Not recommended for readers aged 15 and below!
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 25: Rekindling the Flame
CLANK!
Gúthwinë, partially unsheathed, fell out of its red scabbard and made a loud thud as it met the stone floor.
She startled, her feet taken aback and footing slightly unsteady. She turned and found Éomer standing at the door. The shadow of the hallway cloaked his face in the dark. She could not see his expression.
"Sorry," she held her hand against herself and stepped aside. A light flow of embarrassment flashed across her face. Curiosity kills a cat. She should not have touched anything without permission.
She watched as he entered the room with the door whisper-shut behind him. He leaned forward to collect his sword. The pure weight of the sword was straining her wrist when she tried to pull it out. But he managed with such ease. It was not the first time she had seen him with his sword but every occasion of it just increasingly deepened her mystifying attraction to him.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he simply replied whilst whipping Gúthwinë in a fluid motion.
"It is a good sword."
"It is," he held it up; his eyes swept the length of it, from tip to its guard. He remarked absently, "it is my father's."
"How did he…." She released her gaze from his weapon and settled it on him.
"Ocrs!" He grimaced, clenching his teeth at the cursed word. His lips pulled into a bitter twist as he slid Gúthwinë back into its sheath. "He was ambushed by Orcs in Emyn Muil. I had just passed my eleventh summer when his men brought his body back to Aldburg. He would ride against his enemies in hot anger; unwarily and often only take a few men with him. The Orcs hid in the rocks, waited for him to pass and slain him. My mother was deeply grieved."
He looked no more than a child who tried recollecting the residual memories of his parents. She had a sudden urge to pull him into her arms and embrace him.
"There was not a single day that she did not blame herself over his death," he breathed and looked away trying to hide the brief weakness in his voice.
"Why is that so?"
The bitter twist returned to his mouth, his thumb rubbing the bronze horsehead guard which she just laid her finger on a few moments ago. "She dreamed of Gúthwinë dripping in blood before the night before my father left to pursue the Orcs. She thought it was just a dream. It was only after the news of his death reached Aldburg that she realised it was a foresight. A warning which she failed to acknowledge. Ever since that day, she could not forgive herself that she was responsible for his death. Even Uncle could do nothing to lessen her grieve. Soon she took ill and died."
Eyes widened, she braced her chest for a sudden gasp of air. She had the same dream. The night before he left for Snowbourn. The horror of the images returned. The sound of liquid dripping and the taste of iron rushed back, flooding all her sense. How could this be? Strength left her legs suddenly, she reached for the nearest object to stabilise her weakened footing.
"I did not know you could read runes," he said whilst inspecting the inscription on his helm which she just paid great attention to.
"Only your name-"
At her words, he turned immediately to look at her. She covered her mouth at the same instance realising the words that had just left her lips and turned her head away. She dared not meet his eyes. She must have lost her mind to say something so bold and she did not intend to sound so intimate.
As the quiet stretched out, she felt her face begin to flame with embarrassment, suddenly mute when she desperately needed words to get her out of this situation.
"What can I help you with?" A straight eyebrow arched, demanding the reason to explain her presence in his chamber.
She almost forgot why she brought herself here. She straightened her back and leaned against the table,"I wish to…" inhaling and exhaling deeply to replenish some of her lost courage, "….apologise for my outburst today."
"Oh?"
He drew distance between them a little further and landed his weight partially on the long edge of the table, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes closed.
"Hannor told me that…," she explained, casting her gaze to her lap where her hands brutally twisted the fabric of her robe. "…I was very feverish and shivered of cold at the same time...and….and you did what you deemed necessary to…"she dragged her eyes to look at him momentarily before returning them to her lap and her voice became barely audible. "…keep me warm."
The unexplained ambiguity in the air deepened as time passed. The crackling of the fire pit continued to sing in the silence.
"Thank you."
"You should thank Erkenbrand. He was the one who drained the water out of you. I know nothing of that art."
"I did!" she hastened to insert and then added in a slower tone, "I thanked him this afternoon. I spoke and thanked many people this afternoon."
"How is your shoulder?"
He decided to change the subject.
"It is better."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, I don't see the need to hold my hand in a bandage anymore. But the healers keep insisting," she reached out her free hand to lift the bandage over her head and removed her left from the linen cloth. Her left hand went free and she swayed it in front of her, "you see I can even lift it without too much-"
As her hand went out of her sight, she found his huge frame standing right in front of her. Her sentence stayed unfinished. She looked up only to meet his blazing gaze. His eyes had a troubling effect on her. Same as his chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat, for he did not take his eyes from her as he moved even nearer. She could see her own reflection in his amber eyes in which the flickering flame still danced.
The sheer aura dissipating from him was an invisible pressure. It compressed her space, thickening the sheer power and intimidation hanging in the air. This feeling was hauntingly familiar.
Suddenly she felt shy, uncertain of herself. She lowered her head, tearing her eyes away from him, and tried to settle her thought on any object in the room. She held her breath as she felt his free hand brush her loose locks to one side. She could smell him. That earthy and intoxicating scent swirled her mind wild. Her heart was hammering erratically beneath her chest. So loud that she could hear the beating in her ears.
"Lothíriel…" his voice, like always, was rich and dark, almost hypnotising.
His minted breaths blew on her face.
Chewing her lower lip, she dragged her eyes back away from whatever object they were on before to the little floor space between their feet. Her eyes caught the sight of his boots. Large, dark brown they were. The leathers were scratched and lined, evidence of long use and wear. His leggings were just the usual greenish brown pair that he always wore but she shuddered at the pure size and apparent power of his long legs. Had they always been this toned? She found her usual courage slipping away from within, but she forced herself to raise her head, studying the expanse of his torso and shoulders, not missing the length of his arms. They were covered in a beige cotton fabric of a typical night shirt. He had not had his usual tunic on and the laces of his shirt were left unfastened. The solid contours and muscular definition of his exposed chest and flesh further unsettled her. That chest always and still held a maddening appeal to her. Her cheeks were burning and the heat escalated with the thoughts of how she had buried herself in it, craving the warmth from it, when she was still unconscious.
She tightened the lacing of her fingers in her lap. Forcing her gaze to travel the length of him to his throat, her courage plunged and she stared straight into his eyes. She let out the long-held breath as she continued to admire the man before her eyes. Tall, muscular, profound in his physical perfection – she could not find any flaw in him tonight that would lessen the desire she felt building up from within.
"Lothíriel…"he called again, sliding his knuckles on her cheek. The dim of the night cast a gold sheen on her pale skin.
Eyes closed, she did not know if it was a reaction or instinct but her hand enveloped his hand which was on her face, and she brushed her cheek against his palm. A strong hand slipped beneath her hair at the back of her neck. His hand was huge, with the four fingers pressing lightly just beneath her hairline and the thumb following the edge of her jaw.
Warm air blowing on her face became denser. A calloused finger glid upwards from her throat to her chin, lifting it up.
The anticipation grew stronger and reckless with each beat of her heart, with each second.
She felt his moist lips lightly touched hers. They were warm and gentle.
Her breath was dying with every moment passed.
He broke away briefly and whispered, "Breath…"
Just as she gasped enough for a lungful of air, he sealed her lips with another kiss. This time more passionate yet still tender.
His hand now furled again around her neck, bringing her closer to him. His scent lingered, seeping into every pore of her skin. She felt another strong band coil around her waist, straightening her body; bringing her onto her feet as the distance between them became almost non-existent.
She braved herself and followed the call of her body. She pushed herself into him, kissing him back from his upper lip, slowly to his lower lip. Slipping under the cotton fabric, her hands travelled the length of his body, from his abdomen to his chest, feeling every scar and scratch. Her mind was racing in a dark sea. Her heart screamed with mad delight that she could not defy.
He paused very briefly, slightly surprised, then he deepened his kiss, growing fiercer and more demanding. His body was burning raw and his embrace tightened further. She felt the tingling sensation that brought about by his touch or grazing of his beard.
The hand on the back of her neck slipped into the collar of her robe. She could hear the knots of her robe popping off one by one. The chill of air touched her bare skin and sent goose pimples spreading over it. Her fingers dug into his thick blond mane as he trailed his flaming tongue along her jaw line and her throat. She threw her head back and arched herself forward whilst a soft moan escaped from her swollen lips.
This was mad. Truly mad and so wrong yet she could not resist.
Encouraged, he crushed her body to his, shovelling her back against the wall, drinking deeply each inch of warmth on her skin and breathing in her scent.
"What have you done to me..." he whispered breathlessly, kissing the back of her ear.
Every nerve within her resonated at the bliss of his touch. Her breaths ran quick and shallow under his weight.
The moist trailed along the smooth skin of her shoulders and down to her collar bones. It quickly became a path of cold patches when the night air brushed against her flesh.
His hair tangled in her fingers as he buried his head in her chest. Her heart beat roared like thunder in his ears. Her pulse was thudding and racing as rapid as his. His free hand brushed against the exposed velvety and glid along the curvy contour of her frame. His lips nipped her pale skin and left a burning trace on the upper swells of her breasts. He wanted more tonight. Much more. It was frightening.
The fervour of desire threatened to vanquish the last remains of his rationale. He must stop. This wasn't right. He should not be treating her like this. Yet the more he went against his will, the stronger the waves of desire washed over him.
His hand swept along her hip, brushing gently against her inner thighs. Her thighs were strong and supple. Not soft as he presumed. His fingers followed the curve of her leg back to her waist and travelled down her backbone. Every part of her was so well defined. Every curve moulded into his palms so perfectly. Every inch was so addictive. He let his hand slide down and cupped her bottom. She let out a hoarse whisper and lifted her leg up as a response. It nearly consumed every restraint that was left in him. He dropped his hands on her hips and pulled her legs around his waist.
Her eyes flew open instantly as her first experience - feeling his burning masculine desire beneath the interlaying fabrics, struck her: foreign, unfamiliar, something she was completely unaccustomed to. Flash of fear surfaced among the humming pleasure that still lingered in her eyes. He pushed her legs down and wrapped his arm around her waist to support her footing. His other hand pulled her head towards him and rested it against his warm chest.
They had gone too far.
Almost.
"We must not continue…." he mumbled with bated breaths, a hand stroking her sleek hair.
He looked down and saw guilty consternation flashed across her face. Her body shivered.
"I…," he said as he breathed in the pine scent of her hair, "….am sorry…"
It was wrong enough to let her stay in his chamber for all this time, let alone taking advantage of her. He was not brought up this way.
"I can't do this to you," he explained, "…..not without your father's consent."
He felt her arms wrapped tightly around him and she brushed her cheek against his chest. A soft smile touched her face. Her eyes were brimming with glistering mist.
"Éowyn's wedding is soon. Wait until fall."
He finally made a reassurance. Her heart burst of joyous relief. She squeezed her eyes tight; a trail of glittering liquid fell off her cheek.
His calloused fingers caressed her shoulder gently. He paused briefly when they touched the raised bump. His index finger followed the shape of it- a horseshoe, from one end to the other, back and forth. She could hear him grinding his teeth; his breaths became swallow and quick and his body stiffened.
"It does not hurt anymore….. you've killed him."
"Once! Only once!" he said bitterly, "in my dream, I kill him over and over again every night! A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves."
She heard the anger rising in his voice. She broke herself off from his embrace and looked into his blazing irises. So much anger. So much grieve. She caressed his face fondly. "It is over."
"No! It isn't! Not until every outlaw is slain, every Orc is burnt! I wish not to see any walking alive on my land."
There was tightness around his jaw.
Orc hunter was what Enkerbrand called him as she recollected the conversation she had with the West-fold Marshal that afternoon.
"Éomer…."
"Let's stop talking about this," he pulled her robe together and began to fasten the knots on her robe. His voice returned to its normal tone. "You should return to your chamber soon. People might talk." He brushed away her loose tendrils and paused for a moment, hesitated before saying, "…. and you might want to wear something with high collar tomorrow."
"Oh!" The long absent blush returned to her cheeks. Clutching her collar, she rose onto her feet and tried to blink away the embarrassment.
"Good night," she hurried a bow and took her leave.
Éomer waited long after her receding footsteps were gone. He headed into the empty hallway. At the end, it stood a tall figure which was hardly noticeable without trained eyes. He approached the figure without making any noise and asked, "Anything?"
"She came around, lurking behind the pillar over there," with a hand on his sword, Éothain pointed at the pillar diagonally across the hall, "and left after an hour."
"As I expected," Éomer turned around, ready to return to his chamber.
"So?"
His steps halted.
"What?" An eyebrow arched at the question.
"How did it go?"
Éomer furrowed his thick brows and glimpsed at his bodyguard over his shoulder. He let out a sigh of disbelief, shaking his head.
"Did you both make any advancement?"
"What sort of advancement are you hoping to hear?" Éomer asked back.
"I did not hear any noise. I am worried…"
"That I might kill her?"
"That you might crush her…." Éothain beamed a comical grin at his King, lifting his brows up and down.
"You are hopeless," he shook his head again, "I am going to sleep."
"No advancement?" Éothain continued his persistent curiosity.
"Go to bed, Éothain."
With that he paced towards his chamber. He could hear the painfully suppressed laughter from behind.
The morning and days that followed after marked the significant change in the air. Éothain was quite certain something happened that night. The tension between the Lady of Dol Amroth and his King just varnished as if it never existed before. However not everyone was pleased. All but one. He had seen Moriel grinding her teeth or cursing in disgust whenever Lothíriel was near Éomer. There was nothing much Moriel could do after Éomer rejected her that night. Éothain found himself grinning in triumph every time he caught her jealous and envied by the presence of Lothíriel.
Upon their return to Edoras, Éomer immediately announced a few new additions to his household. Édhere, the last remaining rider of the Snowbourim éored, had been temporarily assigned as Lothíriel's guard, until his return to Snowbourn. Wynflaéth was officially made the head of the maids of Meduseld. But the last decision came as a surprise for everyone. Éothain remembered it was at dining time that his King told them.
"From tomorrow onwards, Lady Lothíriel will move into Meduseld," he announced it casually, ignoring all the open jaws across the hall, he turned to the older woman next to Gamling and said, "Wynflaéth, please see to it that everything is in order."
A few of his men exchanged questioning looks among each other. Low mutterings were heard across the hall. Elfhelm, who had came to investigate the Dunlending incident, gestured at his men to keep quiet. He oversaw the running of Meduseld while Éomer was Edoras.
"My Lord!" Lothíriel stood up immediately. "There is no need for such hassle. I am content with my present quarter."
"Sit down please. My Lady."
"But, my Lord. This is truly unnecessary. If there is anyone that should move into Meduseld, surely it will have to be your Quee-" she hastened to defend so quickly that words slipped unexpectedly from her mouth.
She bit her tongue, embarrassed by what she had just said.
He released his gaze from the dish in front of him, before turning to her, "my decision is final. Éothain and Édhere will help with moving your procession tomorrow."
When the first day of the day touched the blossomed plains of Rohan, Éothain and Édhere were already up, helping Wynflaéth to clean and clear out a chamber.
"This is quite a nice room. Still tidy and well kept even after being left vacant for so man-many-ye-years," Wynfléath remarked, coughing, as she brought down the dust-covered curtains and replaced them with a clean pair of ivory.
Éothain pushed the windows open. The morning sun immediately spread its warm wing into the otherwise stark and cold chamber. The fresh of spring replenished the lifeless air. The chamber was not a simple four-walled box. The windows faced eastward with an extended floor space to accommodate a dark ash table and a bench. The rich woodwork decorated the walls and pillars with an interlacing pattern of gold sheen which wove along the standing wooden panels.
Édhere moved an armour stand to another corner and began sweeping off the dust from a nearby dresser. The dresser, unlike the long table, carried a lighter shade and was composed of four tiers of drawers.
"How is the cleaning going?" A tall figure stood leaning against the door.
"Good morning, Marshal Elfhelm!" The trio exclaimed.
"I never thought I would step into this chamber again. It is still the same as I remember it," the grey-haired Marshal stepped in, regarding each object in the chamber with nostalgia.
"Was this your room?"
"Nah! But I visited this room many times with Grimbold and Théodred…."he paused with sadness surfacing from his wrinkled eyes, remembering the friends he lost in battle, "…well…when they were still alive."
The silence spread and everyone became quiet.
The Lord of the East-Mark marched around the sunlit chamber, tapping his aged hand on each panel of the wooden wall.
"It feels like yesterday that I dragged a particular young boy who tried to sneak into any skirmishes back then," a faint smile crossed his face, "Bema's knows, how many times he had bribed my men to hide him behind their horseback! How many times Théodred and Grimbold had to drag him back here! I've lost counts how many times Théoden ordered Háma to guard this door!"
He took a closer look at the armour stand, too small for an adult; it almost looked like a rack for child's play.
"I thought I recall this. So Théodred did make a set of small armour for him."
He continued his steps and looked out from the window, seemingly whispering to himself, "Éomund, my Marshal, my Captain, if you had lived to see the deeds of your son, you would be so proud. So so proud, my old friend."
"This is Lord Éomer's room?"
He turned to look at the younger rider.
"Was. It was his room until he joined the éored. Théoden King fostered him and his sister after their parents died."
"Ahhhh," Éothain sat on the empty bed frame, "I remember my first day as an esquire, and he was already a Seargent. Taught me everything, polishing my sword, shooting a dart from horseback. And we went for my first skirmish after that. I had not seen anyone as deathly as him on a battlefield."
"The most efficient Orc-hunters the Riddermark ever breeds - his father and he! He inherits much of his father's quality. Hot-headed, bold, fierce and frighteningly similar in appearance and build. Sometimes, when I look at the way he thrusts a spear; I have the impression that my Captain is alive again before my very eyes."
As a few of them dwelled in their past memories, a light knock on the door broke the momentarily silence.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, my Lady, I must apologise. The room is not ready. We will need to replace all the furni-"
Lothíriel cut off the older woman, "No. This is fine. Leave everything as it is. I don't need many things. These will suffice."
Unknown to them, she overheard their conversation. So this was his room. She strolled around the chamber, letting her fingers slid along the dresser and the short armour stand.
"Éothain, Édhere, if you could please kindly carry my chests for me? They are outside the cottage."
Elfhelm watched the two young men leaving the chamber, before bowing to both the women, "I must take my leave too, my Lady. There is still much to discuss with Gamling before I return to Aldburg tomorrow."
"I hope to see you at lunch, Lord Elfhelm," she curtsied at the old Marshal.
"You will. Have a good day."
"I am afraid I will have to leave you alone for a while, Lady Lothíriel. I will need to get a new mattress and some auroch-pelts."
She watched the older woman nodding and disappearing from the hallway. Only then she let out a breath that she did not know she was holding for so long. So the chamber was once his. It made her nervous again as the scent of his belongings lingered once more in the air.
Feeling the glare from behind, she turned around.
"I hope it is not too disappointing. Or, is it?" he asked as he entered his previous chamber.
That was just so him. Typical his way of asking and faring people. It never began with 'do you like it….or what do you like…'
"It is just fine," she lit a soft smile.
"Wynflaéth is getting a new mattress and some pelts. Édhere and Éothain, the donkeys, have gone to carry my chests," she added, snickering at her own words.
"You don't have much I presume."
He leaned against the dresser, legs and arms crossed. He wore his full armour today. She guessed he would probably go out for a ride later with his men.
"Not really," she went around the bed frame and came in front of him. Brushing away the loose blond bands in front of his forehead that missed the knot of his half pony tail, she looked into his hazel-green eyes. "You don't have to do this, you know."
"I decide what I deem appropriate."
"People will question why has their King allowed a female with no apparent connection to dwell in the Golden Hall."
"That connection is mine to define," he glanced at her from head to toe, "…some day."
She slipped her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. He being in full armour had always been her weakness. Tiptoeing, she could not resist. "Éo-"
"Cough!"
The pair broke away instantly. Éomer came in front of her, shielding her with his tall frame.
Her face flamed with embarrassment. She wished she could just varnish into thin air now. Valar's sake! What was she doing? Kissing their King in broad daylight? In a chamber with open door! Stupid! Stupid she was!
"What?"
Éothain stood, digging the heel of his boot. The other rider just kept his eyes on the chest that they were carrying, tracing the hardened leather seam along the edge. Obviously Éothain was the more courageous one. "Hmm….where do you want your chests, my Lady?"
Lothíriel inhaled deeply to brave herself. "Over the large dresser, please, Éothain."
"I will leave you to it."
The King of the Mark left the trio.
"Argghhh, they are heavy!" he complained as he dragged them into her chamber.
She rushed over to where they were resting her chests. "Be careful. They are paintings, drawings, journals, lores and tomes. They are very precious!"
"Books?"
Éothain looked at her, disbelief. He went to the door and pointed at the few other chests lying on the floor, "Are you saying you have six HUGE chest of books?"
"I'm sorry."
Lothíriel forced a weak smile as the two men whom she just called donkeys dragged another brown chest into her chamber.
"I've seen women with chests of clothes. Not women with chests of books…." Éothain continued his unhappy mumbling.
"I am sorry, Éothain! I know they are heavy."
"They are more than heavy!" said the young Marshal, swiping the sweat off his forehead.
"I promise your effort will be rewarded! I will make sure the kitchen prepare something good today," she tried her bribery skill.
"You better do, 'cause these are damn heavy!"
Lothíriel smiled again at her friend. How she had grown to love this piece of land and the people!
Éothain soon found that the 'attempted assault' on his King was soon becoming one of the common sights in Edoras. Sometimes he would creep behind his King and laugh at the pair. One such instance included the busy kitchen of Meduseld.
She worked her busy fingers around the worktop, slicing the onions, dicing the chicken, kneading the pastry…..
His King would stand at the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He studied her slender figure while she darted between the stove, the oven and the work top. One second, she would curse because the fire in the oven was too small and start pumping more air with a leather bellow. Another second, she would take a sip of the gravy from the cooking pot, taste it and talk to herself. The next second she would flatten a dough and spread with a rolling pin.
Sometimes Éomer would remind her if things went amok.
"Your stove is burning."
"Your pie has leaked."
"You forgot to flip your steaks."
"You have not added any salt."
She, in response, would forbid him from disturbing her.
"Get out!"
"Don't touch that!"
"It is for the children!"
"Don't dip your finger in it!"
Of course, Éothain was not the only curious one. He quickly found his companions.
He was hiding behind one of the terrace but he saw Éomer leaving the orphanage with Lothíriel. His mighty King was smiling and he had a broken bench over his shoulder. They headed towards the Middenvale, probably looking for one of the woodworkers to repair the bench.
Éothain was laughing when a stone went flying at him. He ducked it. Then another came. He ducked again. Another came again. He ducked again. Behind him, he heard a thud sound, repeating twice. He looked up and saw Éomer pointing a warning finger at him. And he turned to look behind and saw two poor riders, groaning, each with a dent in their helmets: Édhere and Stán. The trio shared a laugh and continued spying on their King.
But unknown to Éothain, the happy days would soon fade when a letter from Dol Amroth arrived in Edoras just three days before they left for Osigiliath.
Standing next to the firepit, Lothíriel watched with brimming tears as the crackling fire melted the letter.
That letter arrived in the afternoon, addressed to her, a seal of a trout on it. It was the emblem of the house of her deceased mother. The one that her youngest brother promised to use only when there was an urgency afoot.
Only when it was a matter of life and death.
She squeezed her eyes at the flying embers.
The flame devoured the parchment until the last word which was still visible for a very short moment before it turned into ashes.
The last word read: poison.
TBC
-A debate that leads into disagreement between Éomer and Lothíriel.
-Lothíriel goes to extreme measure to remove the boar-tusk bracelet that she received as a Yule gift (which was presented in the least polite way!)
-Wedding of Éowyn and Faramir. First visit to the Ford of Éowyn.
Footnotes:
Ford of Éowyn:As described in Karen Wynn Fonstad's book.
Éowyn's presence after burial of her uncle: Lore-wise, she spends most of her time in Minas Tirith with Faramir, overseeing the construction of her new home (you can look at at the Council of Elrond forum if you wish). In medieval times, engaged couples are considered married.
Éomer King or King Éomer? This depends on the context of your story. If it is set in Rohan and speaking in the language and culture of Rohirrim, it would be Éomer King (Note that Rohirric is based on Old English/Anglo-Saxon. O.E. is very different from modern English). If it is in common speech aka Westron, then it is King Éomer.
Author's note:
I have nothing else to say :p except that I re-edited the whole romance scene to make it less lemon and more romantic...if it is any...
And I think I have tortured them enough. They damn well deserve some good days together :P
Another big thank you for all the reviews I received for last chapter! It is always overwhelming to know someone out there, somewhere in a corner of the world, behind a screen, is reading your work and appreciates your work enough to drop a review! THANK YOU!
xmmara: Hannor is amazing! There will be an emotional exchange betwen him and Lothíriel next chapter.
Talia119: With all the screams and shouts, I see no reason why he won't be the new idol of the Rohirrim :p (or maybe Éomer could try to surpass him...)
BrightWatcher: I hope this is not too lemon! ;) I tried to be as vague as possible...
average-ninja: I did not stop! I continue! :)
JMBM: Oh I hope this chapter will grant your husband another 20mins to do his programming! ;)
b5delenn: Exactly! It is hard to contain when the urge is strong! I hope you like the romantic moment in this chapter!
cCeret: Some of the great ideas of the reproduction scene came from my great reviewers! :D
Dr.l_ust: (for some reason, FF net does not like the word l.u.s.t)That last scene of Chapter 24 is my favourite too! Only a woman in love can be so gentle with the belongings of the man she loves!
Please review! I still and always welcome any sort of comments regarding my grammar or spelling etc! Thank you!