Princess Lothiriel walked purposefully through the healers' garden to her favorite bench at the far eastern wall. Her thick black braid wrapped her head like a coronet, and she kicked the heavy hem of her long grey healer's robes just to enjoy the movement.
She was intent on the private spot to reread an uncomplicated childhood favorite with a happy ending. Written about forty years before she was born, it was also the only book she had ever read that mentioned hobbits, creatures she was obsessed with after meeting Merry and Pippin. Unfortunately, the book only mentioned one hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, and the extent of his presence was constrained to a short description of his person at the festivities after Smaug was defeated.
After the day she had had, only a happy ending would do. Otherwise she might start screaming at the malingering patients and impatient doctors she had to deal with. First, her three orneriest patients had asked her for sponge baths this morning even though she knew the cronies had been given baths just yesterday. Second, not one, not two, but three senior healers had stopped her in the middle of making anti-infection salve to check that she had properly steeped the germander. Six and a half weeks of making the lotion by herself, and now everyone needs to check the process?
The princess cum healer sighed, trying to clear her thoughts. The three erstwhile bathers had been bed-ridden since the Battle of Pelennor Fields and she knew that continued inactivity for previously hearty men was psychologically wearing. Perhaps she should take her own prescription and offer them books to take their minds off mischief. And the senior healers' questioning was really a good sign in disguise. It meant that the load of desperate injuries was lightening, allowing them to think on more administrative tasks.
Her bad mood was not the fault of the healing house denizens.
It had been a long seven weeks since the siege of Minas Tirith began. In all that time as well as the preceding year, her work as a healer had been straightforward, occupying her every waking moment and defining her purpose. But now the soldiers were back from the Black Gates, including her father and brothers who also expected her to be a princess. Sleep had been scarce for a while and her double duties shortened her rest even further – no boon to her naturally curt demeanor.
The final straw was when her Aunt Ivriniel had arrived last night for King Elessar's coronation ceremony, lecturing her long and hard about royal duties. There was no way she was going to be able avoid the court gala this evening as she usually did.
When she rounded the last corner, she pulled up short. Her destination bench was already occupied by a large soldier – King Eomer of Rohan. Even to her almost five-foot-ten slender stature, he seemed a towering giant. His severe face was crowned today only with his own flowing wheat-gold hair. Clad in brown leather boots and breeches, his open collared flowing white shirt rolled up to his elbows, he sat squarely in the middle of her favorite spot.
That would not do. The bench was at least six feet long. He would just have to pick a side. She moved forward again having overcome her initial surprise.
Upon closer inspection, the new king looked tired, faint blue bags shadowing his long-lashed hazel eyes. He slumped forward over his knees, chin propped on big fists, staring at his sister and her suitor barely visible behind the huge tangled rose arbor.
At least now his face was clear of despair – the first, last, and only time she had seen him before was when she had brought King Elessar to his sister's sick bed. He had been kneeling beside the cot, holding a grieving vigil over her blackened arm and deathly pallor. Now he looked more hopeful, clearly content to watch Faramir court an obviously interested Eowyn.
If he was anything like her brothers, he would never tell Faramir that.
She strode over to the bench, forestalled from demanding space when he looked up and moved over silently. He smiled politely, clearly intent on going back to his sentry duty until he glanced at her book, doing a clumsy double-take at the title "Tales of Long Lake".
"That's one of my favorite books." He smiled at her with more interest. "Which story is your favorite? Mine is the one where Bard killed the Dragon."
Lothiriel sat beside the Rider, happy to have found a fellow book-lover. "Well, I used to like the Battle of Five Armies best. It seemed so exciting. But now that I've lived through one myself, I think I might prefer Alanna's hunt in Mirkwood."
He smiled at her in sympathy. "The big battle was one of mine too, until I moved on for the same reason – after my first battle in the eored. Of course, I think I have held almost half the tales as a favorite at one time or another."
He continued, chuckling in remembrance, "Once when Eowyn and I had the chicken pox, my favorite for the week was the one about the ladybug plague. I told her that the itchy spots were our own horde of ladybugs to command. If we could command them forcefully enough, they would stop itching."
She laughed out loud, tickled to picture this serious warrior and his solemn sister scolding their rashes. "I love that one too. I wish I could go to Long Lake in the spring and see the clouds of ladybugs in the meadows."
They traded favorite stories and scenes back and forth until their discussion eventually faded into companionable silence.
After they both had watched Eowyn and Faramir for a while, he broke the silence, nodding at the couple and asking, "So what do you know of him?"
"Well, he's my cousin. I am Lothiriel, your highness."
"Call me Eomer. So Imrahil is your father?"
"That he is. You know him?"
"When sharing a battle and two week forced march, you cannot help but get to know your companions. I know him and your brothers well. They told me some fairly entertaining tales of you."
She cringed, imagining what he possibly could have heard. "Ugh. Please don't tell me. I'll tell you about Faramir instead." So she proceeded to tell him tales from their childhood, mostly fond illustrations of a slightly older and fairly responsible cousin.
She finally stopped when the sun slipped lower, warming their bench through the arches at the balcony edge of the garden. Eomer turned his face towards the sun, stretching and then groaning in pain.
"Eomer! Are you injured?"
"No, I'm fine. I'm just sore and stiff. These last few days have been wonderful. No marching and no fighting, but now all of the myriad pains I had been ignoring for months, maybe years, are a little more obvious."
"I can help with that. Lay down." She stood gracefully and swept her arm out to encompass the flat bench.
He stretched out face down, head pillowed on his arms, his feet dangling over the far end. "Be gentle. This body really has taken a pounding lately," he said through a waxing yawn.
She started by kneading the heavy muscles along his spine, moving up to his broad shoulders, and spending time on each trapezoid, deltoid, and upper arm. It was difficult for her to reach his far left side against the wall, but since he kept making appreciative hums, she figured her technique was satisfactory. He was much bigger than any of her brothers, taller and broader through the shoulders. His latissimus dorsi were also much wider than her brothers, probably from swinging a heavier sword and the long horse-spears. However, when she attempted to dig her fingers into them, he flinched and snorted out a laugh so she moved on.
From her ministrations of the other Rohirrim, she knew they carried a lot of tightness in their sacrospinalis and gluteus media from riding, so she returned again and again to those spots, alternating with kneading his calves, thighs, buttocks, and even his scalp. By the time she was satisfied that she had gotten the knots out everywhere, he was emitting soft snores.
Happy with her efforts, she picked her book back up and sat down cross-legged on the path near his head, leaning her shoulders against the bench. With the sun warm on her face, she read through several of the stories they had just discussed.
Occasionally she looked up to where Faramir and Eowyn were still talking, limned with sunlight against the darkening plains towards Osgiliath. Taking on his watchful chaperonage was easy – the couple seemed content to simply clasp hands and converse, drinking in each other's company. As the sun slipped beyond the edge of the arched balcony and the garden turned cooler, the gentle pair strolled towards their bench.
Lothiriel grinned at Eowyn's amused giggle upon viewing the reposing warrior and waved them on. "Let him sleep. That way he can't chaperone," she whispered at the two of them.
"Will we see you at King Elessar's pre-coronation ball tonight, Thiri?" Faramir asked quietly.
The black-haired princess wrinkled her nose at the thought of being friendly, although she was in a much better mood now than she had been upon entering the garden.
Eowyn remarked, "Eomer has to go and do the pretty. He hates that."
Lothiriel nodded thoughtfully in sympathy. "Lovely. I hope to be entertained watching him act the bear."
Eowyn giggled again softly at her droll tone.
"I suspect you will be a matched pair, Thiri." Faramir turned to Eowyn. "She used to bet with us on how fast she could get her mother to dismiss her from dancing."
"I was eight years old, Miri!" Lothiriel hissed back at him. "And as I recall, the bets were which one of us could get kicked out faster," she riposted in mock affront. "Although I still don't enjoy balls as much as Aunt Ivriniel feels I should. She lectured me for hours last night before I finally caved and promised I would go. So I will be there in all my finery and on my best behavior."
"Poor Thiri. I bet she's determined to parade you in court while all of the nobles are here for the coronation."
"Mmmhmm. She actually told me that she plans to marry me off before I turn twenty-one, as if my work as a Healer is wasting my time."
Eowyn looked at her in sympathy. Lothiriel felt her understanding, even though she knew Eowyn no longer aspired to be anything but Faramir's wife and chatelaine. The healer agreed with the former shieldmaiden that after fulfilling her original warrior's dream with the horror of killing the Witch King of Angmar, any sane person would concentrate on creating life and comfort. Lothiriel was glad that the lovely blonde seemed to be well on her way towards achieving said goal.
"Perhaps you should marry my brother. Rohan is going to need a lot of healing in the next few years," Eowyn said as she gestured fondly to his sleeping form.
"And then I might get some inside support for my suit," Faramir joked as wrapped his arm around Eowyn's shoulders and pulled her closer.
Eowyn looked up into his face adoringly. "That's my plan. Strategy, my dear, strategy." Faramir chuckled and led her off down the path, bidding his cousin adieu.
Lothiriel let her companion sleep for another twenty minutes after they left, then stroked a slender hand down his back. "Eomer, wake up. You will need to dress for the ball this evening."
"Will you be there as well?" he asked her sleepily when his eyes finally fluttered open.
"Yes. My Aunt Ivriniel tortured me into it last night." Lothiriel pulled a face as she responded, but it quickly softened into a smile when she saw how pleased Eomer looked at her affirmation.
"Then save the first dance for me, please." He levered himself off the bench and, with a quick wave over his shoulder, trotted away down the path. She watched bemusedly until he was out of sight, and then wriggled in delight before racing off to her own preparations.
A/N: This is my sister's favorite accidental first date – an introductory chat over a book.