All characters of LOTR are copyright of J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprise. Unless otherwise stated, most personality and physical appearance are based on both Tolkien and Sir Peter Jackson's Lord of The Ring Trilogy.
Éomer's appearance is based on the portrait by New Zealand actor Karl Urban as in Jackson's LOTR Trilogy
My first attempt at crafting a tale of Éomer Éadig of Rohan and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Story may contain angst, adult content (including description of human parts or animal parts), violence and use of foul languages. Elements of MMORPG LOTRO are also evident in the story. And do remember that English is actually my third or fourth language so there will be puntuation and grammatical mistakes.
Based on post War of the Ring, so this is an AU.
A few things you should know about this fanfic:
Éomer is not a Disney prince charming. He is rude, violent and he curses. He does not hold back his temper. He would kill even if the enemy is a woman. If you want a Mr Perfect Romance, this fanfic is not your taste. Lothíriel is not an amenable person. She is imperfect with a very stubborn attitude and she is a woman, not a girl. Hence this is no girl/teen romance, not girlish admiration. There is no love at first sight between them. Their exchange is somewhat troublesome. There is hardly any sweet exchange of words, if you are expecting Éomer saying I love you and praises Lothíriel of her beauty, you are on the wrong page. Lothíriel knows horse-riding. It is not a virtue but I deem it as a basic skill that most people could ride an animal in Middle-earth (Come on, even orcs could ride wargs!). How would one travel if he/she could not mount? There is a weakness in everyone. Crying does not mean you are weak. This applies to men too. Sexual desire is not a sin. But doing so by force and causing physical harms at the same time are.
No Mary-sues.
You have been warned!
Summary of Chapters
1-7: First meeting of Éomer and Lothíriel and the friction that follows after
8-12: Troubles from Dol Amroth and Imrahil's reaction
13-18: Journey to Edoras and life in Rohan begins
19: The moment they both nearly lose it
20: The momentary separation
21: The rescue
22-23: Gamling is reunited with his wife
24: Éomer's attempt at explaining the act of reproduction to a child
25: The romance unfolds
26: A little memory of Éomer and Éowyn
27: When self-control slips silently
28: The days of separation and Éomer discovers another side of his future queen
29: Visit to Dol Amroth, Imrahil's interrogation and the long awaited proposal
30: Lothíriel's first attempt at defending her riders
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 1: of Harmed and Salves
Ford of Isen
End of March, 3020 T.A.
She struggled as she fell off the cliff and into the quick stream. The cold liquid with much pleasure began to invade her senses, drowning her. She held her breath. The desperate need for air grew dire and overthrew her will. A gust of air bubbled violently out of her mouth and nostril. Her fight against the invading liquid was revenged by the turbulent ciele of river water biting into her nose, flooding her throat and piercing into her lungs.
She choked.
She kicked her legs and swung her arms vigorously. She had little strength left. No food since the days ago, ten or eleven or more maybe, she could no longer remember.
With the very final piece of her strength, she tried to open her eyes in search for the forlorn hope. Then she saw a tiny strip of cloth streaming in the water, down it went. She wished that the message would have gone through before it was too late for her.
The very warmth of her blood seemed to fade from the inside. It must reach them. It must reach them before the abyss took her. Her vision blurred. Her thoughts drifted. Parchments of memories were dancing in front of her sea-grey eyes. The pieces of yesterdays still seemed vivid and fresh. She fought with her arms and legs but none in which she could find leverage. Her body continued to burn asking for need for air and she got none.
How she wished it could have ended differently but it was too late.
She could feel the root of her hair starting to grow numb. The devoid of sensation spread from her ears, creeping over her forehead. She let out a whisper then darkness engulfed her.
Fields of Pelennor
15 March 3019 T.A.
She recalled it was 15 March 3019. No words could describe the hoof-dented fields now lined with bodies of fallen heroes, war creatures, splintered armor and weapons and corpses of friends and foes. So much was lost and yet a gloom hope it has brought.
She had been allowed by her father to be responsible for the household of Minas Tirith. Upon their arrival on 9th, she requested to be the head of the servants while her father and brothers busied themselves with army issues.
Once a glorious and proud The White City was, shambles that were left of Minas Tirith. An easy daily task, it seemed at Dol Amroth, now carried with too much of a great weight on her shoulders and heart. Hefty was her heart when she scanned across the tents of the wounded yet brave. Would they whom had fought against this great evil survive this night, she knew not. She was no healer, or herb-lore. Yet her task was to ensure not a single man was left untended and behind.
As she approached the dressers and chests of the healers, her slender fingers ran through the items within. Young she was and yet evidence of fatigue showered on her face and hands for no princess would have done what she had offered herself to. A decision that even now she had never regretted and only wished she had made that choice earlier.
She calculated and noted each item with attentive concern. Everything was running short, being it resources or one's energy. Her uncle did not prepare his city or his people for the peril of this war, let alone one that nearly consumed the hope of the people of Middle-earth. The healing salves and herbs were running low quickly. She had urged and warned the healers to use them wisely. As soon as she arrived in Minas Tirith with her father, brothers and their men, she had sent for more salves to be prepared and delivered from Dol Amroth but they might arrive too late for these injured men.
Just as she was going through the second chest, three blond men entered the tent. She smelled blood, sweat, horse and dirt of them as they passed her. They were conversing in a tongue that she did not understand. They were those Rohirrims, she assumed, who rode from Dunharrow to fulfil an old oath. An oath that they paid with a heavy price - the death of their king, Théoden King. Their armour looked worn from battle. Their faces were grimed. Clods and dried blood were all over their faces and hairs.
"Marshal Erkenbrand sent a message. There is no further attack in Rohan so far." Elfhelm led his new king around the tent.
"That is, indeed, good news." His king paused and said, "I will write him a letter personally to inform him the death of Dúnhere." Dúnhere was Marshal Erkenbrand's nephew. He fell in the battle today, like many other men, defending Middle-Earth and fulfilling the Oath of Eorl.
Gamling and Elfhem were addressing Éomer about the level of casualty they had suffered. Éomer surveyed his injured comrades those that were still conscious one by one. Too much he had lost today. His heart arched as one of the injured riders tried to stand himself up to greet his new king.
"Please stay and get some rest, my brother," he acknowledged the effort of the wounded soldier and he drew a close look at the man's leg. "It looks like you need more medicine?" He asked and could not help but frowned at the extent of injury his man had received. A deep cut across his thigh, so deep that he could see the white of his femur.
"My lord, please do not worry about me. Please rest yourself. You have done too much today." Replied the injured soldier.
"Please, Éomer King. Take some rest." Gamling was concerned that his young king was pushing himself too far. Éomer had lost his uncle today and almost his sister. Éowyn, was still weak even after she was blessed with the healing hands of Lord Aragorn.
"No, Gamling. I need to check all our men." Éomer gestured to Gamling to stop him from continuing. A stubborn head he was Éomer, Gamling already knew, refusing to take his leave to rest.
"We need more salves for our men," He continued to search around the bed but there was none. Then he turned his sight around and noticed two medicine chests opened and filled with a few jars of salves. He stood up and walked quickly over. Without a word, he grabbed two bottles. But before he could get back to his man, a hand grabbed his wrist. He turned his head back and saw a pale hand on his wrist and he followed it to meet the eyes of its owner. His intense green-hazel glare met with a pair of determined grey eyes.
"Where do you think you are going with those two jars of healing salves?" She questioned his intent. Her voice was loud partly because she was taken by surprise and partly because the action was simply rude. Taking without permission is stealing. It was loud enough that the three other Rohirrims standing at the other corner could hear her.
It was a difficult task to make sure all resources were shared and used adequately but there were always some people who liked to make it harder for others, taking advantage during such unrest. One such as this blond man who snatched two jars of healing salves without even asking.
She looked upon a pair of eyes of intense green and amber. In them she saw the flame of fury flickered. She answered his glare with a raised eyebrow, demanding her question answered. She showed no intent to loosen her grip on his wrist. He frowned and snorted. "My men are in pain! I need these salves to ease their pain!" He was angry. Since when did one have to seek permission to soothe the pain of his men?
"Supplies are running low. And, you cannot have them. Too much has already been wasted on negligent use." She loosened her grip but went on to retrieve the two jars from his hand and returned them to the medicine chest and continued her work. She did not show a slight interest to listen to him further.
"I will need some."
"May I rephrase that you cannot have them!"
"Woman, I did not know what your role is here. But-" His ire was building up within. His brows drew even closer. His nostril flared and he could hear the volume of his voice rising.
"Healing salve will not ease his pain." She turned around and interrupted him, looking up again at him with a pair of blazing almost pale iris. "He will need some anaesthetic liquid and painkillers. The former made up of opium, henbane, mulberry juice, lettuce, hemlock, mandragora, and ivy. The latter blend of chamomile, comfrey, cowbane and deadly nightshade!" She snapped but she managed to keep her tone low enough not to awake those sleeping soldiers.
"Where can I find some?" He demanded and suddenly closed in the distance between them. His gloved hands seized firmly on her upper arm. She could feel his grip on her tightening. She now realised how tall this discourteous man was. She was merely at the height of his ears. His height and size were intimidating. The aura of authority that radiated from him was overwhelming. Too many times she had seen such radiated power among her family, from her father especially.
She continued to ignore him as if she did not hear him.
He looked into her grey eyes and his teeth bared and clenched with every word he said. "Tell me, where can I find it?" His grip on her arms tightened even more. Her upper arms began to feel the strain from his physical strength.
She struggled to shake off his strong hands but her effort bear no fruit. Annoyed and irritated by his angry tone and his reluctance to release his grip, she became furious. "If you could kindly let go of me, my lord, then I will be able to find some! For Valar's sake, you are the most impatient man in the Middle-earth! Will you let go?"
Her infuriated tone slapped him like a cold fish. He suddenly realised his action was lack of restraint and his grip loosen, releasing her. He tore his glare away from her. A sense of guilt ran through him, condemning himself for not being able to hold his temper. With a faint sigh, he turned back to her with a softer glance and voice, he said, "I apologize."
Her lips flattened but she said nothing. She did not appeared angry anymore. She turned her attention away and searched through the other chest for the medicines.
Gamling approached and said to Éomer in their tongue, "My lord, you need the strength to lead the men, if you could please leave this to Marshal Elfhelm and me." He put a hand on his lord's right shoulder urging his lord to make his leave.
Just before he surrendered upon the persistence of his loyal comrade, the lady approached them with 3 jars in her hands. She brought them to their eyes and spoke in a neutral tone, "The two green jars are painkillers. Apply as needed but do not consume. It can kill if it gets into the stomach. The brown is anaesthetic. Apply thrice a day and do not over use." She dropped them in Éomer's hands, "Please use them wisely. There are too many wounded today and too little medicines."
With a disheartening sigh, she continued, "We nearly lost two men at the House of Healing today as there are not enough to go around." Her fingers clenched and twisted the edge of her apron. "I have seen enough deaths today."
Éomer noticed her tone was almost shaky when she finished. He looked at those little jars in his hands and returned his glance on the woman in front of him. With a nod, he and Gamling both thanked her.
"He who rides hardest tires first." She gave them a very weak smile and headed towards the entrance of the tent. "Get some sleep, my lords." She bowed and left.
He who rides hardest tires first. These words echoed in Éomer's ears.