I, I loved you in secret
First sight, yeah, we love without reason
Oh, twenty-five years old
Oh, how were you to know?

(Dancing With Our Hands Tied – Taylor Swift)

Flashback – Dol Amroth, July 3019

"You are making a mistake," said the healer. Lothíriel ignored him and helped Idis stand up, gesturing for the guards to come forward. When her hands were free, and the guards began to carry Idis to the carriage, the healer grabbed onto her sleeve. "Princess, please. I beg of you, reconsider your decision."

Lothíriel wrenched her arm out of his grip. Green eyes flashing, she turned to glare at the man. "Answer me this," she said, her voice quiet. "Is my mother still dead?"

The healer paled. "Yes."

"Who holds the regency of Dol Amroth?"

"You do, Princess."

"And what does this mean?" She held up her father's seal, the thick black thread wound around her palm four times like a talisman.

The healer bowed his head. "It means we follow you," he said quietly. "But we promised your father we would keep you safe, Princess. If you go through with your plan, there is no guarantee you will survive. You or your friend."

"I don't care," said Lothíriel.

The Present – Minas Tirith, December 3019

Lothíriel was running out of excuses.

She had successfully avoided the King of Rohan for an entire day. The night of his arrival, she had feigned a headache and retired early; the morning after, she had taken on all the tasks usually given to the groom's mother and had spent four hours picking flowers, overseeing decorations, and preparing the bridal suite with a host of maids and noblewomen. Lunch had been sacrificed to help Éowyn with her final dress-fitting, and she had ensured – subtly – that the King was kept occupied with her brothers in the village while she roamed the castle. If anyone had been suspicious of her evasiveness, they had not questioned it. However, it had always been too much to hope that her father would not notice. And Imrahil was not a man who would be denied, so when Lothíriel had finally found a moment alone in her chambers that evening to gather her thoughts, she was unsurprised to hear a knock at the door, followed by her father's voice asking for permission to enter.

"You have missed two meals, daughter," he said, when she opened the door. There was an apple in his hands. Despite the dread pooling in her stomach, Lothíriel smiled at the gesture.

"The maids brought me something earlier in the day," she said, but accepted the apple nonetheless. Biting into it, she stepped aside and allowed her father to enter, indicating the empty chairs by the fire. "Did you come all this way to ensure I was fed, Father?"

"A parent's duty is never done," smiled Imrahil, accepting his daughter's invitation and sitting down. Lothíriel followed, chewing on her apple as she sat opposite him. "Idis tells me you want to be excused from tonight's festivities."

"I am tired, Father," she lied. "And Aunt Ivriniel arrives later today. She will take over my duties."

Imrahil was displeased by her decision, Lothíriel could tell, but he did not argue with her. "I would have preferred she come earlier, but you have ensured there is little for her to do, as we knew you would. Finduilas would have been proud."

Lothíriel bowed her head in thanks. "Aunt Ivriniel may come as late as she desires," she said. "You know how fond I am of Faramir. I would do no less for any of my brothers."

"I have never doubted your commitment to your duties nor your family," answered Imrahil. Lothíriel's smile froze in place, knowing what would come next. Imrahil did not notice the slight change in her expression or how her hands clenched into fists in her lap. "It is why I bring this up to you directly rather than at council. Doubtless, you have heard that Amrothos returned with a proposal from Rohan's court?"

You cannot be serious.

"I have not seen Amrothos yet," said Lothíriel. "I – a proposal?"

"For your marriage. With the King of Rohan."

Lothíriel stared at him. Imrahil stared back, the picture of ease. He was expecting her to bow her head, mutter some half-hearted words of thanks, and commit herself to a man she had never met, a country she knew nothing about, simply because she knew that was what he wanted. And he had not even asked.

The cold realisation washed over her, a feeling so unfamiliar it almost made her shiver. This was what had always been done to her, rather than for her: when he had sent her away to learn the duties of a Princess at twelve; when he had insisted she be written as Regent in case her mother died but offered her no training for the role; and even when he had seen her scar and decided she should cover it with bandages and gloves in public, for who could ever want a damaged Princess?

And all those times, she had accepted his word as law. What else was there to do? In Dol Amroth, in her family, Imrahil's word was law. But Lothíriel was older now; she had studied law, the real laws of the land she called home, and realised the system was not built to favour her. She had seen death, felt fear, and no longer thought the world would end at her father's displeasure. And now, he wanted her to meekly agree to marry a man she had never met for the good of a realm that had never done anything for her.

For the first time in her life, Lothíriel felt anger at her father.

And in that moment, she decided she would not go down without a fight.

"A king?" Lothíriel laughed. To her ears, it sounded hysterical; her father merely looked surprised at her reaction. "You honour me, Father, but your teasing is cruel. I know my place, and it is not in Rohan."

"Your cousin marries his sister tomorrow," said Imrahil. His words were awkward and slow, as if he had not practised this part of his speech. Why would he have? "We thought that match would be strange too. But I have rarely seen two people better suited to one other."

Lothíriel continued to smile. Abandoning her seat, she ripped the gloves off her hands and tossed the remainder of the apple into the fire. Desperate for something to do, she busied herself with arranging the vase of flowers Idis had left for her that morning, grateful for the opportunity to avoid her father's eye. "Of course, Father. That is because they are in love. All differences may be overcome when one's heart desires it."

"Your heart belongs to your duty, Lothíriel," said Imrahil. She could feel his eyes on her hands, the scar peeking out between the petals of roses and tulips, as she studiously pretended there was a method to her fidgeting. "But is that your true desire? A love match?"

"No," said Lothíriel, her tone colder than intended. She cleared her throat, turned around and smiled. "You have raised me better than that, Father. Not all of us can be as lucky as you and Mother."

"Elphir was." Imrahil hesitated. "I confess, daughter, had I known you harboured fantasies of romance, I would have approached this differently."

"I harbour no such fantasies. I am not a child, my lord."

"I have never said love is childish, Lothíriel."

"The belief that one's duties could be sacrificed to pursue trivial romance is childish," said Lothíriel. "You taught me that. Aunt Ivriniel taught me that. I know my duty, and I understand politics, perhaps better than any of you realise I do. But that does not matter. I know you are not serious about the King."

Imrahil raised his eyebrows. "I am not?"

"Of course. I do not want romance, but I want respect." She fixed her father with a hard stare and could have sworn she saw a flash of something that almost looked like pride in his eyes. But that was impossible. Unless she was planning parties and charming nobles, there was nothing for Imrahil to be proud of. "Do you not think, Father, I should be the one to decide if a man is worthy of my respect, King or not?"

Imrahil did not answer immediately. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at her, his eyes thoughtful rather than irritated. Lothíriel practically held her breath, but did not break his gaze. It was too much to hope that he would change his mind, but even the slightest bit of hesitation…

"An audience, then," he said finally, and Lothíriel's eyes widened. "Meet him, alone if you wish, and gauge for yourself if he is worthy of your respect. Your words were entirely reasonable," he added, no doubt noticing the surprise on her face. "We would not make you marry, daughter."

"I… see," said Lothíriel slowly. "You would like me to meet him?"

"I would. He expressed a similar desire when I spoke to him."

Her blood turned cold. "You already spoke to him? About this?"

"Naturally," said Imrahil. "His reservations were similar to yours. It is good, then," he nodded, mostly to himself, failing to notice how his daughter had gone pale. "We will arrange a meeting after the wedding. Is that satisfactory?"

Lothíriel did not know if she nodded or refused; her father merely hummed in agreement and took his leave, patting her shoulder as he walked out of the room. She barely heard the door shut behind him.

Lothíriel felt suffocated. Not for the first time, she was grateful the room she had been granted in the palace had a small balcony attached. She heard horse hooves approaching and realised the Rohirrim company was returning from the city to prepare for the evening's festivities. Grateful that there was at least one silver lining to her evening, she approached the edge of the terrace and leaned against the railing. She gazed out into the courtyard as men filled the small expanse, laughing and joking, clearly looking forward to the wedding. Doubtless, their futures had not been laid out for them without permission, without control.

Anger, jealousy and spite swirled in her chest, and Lothíriel gazed blankly down at the people milling about until the courtyard cleared, and she was left alone with her thoughts and the setting sun. And that was how Amrothos found her when he finally wandered up from his afternoon in the city.

"Are you so preoccupied that you did not even bother to welcome me this morning?" her brother demanded. Lothíriel did not answer, and Amrothos leaned against the railing beside her, groaning tiredly. "I swear on the Valar, Lothíriel, you – what happened?" he asked suddenly, doubtless noticing her expression and the fact that she was not even wearing a coat.

Lothíriel did not even look at him. "As if you do not already know."

Guilt, plain as day, flashed across her brother's face, and he reached for her hand. However, Lothíriel clenched it into a fist before he could touch her, and he drew back hesitantly. "I am sorry," he said sincerely. "Father wanted us to discuss it before broaching the subject to you himself. I could not write, Lothíriel; he asked me not to."

"And you agreed," she said. It was not fair; none of them could disobey their father, not directly. But the betrayal still stung, and there was no one to be angry at except Amrothos.

"I am sorry," he said again. "I did not want this for you, sister. Believe me, if there were a way you could stay with us forever, I would do everything in my power to make it so. But this match…" he sighed. "It is a good thing. Rohan needs money, and we need men."

"My dowry and their soldiers are worth all this, then," said Lothíriel. "Two people who have never met and know nothing about each other, expected to rule a country together and form an alliance that has been unheard of for generations?"

"I do not doubt your abilities to charm even the worst of men," said Amrothos, his tone clearly fighting to make her smile. It did not work. "And Éomer is not the worst, not by a mile."

Lothíriel snorted. "Not the worst? That is your glowing recommendation for your only sister's future?"

Amrothos sighed. "I see. You are angry, and you need someone to blame. Very well, then, sister, blame me if you must."

"I will blame whomever I please, and rightfully so," she said coldly. "And I won't let you reduce my displeasure to the hysterical ramblings of an emotional woman, Amrothos, when we both know what you are doing is wrong."

"Be that as it may, this is how it is done, Lothíriel," Amrothos said. Frustrated, Lothíriel pushed herself off the railing and stalked away to the chairs, intent on putting as much distance between herself and her brother as possible. Unfortunately, Amrothos merely followed her. "Fathers and brothers arrange marriages," he said, sitting opposite her and fixing her with a look she knew all too well: condescension. "It is how it was for our aunts, and it was always how it was going to be for you."

"I do not care how it is done," she snapped."I am sick of not having a single soul in this family I can trust. None of you tell me anything. Mother would have never allowed this."

"Mother told you fairy tales of love and romance when you were growing up to offer you comfort, and frankly, Elphir's marriage led us all to believe desires could overtake our duties, but we were wrong," said Amrothos. "Even Mother could not have intervened in this, and Elphir is lucky, Lothíriel. His marriage is not the norm. Our parents are not the norm either. This, what we have done for you, what our father did for our Aunt Finduilas, is the norm."

Lothíriel did not answer. There was nothing to say; although she was stifling the part of her that would have blindly agreed with Amrothos, there was no point disagreeing with him either. This was how marriages were arranged in their family, and until a year ago, Lothíriel had never questioned it.

But things were different now. She was different now.

"I do not think you are upset about the King, not really," said Amrothos, and she felt his eyes on her face, watching her curiously. It made her want to grimace. "An arranged match is not what enrages you. You are far too intelligent for that. It is something else, is it not? Is there…" he trailed off and cleared his throat, suddenly sounding just as awkward and uncomfortable as their father had minutes ago. "Is there… someone else?"

Lothíriel felt the dam she had been carefully constructing to keep her emotions in check for weeks finally burst at her brother's tone. The insinuation that her reluctance to have her future planned out for her was nothing more than a flight of fancy, a temper tantrum thrown by a petty woman, or worse, a desire for romance, made her blood boil. "What enrages me is that this whole thing is a cruel joke," Lothíriel snapped. "First, Father sends you to Rohan, brokering a trade deal and a proposal for my hand without giving me so much as a hint. Then, you all have the nerve to discuss it with the King and his council before word even reaches me that there is a proposal to consider! And now, you all want me to agree without even questioning it? Has the war affected your sanity? Are all the men in my family truly delusional enough to think I will see a handsome man and think, 'Oh, never mind then, at least the children will be adorable'?"

"We –" began Amrothos, but Lothíriel cut him off before he could defend himself.

"And on top of all that," she seethed. "Father has the nerve to tell me he will allow me to meet the King, talk to him, as if it is the greatest favour in the world, only to reveal that he was the one who requested the audience in the first place! To evaluate me! As if I am the problem!"

"He –"

"Well, of course, he did," she said, completely ignoring her brother now, who wisely did not try to interrupt her again. "Because, unlike everyone else involved in this farce of an engagement, he has clearly realised it is ridiculous to give something as valuable as the title of Queen to a woman he had never met! Or perhaps he thinks I am a troll who requires brothers and fathers and councilmen to arrange my marriage and dangle my dowry before him as an enticing benefit! Or worse, perhaps he thinks I am an idiot! Tell me, Amrothos, which is it?"

"On the contrary, we just assumed you would prefer Éomer over the four mariners who asked for your hand before him," offered Amrothos, and was rewarded for his honesty with a withering glare. He winced again. "Right, apologies, I forgot we had not told you about those either."

Silence descended between them, thick and uncomfortable and tense, and Amrothos began to fidget. It made Lothíriel want to laugh; again, a man in her life was utterly at a loss on what to say to her, all because she had dared to speak her mind and disagree with him. It would have amused her if it was not her future that they insisted on treating so carelessly.

Finally, Amrothos broke the silence. "He is a good man," he said quietly. "Not Gondorian by any standard, of course, but Rohan has plenty of good men as well. Better men, even. And this would be a match that, as your brother, I would give my blessing to."

"Your blessing," said Lothíriel slowly. "Yours, and my father's, and his council's. But what of my blessing?"

"You will like him, Lothíriel."

"Why, because they say he is handsome?"

To her surprise, Amrothos snorted. "If you thought it was for the good of the realm, you would marry even an ugly man." Despite herself, Lothíriel's lips twitched; six months ago, he would have been right. But now… "We are lucky, then, that women find Éomer handsome. But that matters less than what he is like. And he is honourable, Lothíriel. You would have a good life. A meaningful life."

Lothíriel leaned back in her chair, tiredness and defeat creeping upon her, making her shoulders slump. "So you think this is a good idea."

"I think you want respect more than love," said Amrothos. "And he would give that to you. I cannot promise that of any other man who would approach for your hand."

"Perhaps," she said, although there was not a cell in her body that genuinely believed it.

"So…" Amrothos fixed her with a look. "You will say yes?"

Lothíriel sighed. "We both know I was never going to say no in the first place. I just…" she rubbed a hand over her face tiredly. "For once, I would like to be consulted in decisions that involve my life."

"I understand. But you are a Princess of Dol Amroth," said Amrothos gently. "Your life was never truly just yours, Lothíriel."

His statement was entirely accurate, and Lothíriel was struck by the unfairness of it all yet again, that she could not even disagree with him. However, she did not get a chance to respond because they heard horse hooves again, and Amrothos peered down from the balcony curiously to see who was approaching. She followed his gaze, and her smile widened when she spotted her cousin, his hair, although lighter than her own, standing out starkly against the blonde of the Riders of Rohan who accompanied him.

"He was away for a while," she said. "Did you leave him to fend for himself?"

"Éomer asked him to stay back. I did not want to intrude," said Amrothos. He gestured to the group surrounding Faramir. "Those are the King's Guards."

None were in armour, except one man still wearing a helmet. Her eyes lingered on the insignia blazoned across his chest, and for a moment, she wondered why it looked so familiar. And then, with a sickening feeling, Lothíriel realised she recognised it, from a time before she had met and bowed and spoken to countless men from Rohan, with their curious blue eyes and light hair and slight accents, so different from the men she was used to. She had spent months hesitating before each introduction, wondering if he would be the next man to walk through her father's palace doors. Still, he never had, at least not in her presence, and she had never dared to enquire whether a Marshal was part of the company of Riders who would often come and dine with the Swan Knights after their patrols of the harbour.

Now, dread pooled in her stomach as she watched him dismount his horse – a familiar, beautiful horse that had been kind enough not to bite her when she had fed him a carrot. It was not possible. It couldn't be possible. And yet, as he took off his helmet and turned to speak to another man, the sun caught his blonde hair in the exact way she had committed to paper dozens of times. The familiar muscle in his jaw clenched as his companion – Éothain, she recalled, the one who had mistrusted her from the moment they had met – said something that seemed to irritate him. He turned away to pat his horse on the neck and hand the reins over to a stable hand, and the movement allowed her to catch a full glimpse of his face.

It was not possible.

It was him.

Lothíriel had seen enough. Pushing herself away from the railing, she practically fled back into the room, ignoring Amrothos' presence completely. Her brother followed her inside, his voice alarmed as he asked her what had happened, but she paid him no attention. Running a hand – her scarred hand, that he had bandaged – through her hair, she pressed her back against the wall and sank onto the floor slowly, barely aware of how she must look and how her brother must feel. It did not matter. It was simply not possible. It was not possible that the man she had been dreaming about for months, in harmless little fantasies that were never meant to become a reality, was standing in the courtyard as a guest at her cousin's wedding.

At the wedding meant to announce her engagement.

To his king.

"Lothíriel?" Finally, Amrothos' voice seeped through her inner turmoil, and her eyes snapped up to meet his. He knelt by her, reaching out a hand hesitantly – this time, she grasped it, desperate for a way to anchor herself to reality.

It was not possible.

"I am summoning a doctor," said her brother, and she tightened her grip on his hand before he could stand up.

"No," she said, and her voice was hoarse. "I – I just –" Dropping Amrothos' hand, she hugged her knees to her chest and hid her face from his view, torn between crying and laughing. Of course, this had to happen. She had forgotten her duty, tried to forget who she was, for two days out of her entire twenty-five years of existence, and the man responsible for her moment of weakness had to show up just as she debated why she even bothered performing her duties in the first place.

"Lothíriel." Amrothos' voice was tight. "If you do not tell me what is wrong, I am calling Father."

That did it. Lothíriel felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on her. "I'm fine," she said, straightening up. Amrothos stared at her, but she ignored his sceptical look. Her brother adored her, but he respected their father more. And if Imrahil found out…

"I'm fine," she said, her voice stronger now. "I – I apologise, brother. The stress of the day…" she trailed off and tried to look as defeated as possible. It was not difficult, and Amrothos' eyes softened with understanding. She almost felt guilty for lying to him, but not enough to reveal the truth. He would not be able to keep her secrets; he never had been.

"Of course," said Amrothos softly. "Shall I send in Idis? Perhaps a maid?"

She shook her head, trying not to let her panic show. "I – I think I will lay down. Will you give Faramir my apologies? I do not think Father will mind." The undertone was clear: not after what he has revealed to me today.

Amrothos nodded, promised to give Faramir her love, and insisted on sending Idis to her once the feast was done as he finally left her room.

Idis. Lothíriel barely heard Amrothos shut the door behind him as another wave of dread washed over was she going to tell her? All it would take was one person to say that name in front of the Marshal, and the truth would be revealed before she could control it.

No. For the Marshal's sake and her own sanity, she would have to keep this a secret. Undoubtedly, he would be at the wedding, but she could handle that. She could catch him, inform him of who she was, apologise profusely, and offer him something, anything, to keep her secret. Rohan was struggling, and Dol Amroth had money. She was sure she could find something he needed. Idis would have to be told, but that could wait. She never attended balls or feasts, and if Lothíriel excused herself that night, so would Idis. She could catch her at the wedding, inform her of what needed to be done, and no one would be the wiser.

She could do this. Standing up abruptly, Lothíriel took a deep breath and stalked over to her desk, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth. She had survived a siege, the death of her mother, and her overbearing brothers for years. The Marshal who had helped her was handsome and kind, and his memory had offered her respite when she desperately needed it.

But he was only a memory, and she had a duty to do.

No matter how much she dreaded it.

Éomer was exhausted.

Sixteen hours. It had been sixteen hours since he had last had a moment alone, and he felt his tolerance for company waning with each smiling woman, simpering nobleman, and arrogant soldier that crossed his path. His sister's pre-wedding feast was about to begin, but the mandatory mingling beforehand was mind-numbingly tedious, and Éomer was convinced every person in his vicinity was merely pretending to enjoy themselves, because there could not be that many things to laugh about after a full day of activity.

Next to him, Éothain stifled a yawn behind his hand and downed another glass of whiskey. Éomer envied his friend's freedom; his own glass had been empty for the past hour, and he was too on edge to keep drinking, not when so many people were watching him. The morning had been full of meetings he had not known his presence would be required at, the afternoon had been spent in the company of Faramir and his relatives, and even the earlier part of the evening had been devoted to his sister, whose sudden interest in lace and ribbons was beyond his comprehension. Still, her happiness had been worth the toll the day had taken on him. Now, he was counting the hours until he could excuse himself, distracting himself by attempting – and failing – to avoid searching for a pair of green eyes in the sea of grey he was surrounded by.

Queen Arwen walked by and smiled at him, interrupting his searching, and Éomer had just enough presence of mind to return her smile and bow as she joined her husband on the other side of the room. Elessar was in conversation with Imrahil, and Éomer was sure they would approach him sooner rather than later. It had not escaped his attention that the elusive Princess of Dol Amroth was missing, but no one seemed to find it odd. Judging by the look on Amrothos' face when their eldest brother mentioned his sister's name in passing, Éomer suspected she had finally been told of her impending engagement and had not taken the news well.

He did not blame her. He was still not taking the news well but had not had the luxury of excusing himself from public view.

Spoilt and wilful. Perhaps Éothain's information had not been entirely incorrect after all.

"If you were to fake an injury, we could be free of this," muttered Éothain, grabbing another glass from a circulating tray and downing it again. "At this point, I would rather be arrested for failing to do my job as your guard than spend another minute here."

"One of us can still talk to women without causing a war," said Éomer. He jerked his head towards the group of pretty women, all Gondorian, giggling and chatting across from them. "Go and enjoy yourself."

Éothain snorted. "Look around, my lord. They are looking at us, but they dare not come near us. We are still savages to them, and Imrahil calling you his dear friend will hardly change that."

Éomer gave him a warning look, but knew better than to argue. Despite the whisperings of Éowyn and Faramir's love story and the rumours of his own impending engagement, Éothain was not wrong. Gondorian women seemed to admire the men from Rohan, but they did not openly approach them or flirt the way they did with their own. It was hardly an inconvenience, but Imrahil called it a sign of a weak alliance, and Éomer did not have the strength – or the experience – to argue with him.

As if summoned, Imrahil caught Éomer's eye from across the room and raised a hand in greeting, turning to Elessar and indicating that they should both approach. Éothain groaned from next to Éomer, but straightened up as the two men approached. He bowed, and Éomer grasped the forearm of both in welcome.

"Enjoying yourselves?" asked Imrahil.

Éothain nodded and attempted to smile, but it came out as a grimace. Éomer tried not to roll his eyes. "Very much so," he said, raising his glass in appreciation. "Your courts provide entertainment like no other."

"I was just telling the Prince of the feast we attended in your uncle's hall after Grima's exile," said Elessar, grinning at the memory. Éomer's lips twitched at the recollection. "I maintain that that was one of the finest celebrations I have ever attended."

"We celebrate differently than you, it is true," said Éomer, and Éothain stifled a laugh from next to him by disguising it as a cough.

"A celebration after a great victory is unlike any other feeling," acknowledged Imrahil. A hush descended upon the room as he spoke, and they looked around to see servants approaching the high table, three carrying what looked like a harp and two armed with chairs. The crowd parted to make way for them, and Éomer raised his eyebrows as they passed by, noting how the three men, almost as tall as him, seemed to struggle under the instrument's weight. Solid gold. "Ah," said Imrahil. "I believe the ladies are about to perform."

"Perform?"

"An old wedding tradition," explained Elessar as Imrahil excused himself, following the instrument. "In Dol Amroth, the women of the family play a song on the harp to welcome the bride. Faramir's mother was an excellent harp player, but she is no longer with us. I believe the Lady Ivriniel, his mother's sister, will perform instead."

"Charming," said Éomer. Mentally, he wondered if the performance could be the perfect time to excuse himself. He caught Éothain's eye, and his guard's expression told him they thought the same thing. Nodding, he side-stepped a couple debating what song would be performed and subtly tried to locate the nearest exit with his eyes. Before he could, however, Éothain suddenly grasped his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. A glance at his face told Éomer that Éothain had heard something that had surprised him, and his eyes darted sideways towards two vaguely familiar women conversing, pointing to the stage set-up as they did so. Éomer frowned, but nonetheless paused and focused on the conversation.

"– And then she had to be dragged from bed, the poor dear," said the first woman, her voice full of sympathy. "She would not come without the Princess, but the Prince insisted. What do you think of that?"

"Oh, Lothíriel is utterly charming in every way, but she was never musical," scoffed the other. "Of course, Lady Ivriniel would ask Idis to accompany her. She practically grew up with the family. That is not the oddest thing about this wedding, my dear, I assure you."

Idis.

Éomer froze. Around him, the crowd jostled him to get closer to the front of the hall, but he stayed in place, barely aware of who was around him. The women he had overheard walked past – both daughters of men on Gondor's high council, he registered – chattering away but not saying that name again. The very name that had haunted the periphery of his thoughts for months, the name he found himself pushing back to the recesses of his memory whenever his fingers twitched towards the chain around his neck, the very name he had told himself he would ignore because he had a duty to do, and that duty's name was not Idis.

But she was here now. She would get up on stage and perform, and there was no way to avoid her. The room was packed; his presence would be noticed, but his sudden departure would be even more suspicious. Éothain tugged at his arm, asking for orders, but Éomer could not move a muscle. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He had always suspected he would run into her again, but not like this. Not when every single person in the room thought his engagement to the Princess of Dol Amroth was as good as sealed.

Not when she still did not know he was a king.

Silence fell upon the crowd as an unfamiliar woman, a silver tiara nestled into her grey hair, slowly ascended the steps onto the makeshift stage. She sat down gracefully at the harp, playing a few notes with a careless precision that even he knew only came from years of practice. She was undoubtedly a handsome woman, but she was too old to be the woman he remembered. Which only left the person approaching the stage from the front, without a crown on her head, fidgeting slightly as she ascended the steps. Her back remained to the audience as she knelt by Lady Ivriniel's feet and said something to her which made the older woman smile. Éomer craned his neck, attempting and failing to catch a glimpse of her face, but the dress she wore had a high collar that partially obscured it, and her dark hair was loose around her shoulders like every other maiden's in the room. There was nothing remarkable about her from the back, and a part of Éomer wondered if he and Éothain had misheard, because the woman he remembered had stood tall, proud, and upright, even when she had been dirty and covered in blood. However, there was no time to question himself because another chair was suddenly brought forward, and then the woman – Idis – stood up and readjusted it before seeming to take a deep breath. She turned to face the room and sat down, giving the audience a nervous smile as she adjusted the collar of her dress.

And Éomer realised he had never seen this woman before in his life.

Next to him, Éothain cursed in Rohirric under his breath. Éomer ignored him. Lady Ivriniel was speaking, her voice clear and musical as it carried across the room, but he barely registered her words until he heard that name again, and the woman calling herself Idis fidgeted as every eye in the room turned to her, and then the music began.

The song was pretty, and Idis' voice was excellent; not too loud, not too soft, and in perfect pitch. The song, Éomer realised too late, was in Sindarin, and a few women were dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs within minutes.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked a pleasant voice behind him, and he nearly jumped when he realised Queen Arwen was standing beside him. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded. The Queen smiled and gestured towards Idis, who was still singing. "Idis grew up with the royal family of Dol Amroth. She is a great friend of the Princess. And a great warrior. She killed ten men and saved the Lady Mairen's body from being abducted during the siege."

"How brave," Éomer forced himself to say. His mouth felt dry.

"All bravery has a price," Arwen's smile became sad. "She nearly died in Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing. It is a miracle she lived, and a mystery how she got here when she did."

"A fortunate mystery, then," said Éomer.

Arwen hummed in agreement, and Éomer told himself the slightly knowing smile she gave him as she excused herself was a figment of his imagination. Despite himself, his hand went to the chain around his neck, and he dug his fingers into the cold metal. It was still there; so, he had not imagined that, at least.

He remained frozen until the song ended, and the crowd broke into applause. Seizing his chance, Éomer turned on his heel and practically sprinted from the hall, Éothain close behind him. Outside, the corridor was deserted, and they both leaned against the wall next to the closed double doors, breathing heavily as though they had just been chased by Orcs.

Finally, Éothain broke the silence. "If that is Idis," he said slowly. "Then who the hell did we meet six months ago?"