"I say, Éomer, you seem very agitated at the moment! Is something the matter?"
Elessar's words drew the King of Rohan's attention away from the surrounding trees. He glanced at his host, and his steed, sensing his uneasiness, kicked the ground unhappily.
"It is only that I cannot seem to discern my sister among our party," replied he, biting back the 'nor your Steward' which was begging to roll off his tongue spitefully.
After a moment of searching through the mounted group himself, Aragorn turned to Éomer again, frowning in puzzlement.
"Nor can I. Is that not the mare she was riding?" He gestured towards a horse busily searching the undergrowth for food.
"I believe it is."
"This is odd indeed; but, now, where is Lord Faramir?"
Before his question could be answered, the wanted man himself appeared on foot through the foliage, leading his stallion with him. Upon the animal sat Éowyn, apparently safe and sound.
"Sister!" cried out Éomer, causing her to cast her gaze his way. She smiled warmly as Faramir led her towards the two Kings. His own said nothing, though his eyebrows were raised half in reprimand, half in amusement, while that of the Riddermark observed the scene without comprehending.
"Might one enquire as to what caused the Lady Éowyn's absence?" said Elessar, after establishing that Éomer was at a loss for words. His tone was formal and apparently innocent, though the manner in which he continued to eye his Steward belied his would-be ignorance.
"I fell," Éowyn replied smoothly.
"When the chase began, her mare became quite alarmed, and threw her off," explained Faramir with equal ease.
"That is not possible... She never falls from horse!" countered Éomer, disbelieving but not yet angry. His sister laughed.
"Brother, I am a woman, not an elf," she chuckled. "It does happen, even to those who ride the best."
"It is fortunate that Lord Faramir was present at the time, else we may have quite abandoned fair Éowyn," offered Elessar, trying to hide the grin which spread across his face. Indeed, it all seemed ludicrously familiar to him; not long ago he would have found himself in his Steward's position, hastily searching for plausible lies to tell Arwen's sceptical brothers. If he were to continue comparing his and Faramir's situations, he would have considered it terribly unfair that while he had one hot-tempered king to handle, he had had to contend with three elves, one of which had raised him within his own house. Compared to Arwen's family, Éomer was a piece of cake.
However, neither Éowyn nor Faramir had been wisened by such struggles with elvenkind, and though they had succeeded in telling their tale convincingly, they feared the King of Rohan would see through it. They ought not have worried so, however, for though his suspicions had returned to him, Éomer's thoughts were otherwise engaged, and more pleasantly so; he was wondering to himself how a certain princess' lips might taste, and how he might possibly confirm his theories.
The meal that evening was, albeit not as grand as the previous feasts of celebration, pleasant; the stag caught by the hunters proved delicious in a mushroom stew, and the ale poured freely. The night was young yet when men were already stumbling back to their chambers, supporting each other unsuccessfully or with a servant wench on their arm. After the exertion of riding all day long, a full goblet had been downed rapidly, and more drink demanded immediately, and in such conditions one only remained sober for so long.
Faramir watched the scene before him, mildly amused, swilling a cup of wine. He had been careful in drinking and was fairly confident of his sobriety, although such suppositions might not have been entirely accurate. Many of the smaller folk had departed, but those titled were still present. He observed Imrahil, his nose turned red with drink, laughing heartily with two of his sons over some joke best left unmentioned; there was Elessar, not inebriated as his guests were but merry all the same, conversing with Eothain and Erkenbrand, the Marshalls; the King of Rohan himself, by that alcove, flirting exceedingly with the princess of Dol Amroth, who after many goblets of wine giggled at his every word – and Éowyn, in all her jolly loveliness, dancing with a Guard of the Citadel without a care in the world.
Truly, he thought to himself, this evening had been a success; though likely the entire city would be suffering from pounding headaches on the morrow. This prediction, however, did not dissuade him from standing and walking over to the barrels in quest of more wine. He had not noticed the dance end, and a new one begin, but when he looked up from the tap she stood before him, in the highest spirits possible.
"I think you have had quite enough already, young man," she berated, trying not to giggle. He rolled his eyes.
"No, I think not," he replied, slipping his arm around her middle and holding her in a familiar manner which would, no doubt, have shocked Gondorian nobles at any other time of day. She glanced in her brother's direction worriedly.
"Oh, do not fret," said Faramir, taking a swig from his cup. "He's much too engrossed with my cousin to notice us." She laughed and kissed him on the cheek playfully, twisting out of his grip and taking his hand in hers.
"Even so, I can think of better places to indulge in... each other," she said, leading him out of the feasting hall. As they hurried through winding corridors and spiraling staircases, his impatience, and curiosity, rose.
"Éowyn, what..." he began, but at that moment she pushed a door open and they stepped into a place familiar to both - the stables.
"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, his mind still clouded by the alcohol.
"Because no one comes here at night," she said, as though it were obvious, beginning to pull him closer. He smiled in realization at her intentions and allowed himself to be drawn against her, and soon they were lost in each other, tongues and fingertips venturing further than they had ever before dared to.
"But my father and brothers are nearby," contested Lothíriel, nodding in the direction of her family.
"Oh, hush. They have drunk far too much to notice you go," answered Éomer, his rueful smile challenging her to concede to his proposition.
"I am not certain... I should be running off who knows where with a foreign King... no matter how amiable he may be," she replied slowly, her eyes smiling back at him.
"To be fair," he countered, rising, "You shan't be running off, but galoping. It is a detail of fundamental importance."
She chuckled at his poor joke and, with a final flickering glance towards her father, stood with him and took his arm. They quickly exited the hall, striving to appear as though they and their behaviour were irreproachable; but once outside they burst into a fit of nerve-induced laughter.
"I cannot believe you persuaded me to do this," giggled Lothíriel, wiping a tear from her eye.
"I myself wonder at I succeeded."
"Those stars had better be breathtaking, else I might believe you led me out into the fields with other, less respectable motives."
"And if I had?"
"Then..." She took a moment to form a reply, in her tipsy state. "Then in that case, I fear very much for my honour for I do not believe I have it in me to resist."
"Now, now, my lady," admonished he, as they walked through the empty streets of the City towards the lower circles. "Whatever are you insinuating?"
"Hmm... I do not think I shall answer that."
"But I must know."
"You shan't."
"You're a very contrary sort of princess, aren't you?"
"Am I contrary to hid my thoughts from a strange foreigner?"
"Strange! Dear me, and there I thought I had charmed you..." He wrapped an arm around her inconspicuously and drew her to his chest, his hands playing with her hair as they neared the stables.
"Éomer," she giggled in protest, wriggling away from him. He tried to snatch her back, but she dodged again, dancing away from him with a laugh on her lips. They descended the last few steps in an odd sort of chase, Lothíriel always skipping out of his reach at the last moment, shrieking with exhilaration as his fingertips grazed her waist.
Finally, having reached the door she could flee no longer, but instead of gathering her up in his arms he burst into another fit of laughter, as did she, which was, though proof of high spirits, unfortunate, in that both were out of breath, which such hysterics did not cure. After a short while spent recovering, and Lothíriel lamenting that her belly hurt from laughing so much, they stood again. He put his arm around her again, though on this occasion she did not protest, and they were still chuckling as he swung the door open.
Éowyn's mind was fogged by drink and desire, but she nevertheless registered the sound of the door being pushed open, and a person - no, people - entering loudly. Her eyes flew open in panic and she pushed Faramir off her; not an easy task, for he appeared to not have noticed the newcomers and was loathe to be at all separated from her.
"Éowyn..." he murmured with a puzzled frown. She heard more footsteps, but they suddenly stopped.
"Éowyn?"
Even the Steward was pulled out of his daze now and both lovers glanced up to find the King of Rohan staring at them in utter shock.