaced and lost and alone, and by the time she dashed into the royal stables her tears were already turning into weeping.
Return to Mundburg was more pleasant than Éomer would have thought upon his first arrival. The sight of the White City meant he'd hopefully soon be able to take his men and turn westward and make for home. But the sight was welcome for another reason as well, and this reason was a young woman he was hoping to find again. She had promised him a name, and anyway seeing her was an idea that kindled light inside his heart, though he did not know why.
But he knew he couldn't go looking for her right away: he'd have to see to the two injured riders and make sure they were well cared for in the House of Healing, and also speak with Steward Denethor. The lord of the city would want a report on the campaign and he wasn't going to leave that duty for just the two brothers Boromir and Faramir. If he had hoped to achieve that quickly, it was in vain however; Denethor had the three captains in his study for over two hours, and he demanded a report of every last detail. Judging by the looks on the faces of his two sons, this was a normal occurrence.
As a result it was already late when Éomer had finally seen to all the things that had been in his mind. Denethor had his report, the injured riders were on the mend, and the rest of his men were enjoying some well-deserved supper and rest.
It was probably silly to feel so in a city so great which had many things for one to explore, but when Éomer found himself with an idle moment he wasn't really sure of where he should go or what to do. Éowyn would no doubt recommend he familiarise himself with the local society or perhaps attempt to educate himself with all the resources at hand, and some of his more raucous friends would tell him to go and meet some Gondorian girls. Théodred would launch into a lengthy declaration about the possibilities the royal libraries presented, and Uncle would want him to get to know the Steward's sons a bit better. No doubt Faramir and perhaps Boromir too would have been able to tell and show him things he couldn't even imagine.
But in the end he decided he'd go the stables and check on Firefoot. If all else failed, a man could always trust his horse.
In the stables there was quiet and calm, the kind that perhaps a horselord could understand and appreciate. Stable-hands were away, probably enjoying supper or gone to their own homes already. There was but soft noises of horses, and he sought out his own stallion. Upon his return he had surrendered the horse to a groom, who had cared for Firefoot almost as well as if he had been a man of Rohan. Usually, Éomer preferred to look after his stallion himself – that was, after all, an important part of the companionship between a rider and his horse.
Firefoot, ever the lover of apples, smelled his present right away and eagerly sniffed at his pocket.
"You greedy thing", said the young captain fondly as he pulled out his gift and offered it to his stallion. The apple disappeared with couple great bites.
He was in the middle of petting Firefoot's powerful neck and thinking of the finished campaign when he heard the sniffling sound. Éomer lifted his head and listened attentively, and realised what the sound was: someone was crying.
Curiously he followed the sound, though a part of him wondered if his attention was really appreciated on the instance of crying. But it could very well mean that whoever it was crying was hurt and needed help.
He found her in one of the empty stalls. She sat huddling on a pile of hay, face hidden in her arms as she quietly sobbed. Though he didn't see her face he knew her right away; Éomer felt he'd have known her among a thousand women.
"What is wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked gently as he lay a hand on her shoulder.
She moved fast, as a startled fox that has felt its fate. She reached for her braided hair and pulled out what he had taken for a hair pin decorated with blue water-stones, but as she threatened him with it he realised it was actually a thin blade.
"Peace, Lady! It's just me!" he exclaimed as he jumped back. The woman blinked at him and instantly an abashed look came to her face.
"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to... you just startled me", she mumbled in embarrassment. Blush had come to her pale cheeks, and he thought she needed sun.
"It's quite all right. I should have announced myself somehow", he said gently, "And I rather admire your reflexes. Any warrior would be proud of such swiftness. Now, are you hurt?"
"No... no", she said, looking away from him as she replaced the pin/blade in her hair. What a clever weapon!
"May I ask then why were you crying?" he inquired and offered her his hand to pull her up. She accepted it, and he helped the young woman back on her feet.
"I was just being foolish. It's nothing, really. I shouldn't cry over so small things", she said and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her gown. She was dressed in dark blue shade, plain but made of quality material as far as he could tell. The colour went very nicely with her grey eyes.
"It's not a small thing if it made you cry", he pointed out.
"You're kind, but it really is nothing. I was just arguing with my sister-in-law and I was upset", she sighed. An embarrassed expression returned to her face.
"From our previous conversation I took the impression she was not here in Minas Tirith", he observed.
"You're right. She and her husband – my brother, that is – came here only few days ago", she answered. With somewhat guilty look, she confessed, "I'm already wishing they might go back home soon."
"I'm sorry to hear your relationship is like that", said Éomer, wishing there had been some way he could help her. But what could he do about strained relationships between noblewomen, except perhaps growl at poor Nihtegale's sister-in-law?
"It's all right. They'll leave the city soon enough anyway", she said nonchalantly. Then she summoned a smile on her face, "I'm glad to see you kept your promise."
"Of course. It was easily kept, as I am not entirely inadequate with a sword", he answered and returned her smile. Perhaps it would wipe away what remained of her distress. "Though I admit I was worried how I would find you again. This city is quite a maze."
"I would have found you, horselord", she said softly. A grin came to her face, "For one, you're much too tall to be missed in a crowd. And far too blond, I must say."
That made him laugh.
"Would you believe I even have difficulty blending in back in the Mark?" he said lightly, and now she laughed too. Oh, the sound of her laughter! He thought he could spend the rest of his life listening to it.
"Does that make you the king of the giants, then?" she asked. But even as she spoke a sad expression came to her face, like she had remembered something unpleasant. He hesitated but then voiced out his thoughts.
"Lady, now that I've kept my promise to return alive, would you consider granting me that which I asked of you?" he inquired, keeping his tone gentle and without a demand. But her face fell even more, and now she seemed just plain unhappy. He reached for her, but didn't quite dare to touch, and asked, "Did I say something wrong?"
"Not at all", she whispered. "I just... I shouldn't-"
What it was she shouldn't she couldn't tell, for a sudden noise had her freezing where she stood.
"Sister! Where are you? Little sister!" called a male voice that was nearing the twin doors that lead into the stables. She looked scared and worried and pale, and Éomer opened his mouth to ask what it was. But he never had the chance of delivering his question, for she did something completely unexpected.
She grabbed him by the front of his coat. There was surprising strength in her hands as she pulled him close to herself, and plastered her mouth over his. Little more than that it was at first, but Éomer had never been one to reject the kiss of a beautiful woman. Yet the still working part of his mind understood her reason of doing this. Whoever that man was outside, this strange woman was trying to hide... and he was happy to help.
And so he pushed her against one stony post of a stall, hiding her figure with his own and her face with his hands, and he kissed her.
"Sister-" the voice called again, but Éomer did not turn to see the doubtlessly shocked face of the man; he did register the surprised intake of breath that somehow managed to sound offended. If he were her brother and had recognised her behind the man she was kissing, Éomer would probably have been in some serious trouble.
"Uh, you two just go on, hmm..." was what her seeker managed, and then apparently left.
But the woman before Éomer did not pull back. No, she did not move to end the kiss, though the man seeking her was gone. Instead, a moan rose from the back of her throat, and she threw her arms about his neck... and she kissed him with a kind of fire he had never felt before, and perhaps she was inexperienced and clumsy but he did not care. How could he, when it was like there was the very sun in her kiss, and her lips sought the lines of his mouth, and her fingers were in his hair?
His hands acted out of their own volition as he grabbed her from under her knees, lifting her up, imprisoning her there between himself and the post... oh, if he should let go, he'd die.
Eventually air became necessary, however... and he became aware of the fact that he had rather lustfully kissed a woman who was a daughter of a high noble lord for all he knew. With great effort Éomer was able to pull back and let her stand on her own feet again, but in the depths of her grey eyes he saw his desire answered. He thought of kissing her again and forgetting about the world for another blissful moment, but there was still an important question to be answered.
"Your name", he uttered hoarsely as he rested his forehead against hers, "Please."
"I'm sorry. I can't. I can't answer", she whispered and her voice was broken, and none of it made sense, none expect that he wanted her.
"Why?" he wanted to now. If she should go tonight and leave him with nothing but a memory of her kiss... how was he then supposed to ever return Rohan and forget her?
"Because this can't be. My father... he'd never allow this. And if I see you again – kiss you again – I don't know how I should let go", she answered brokenly, and cruel as her words were, the grip of her hands about him did not turn any slighter.
"Then I will call you Nihtegale", he murmured, trying to calm down his heart. But she was so close, and all he wanted was to kiss her again, and there was an ache in his chest he had not known before.
"What is that?" she asked, looking like she was barely able to speak.
"Nightingale. For you called yourself the odd bird, and I've only seen you at the day's dying", Éomer answered. How was he supposed to let her leave? How should he let go of her, knowing his way lead back to the Mark, and there was little hope of ever seeing her again? What was this, he had to ask: he had only seen her three times, and yet she held such power over him already!
A sob escaped her lips and she buried her face in his shoulder, trembling with tears she did not wish to let fall. So he held her, burying his face in her dark hair... there was a scent of flowers and against his weather-beaten cheek her hair was like silk.
"Come with me, Nihtegale. Ride North with me and let me wrap you in my cloak", he said suddenly, the words pouring out before he could think of them.
She looked up at him and her eyes were bright and clear, and for one insane but glorious moment he thought she would say yes. But then she cast down her gaze.
"I can't", she murmured and he knew she was right; a noblewoman could never – would never – just let some strange barbarian sweep her off her feet and bring her away into north with him... sweet as it was, it could only ever be a dream.
Her hand was gentle when she placed it on his cheek. But in her eyes there was deep sadness.
"You need to let me go", she said softly; his arms were still about her, he realised then... but to just let go? How should he have the strength?
"So you would take your leave, perhaps for ever, and I may not even know your name?" he asked sorrowfully.
"It is better that way. If we don't exchange names then perhaps it is easier for the both of us", she said softly. "Perhaps you'll even forget me."
"No. No", he argued and sought her lips for another kiss, but this time she did not let it go for long.
"Please. You have to let me go, before I say yes and let you take me where you will", she moaned, in such pain that it pierced his heart more than his own grief of knowing what was the right thing.
And so Éomer did do what he knew was right, and let her pass from his arms; the Nightingale fled and left him behind, but it was not all alone.
For with her went his heart.
A/N: Greetings from the sickbed. Everything is Éomer and Lothíriel and everything is crazy.
The "history" about Scribe Lemberion and the written language of Rohirrim are my own invention. I don't know if Rohirrim canonically had a written language at all, but be it as may they weren't a literate as a people. Aragorn notes in Two Towers that they don't write books but sing many songs. In this piece too Rohirrim certainly prefer their songs over written records, but I decided they'd have a written language, even if it's just mostly used in the court.
Nihtegale is Old English for nightingale.
Inspiration for the chapter: Yiruma - River Flows In You
Thanks for the comments, I'm glad to hear you guys are excited about this little story that came out of fever. Now I say no more, but go to sleep.