Upon joining the Riders in the First Circle of Minas Tirith, Éomer was thoroughly relieved to perceive his sister's smaller shape among the men. He approached her, aware he would be greeted with nothing but hostility, but determined to break the ice which had frozen over between them. "You have very little baggage with you," he commented.
"Lucky steed."
Éowyn glanced up at him.
"Well, I did not expect to return."
Éomer was surprised to find that despite the neutrality and disinterest expressed in her tone, she no longer appeared to be sulking.
"Fortunately, you will be returning," he said. Only after he had spoken did he realize how she might understand him – he had intended to show happiness at her recovery, but it sounded as though he found joy in removing her from Gondor.
"Fortunately indeed," she answered levelly, swinging up onto her horse in a casual manner which would have become Dernhelm, but looked appallingly inappropriate on a Lady of Rohan. She could not care less, and although she had come to terms with her brother's decision, she took pleasure in noting the uneasiness this action caused him.
In truth, she was anxious. Faramir had not yet come to bid the party farewell, and she feared he might miss them. Éomer was eager to leave and so were the Riders; she seemed to be the only of the group desiring to stay. However she comforted herself with the thought that King Elessar had not yet revealed himself either, and they would have to wait for him before their departure.
Éomer was busy preparing his ride and worrying over his sister, when someone behind him coughed a small, polite cough. He turned, and recognized one of the women from the Houses of Healing – a relation of some kind to the Steward, he recalled scornfully.
"My lord, you forgot your sword behind... You've got the sheath, but the blade is missing, you left it in your chambers..." she said, in a manner both well-spoken and awkward. She held the sword out to him, though in so inexperienced a fashion he thought he might laugh; she apparently expected him to grasp it by the blade.
Another thought occurred to Éomer – the more effort he made to remember his preparations, the more certain he grew that he had taken the sword with him. And weapons did not remove themselves from their sheaths by their own free will.
"Why, thank you," he said, accepting the blade. Now that he was face to face with the girl, he recognized the family resemblance between her and Faramir, though he silently remarked that she wore the features better than her relation. "But who do I thank?"
"Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, my lord."
"That's quite a name," he grinned. "But I am very fortunate indeed, for without Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, I should be without my sword." The confident manner in which she dismissed his gratitude spoke of some deliberate intervention on her part, but instead of feeling anger at having been so fooled by a young Gondorian maid, Éomer found her oddity quite amusing.
"It does not truly matter," she said. "I am certain they could have forged you a new sword, the smiths in Rohan. I hear they are very skilled and produce objects near as fine as those of the Elves or the Dwarves."
"Near as fine? Goodness! That is no way to flatter a King, now, is it?"
"Pfft. I can count the weeks you have been king on my fingers!" Again, the insolent words merely stole a smile from Éomer's lips.
"You certainly know how to make people feel inferior," he laughed. "I suppose that is very easy for Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." He emphasized the grandeur of her name teasingly, and she turned a furious pink. "Begging your pardon, sire," she stammered, red to the roots of her dark hair.
"I only meant to leave you with a witty reminder of Gondor."
"And a very beautiful reminder at that, too," added Éomer, but before Lothíriel could undertake blushing further – the possibility of which he doubted – a fanfare sounded and the High King of Gondor, still known by close companions as Lord Aragorn, appeared, walking down towards the Riders with his Steward at his side.
"King Elessar!" cried Éomer warmly, striding forth to greet his host.
As the party finally made to go, for the two kings were exchanging a few last words, Faramir approached Éowyn to bid her farewell.
"My lady," he addressed her.
"You know, I have been thinking. I believe I shall run away from Edoras and return to you very soon," she said, grinning. He laughed, relieved by the jest in her tone – any serious consideration of attempting such an elopement would no doubt result in failure and remorse. And possibly his own death, at the hands of her brother.
"I shall be waiting for you," he replied.
"Good." She paused. "Farewell, Faramir."
"Good-bye," he smiled. "We shall meet again soon, I am certain. Until then, my lady."
"Until then," she nodded.
Éomer rode to the front of the group, and after a moment's pause to check all was ready, the City gates were swung open and the Rohirrim spurred their rides forward. As they left Minas Tirith, Éomer's thoughts were no longer turned towards the feat of settling into his throne in Rohan, or the quandary which was Éowyn's infatuation with the Lord Faramir. He was beginning to deem the idea of returning to Gondor tolerable, for there was one face he suddenly wished he did not have to leave behind. Lothíriel, the girl who stole my sword, he thought, already finding it difficult to remember her fair features exactly as the fields of Pelennor rolled by him and his kinsmen.
Returning to Edoras was not as distressing as Éowyn had feared; though the latter years she had spent there had been grim indeed, it was her home, and in her determination to stay at Faramir's side she had not realized how sorely she missed the halls of Meduseld, where she had played with Theodred and Éomer as children, and learned to ride – in fact, she could not recall her life prior to Edoras. At least in the company of her own people, with their cheerful faces reddened by the cold winter winds and their fair hair turned golden by the summer sun, she could act as she wished; they loved her, she was their Shieldmaiden. The Rohirrim did not judge her... Memories of the Gondorian women resurfaced, those of hostile eyebrows raised at the mud on her petticoat, or chuckles at her mispronunciation of certain words.
She shook her head at the negative recollections; no silly old matron could threaten her love for Faramir. Nevertheless, she could hardly admit to preferring Minas Tirith over her homeland.
But if she was gladly rid of the city, the Steward remained ever present in her thoughts. She wrote to him daily, careful to leave this activity unbeknownst by Éomer, and delighted in receiving answers, though they were often a couple of days old due to the distance to cross. She told him of her daily activities and the rebuilding of the Mark, and he wrote of his own novel duties as Prince of Ithilien. Through the letters, Éowyn found the trial of being parted from Faramir bearable.
As for the King himself, he was finding the throne more comfortable than he had expected; his new responsibilities kept him occupied but not exhausted. The Rohirrim were eager to rebuild the Westfold and repair the damage inflicted by Isengard, and their cooperation meant that the tasks were accomplishable. His power was not challenged, and his person respected... In truth he could not have asked for a better beginning to his reign.
His anxieties did not leave him, however, and he kept a careful eye on Éowyn. The guilt of not having been there for her during the end of Theoden's reign was still raw – the thought that she might have perished on the battlefield, unrecognised and abandoned, nagged at his conscience day and night. The worst part of it was that she had sought this death, purposefully rode out to war hoping not to return, and he had not helped her. She claimed... She claimed that the Steward had. But he rejected the thought that he, the son of a foreign lord, a mere Ranger of the South, had triumphed where Éomer himself had failed, that he had saved her when her own brother had not.
What Éowyn was experiencing was simply infatuation for the exotic and unknown – for all his calm and wisdom, Faramir was unlike all men she had met in her young life, and therefore exciting in the way novel discoveries are. He convinced himself that he had been right to separate them, before one of the two lovers grew weary and hearts were broken. Anyway, he doubted the sincerity and good intentions of this Steward: he had seen the way he looked at his sister. Éomer knew such desire all too well; and seeing it in the eyes of another man, caused by his Éowyn! it had been all he could do to not skewer him through with his sword.
Yes, he decided, It had been a wise choice to remove his sister from the Steward of Gondor. Even so, he watched her mood carefully. He did not doubt that she was still of a different mind to his when it came to his decision, being hot of temper and strong of heart; ever he feared a relapse in her recovery, a sudden frown, a miserable glance, anything which might hint at that which King Elessar had described as a 'frost'. Fortunately, though weeks passed, it did not seem that she was in any way unhappy, and her manner was that of one content with one's situation.
He approached her one fine April morning, as she was sitting down to write he knew not what. When he entered the chamber, she hurriedly put the parchment away and turned to greet him warmly.
"Éowyn, I bear good news," he declared, feeling that she deserved the surprise after her efforts at forgetting the Steward and settling back down in Rohan.
"Being?" she prompted, demonstrating due interest.
"The time has come for us to return to Minas Tirith and escort Theoden's body back here," he explained. He awaited a reaction; did she not pine for the City of the Kings?
Her eyes did brighten with delight, though he was quite mistaken in presuming the cause of such enthusiasm.
"Oh! Truly? You do not speak in jest?"
"Not at all, dear sister. And I request your company on the journey."
"You need not; I do not believe you could be rid of me even if I were forbidden to join the escort." Éomer laughed, glad to recognize his sister's old wit in her teasing smile. He took his leave, as the day's duties awaited him. When he reached the door, he turned again to face his sister.
"You know, I am quite relieved you got over that foolish Steward fellow, otherwise I doubt I should feel inclined to take you within two leagues of that City. Now, make haste and ready your belongings, for we leave soon."