Sorry for the delayed update! I was meant to take advantage of a brief stint of unemployment and get this story out at the 1 chapter every 2 weeks mark, but I got a job and have ended up having to do adult responsibilities alongside it! I will still be sticking to once a month at the minimum though, so stay tuned xx

It's you and me
There's nothing like this
Miss Americana and the heartbreak prince
We're so sad, we paint the town blue
Voted most likely to run away with you

(Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince – Taylor Swift)

Éomer was a coward.

He knew he needed to refuse the match outright, put it in writing and forcefully shove the document into Amrothos's hands if he had to, but he had not done it. Two nights and a day had gone by, and he had stayed in his rooms and avoided contact with the outside world, dreading his duty. Every time he had attempted to pick up his pen, Lothíriel's green eyes flashed through his mind, glinting ferociously with that curious emotion that looked like anger and betrayal and pride all in one, and he was forced to abandon his task and down a finger of whiskey to avoid going insane. He had always liked the colour green. It reminded him of the open plains of his home, the flag of his country, and the dark tapestries that adorned the halls of his father and uncle. Now, all it did was remind him of her eyes, and the way they had looked at him as she had stormed out of the stables, hurt and upset for reasons he was unable to fathom, because the idea that she had been amenable to the match all along was still incomprehensible to him.

"If all Rohan has to rely upon is your way with words, your land is doomed."

Her words should not have affected him as they did, and he hated how much they burned. She had zeroed in on his greatest fear so effortlessly that he almost admired her, would have wanted to learn from her if they had been different people and this had been that other life he had been fantasising about since the day he had met her. But they were not different people. She was a princess raised with more luxury than he would have been able to give her in three lifetimes, and he was a king who had pledged his loyalty to his country over all others. It could never work, and Lothíriel should have been smart enough to realise that, just as he had. It was not his fault she had seemed to assume it could work.

Then why did the memory of her betrayed expression make him feel so guilty?

It was a question that he would have to confront soon because a note had arrived from Amrothos requesting his presence that afternoon, followed by another from his sister asking him to join her for breakfast. Éomer had debated feigning ill health to avoid them both, but Éowyn was to leave Minas Tirith the next day, and Amrothos could not be evaded forever. So he had bathed and allowed Éothain to shave him – why his guard insisted on doing the duties of his valet, Éomer had never bothered to ask – and made his way to his sister's chambers first.

Éowyn was pleased to see him, and her familiar chatter and smiles reassured Éomer of her happiness. They ate, and when Éowyn pulled out a familiar bottle from one of the half-packed trunks strewn about her room, Éomer grinned despite himself. "Did you sneak that away when I was not looking?"

"Éothain helped," grinned Éowyn. She sat back down and tipped the bottle into their empty cups one by one, carefully measuring out the drink. "There is just enough for two, perhaps three," she said. "We should make it count."

"Did we not toast you enough times at your wedding?" teased Éomer. He accepted the cup regardless and clinked it softly with his sister's before they both threw back the two fingers of whiskey, straight from their uncle's cellar. The taste burned his throat in an achingly familiar way; the last time they had sat and drank it together, it had been Théodred's birthday, before he had ridden off to the battle that had claimed his life.

"How would you know?" asked Éowyn, drawing him out of the bittersweet memories of his past. "You left early and spent the whole of yesterday locked in your rooms."

Éomer tried not to wince. "I was recovering from the celebrations."

"You had two drinks," scoffed Éowyn. "Of course, I noticed," she added, when Éomer looked away guiltily. "I do not blame you, brother. I know you did not enjoy yourself. But there were any number of smaller celebrations yesterday that you could have attended. I would hate to leave you while you are still so unhappy."

"I am not unhappy," said Éomer automatically. It sounded flat and untrue even to his ears, but he carried on nonetheless. "I am only tired, Éowyn. You must go to your new home and stop worrying about me. Where is your husband?"

"He is meeting with Elessar," said Éowyn. "We leave at dusk. I only asked you to have breakfast with me because I must go to the Hallows before we leave, and I fear we will have no time to speak after."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "The famed Hallows of the Dead? Why?"

Éowyn shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect, but did not break his gaze. "It is where Faramir's entire family is buried. I would like to go and pay my respects. He had no one at the wedding; I, at least, had you."

"I see," said Éomer. "Will he accompany you?"

"No." Éowyn checked her cup to make sure it was empty before refilling it, this time with the scented tea she seemed to have developed a taste for since her time in the Houses of Healing. When she looked away from him to stare out the window and sip it, Éomer knew he would not like what she said next. "Lothíriel is to take me."

He froze. If Éowyn noticed, she did not comment on it. Éomer stared at her, wondering if his sister knew more than she was letting on. If she was smirking behind her tea, she hid it well; when she put the cup down and looked back at him, her face was the picture of innocence.

"Would you like to join us?" she asked. "I know there is yet to be a formal introduction, but I doubt that matters much to either of you."

"I –"

"She has been very kind to me since I met her," interrupted Éowyn. "Unhappy as you are at the prospect of this match, you ought to get to know her."

"I do not think –"

"Unless you'd like to discuss where that necklace you have spent months wearing has suddenly disappeared to instead?"

"Éowyn, you –"

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Éomer glared at his sister as she stood up gracefully and went to answer it, skilfully avoiding his gaze. Every inch of him was itching to get away before he had to face the woman who would surely drive him mad one day, but it was too late. The door was opened, Éowyn offered an affectionate greeting, and the responding calm and smooth voice made his skin erupt into gooseflesh. Groaning softly, Éomer picked up the bottle and quickly drained the last of the whiskey, placing it back heavily on the table before getting to his feet and turning around to offer his greeting.

Lothíriel looked just as irritatingly breath-taking as he remembered, but today, there was no crown on her head. Instead, she wore a silver headband studded with small purple gems that glittered in the sunlight streaming in from Éowyn's windows. She even had two identical blossoms woven through the band, resting just against the tops of her ears. The effect was softening, he realised, and she seemed much more at ease in the silky material of her dress, still blue but a shade lighter than what she had worn last he had seen her. She had not seen him, which accounted for her pleasant expression; she stood in the doorway, smiling at Éowyn in a way that was at odds with the contrived expression she had had during the wedding when he had watched her. However, when her eyes fell on him over his sister's shoulder, the smile slipped off her face.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before curtseying in Éomer's direction. "Your Majesty. Forgive me, I did not know –"

"My brother would like to join us," said Éowyn. "He has never seen the Hallows, and Éomer is very well-versed in Gondor's history. You do not mind, do you, Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel's eyes flicked from Éowyn's innocent expression to his stony one, and her answering smile was wonderfully fake. "Not at all."

As she ushered Éowyn out, she spared him a single glance, brows furrowed in a look that seemed to be a cross between a frown and one of confusion. She said nothing but linked her arm with his sister's and practically dragged her ahead of them, speaking in low tones. Whatever she said seemed to please Éowyn because she continued smiling, which satisfied Éomer. Only when he began to follow the ladies down the corridor did he realise he was not alone; two steps behind him was Idis, carrying a basket that seemed too large for a woman of her size.

"Let me," he said immediately, taking it from her.

"Oh, no," she protested, holding on to the handle. "Your Majesty, I could not –"

"I insist," said Éomer firmly, and with one final tug, he freed the basket from her hands. It was not heavy, and he had no idea what was in it, but Idis gave it up nevertheless and offered him a small smile in thanks.

"Did you enjoy the wedding?" asked Idis politely, as they continued to navigate the halls.

Éomer snorted. "I left early."

"Ah." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "I did not mean –"

"I am sure you did not," he said. And then, because he seemed determined to torture himself, he added, "Did you return it to her?"

Idis did not ask what he meant; she did not need to. "Yes."

It was a long walk to the Hallows, and Idis did not say another word the whole time. Neither did Lothíriel turn back and spare them a glance. However, twice, Éowyn turned to ask her brother a question that he answered politely but shortly, unwilling to be drawn into conversation with the woman he had spent the better part of two days thinking about. If Lothíriel was as bothered by his presence as he was by hers, she did a better job of hiding it; her smiles to Éowyn were no less warm, and the stiffness he had noticed in her shoulders seemed to have all but evaporated. Éomer had never paid this much attention to a woman's clothes in his life. Still, his observations allowed him to admit that it was difficult to tell whether she genuinely was tense since her dress now covered up the expanse of smooth skin he had enjoyed staring at, perhaps more than wholly appropriate.

Minas Tirith's Hallows were secured by iron-framed doors and guards, who bowed as they approached and opened the heavy doors to admit them. White marble lined the floors and walls, with heavy slabs inscribed in Elvish decorating the graves of kings and stewards gone by. Idis mumbled something and quickly took the basket from Éomer's limp hands, following Lothíriel and Éowyn to the furthest edge of the room, where a lone marble grave was located. Éomer did not follow them immediately, his gaze drawn to the sculptures on the opposite side of the room. There were only three, the busts carefully placed in a row in individual crevices in the walls, with silky veils covering their faces. Deciding no one would miss him, he made his way towards them, finding himself standing in front of one that had startingly familiar features.

"My aunt," said a voice behind him, and he turned to find Lothíriel had joined him. Éowyn was kneeling by the grave he assumed to be Denethor's, with Idis standing by her and carefully picking out flowers from the basket he had carried, arranging them on the smooth marble. "Denethor's wife," she added. "She died before I was born. They say the steward loved her dearly and commissioned a bust of her to stay in the Hallows to wait for him to join her."

"A romantic story," said Éomer. "I was not aware of it."

Lothíriel stepped forward and removed the veil from the statue's face, allowing Éomer to glimpse the woman whose portrait he remembered seeing hung in one of the palace apartments. She was handsome, her features etched with a skilled hand and a smile adorning her lips, different from the statues he had seen across Minas Tirith thus far. "History books talk about wars and conquests and soldiers, Éomer King, not love stories," said Lothíriel, without looking back at him. "If that is where your information comes from, it is no wonder you do not know about her."

Her tone was arch as if she pitied him for reading rather than admired him for it. As if she was baiting him. Éomer forced himself to take a deep breath. "I do not confine myself to books," he replied evenly. "Faramir has not spoken much of his mother either."

"Our family does not often speak of those that have passed," said Lothíriel. "It is considered unbecoming to dwell too much on time gone by."

"You do not enjoy history, then?"

"I never said I did not," she said. "I merely told you what people think."

Lothíriel continued to stare at the statue, and Éomer, in turn, continued to stare at her. She knew he was watching her; even through her dress, he could make out the familiar tenseness of her shoulders, the way her fingers – gloved, once again – tangled together even as she stood perfectly still, perfectly straight. She was maddening, it was true, but utterly captivating. Éomer told himself it would be rude to walk away from their conversation. For the sake of respectability, he had to talk to her. There was no other reason for it. There could not be any other reason for it.

"Are you uncomfortable being here?" he asked finally.

His question seemed to surprise her. "Death does not bring you discomfort?"

"Death is a predictable end, Princess. Unpredictability is what should make you uncomfortable."

Lothíriel gave him a glance over her shoulder finally, and he was oddly pleased to find that she seemed to enjoy his remark. Perhaps she had assumed he was an idiot; after the way he had spoken to her, Éomer did not blame her. But she again surprised him by answering his earlier question more honestly than he had expected. Or deserved. "I brought your sister here because Faramir asked it of me," she said. "But I do not visit often, not if I can help it."

"I see," said Éomer. He turned back to the bust, narrowing his eyes as a thought suddenly dawned. "Forgive me, but does she –"

"Look like me?" Lothíriel shrugged. "That is what people say."

"And what do you say?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "You seem very interested in what I have to say now."

The slight emphasis on now did not go unnoticed, and Éomer turned back to the statue, unable to keep looking into her eyes. To his surprise, Lothíriel did not immediately walk away. Instead, she plucked out one of the flowers tucked into her headband and carefully placed it at the base of her aunt's likeness. Even from his angle, Éomer could see her eyes had softened.

"I think…" she trailed off, and then sighed. "I think she deserved better."

As she stepped back, the distance between them closed significantly, and Éomer found his senses assaulted with an unfamiliar, yet utterly intoxicating, scent. It took him only a few seconds to realise the source was her, and his hands clenched into fists at the thought. He had not been close enough to her to judge what Lothíriel smelled like before that day, and now that he was, the effect was dizzying. He had never seen the flowers she wore in her hair before, which he suspected accounted for the unfamiliar scent: fresh, citrusy, and utterly delicious.

It was making his mouth water, and he needed to escape her.

But he did not.

"Is your cousin buried here too?" he asked instead.

Lothíriel indicated an alcove by Denethor's grave, separated by another curtain. "There is a likeness of him there," she said. "His body never came home."

"I would like to pay my respects if that is acceptable."

Her eyebrows raised. "You knew Boromir?"

"I had met him but a few times," he confessed. "But I knew of him from my cousin, Théodred. He was a good man, one of the bravest I ever met."

"Oh." Her voice softened even more. She sounded more like the woman he had met all those months ago, and Éomer found he liked this version of her better. There was something different in her gaze now as she indicated for him to follow her. "I – I will take you, my lord. Idis can see your sister out."

They crossed Éowyn and Idis as they made their way to the alcove, and Éomer studiously avoided his sister's curious gaze. Idis, clearly privy to something he was not, engaged Éowyn in conversation as they took a last turn about the room. Lothíriel picked up the half-empty basket as they passed, and Éomer noted the elaborate display of roses and other sweet-smelling flowers arranged on Denethor's grave. However, he was sure Idis and perhaps his sister were more responsible for the decoration than the dark-haired woman beside him. The alcove she had indicated was a small passage separated from the rest of the Hallows by a curtain, dark and empty save for the single statue of Boromir. The figure was true to size, with a small pedestal under Boromir's feet that made him tower a few inches above Éomer as they drew closer. It was a good likeness, although Éomer had not seen Boromir for many years. Carved entirely out of pale stone, the only colour in it was the sharp grey eyes, painted on, that surveyed them with a harshness that seemed foreign on the otherwise pleasant face of the man in question. The famed broken Horn of Gondor lay at his feet, at the edge of the pedestal.

"Does it look like him?" asked Lothíriel, after the silence between them had stretched for some time.

Éomer tore his eyes away from the statue to glance at her, but she was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on her cousin's likeness, and he did not think he was imagining the slight sheen to them as though she were holding back tears.

"It is a decent likeness, I think," said Éomer. "I was young when I first met him. My cousin would have been able to give you a better answer."

"You lost him during the war, too, did you not?" Éomer nodded, slightly surprised at the informal way she spoke, as though they were just two ordinary people discussing a dead relative and not the heir to the throne of Rohan. "My condolences," she offered him a small, sympathetic smile.

Éomer murmured a word of thanks, looking away from her quickly. The space they stood in was small, made smaller still by the imposing statue opposite them. Her scent was already overpowering, but the dim light made him want to draw closer, to see if her green eyes darkened or shone brighter without the light reflecting off them. Not for the first time that day, Éomer cursed his sister's meddling ways and continued to stare ahead stonily, refusing to look at her again.

Fortunately, Lothíriel was ignorant of his inner turmoil. "Boromir smiled more than anyone I had ever met," she said. "It is a pity my uncle commissioned the statue and not someone else. Denethor wanted to show the power of the stewards, although what is powerful about attempting to memorialise one son while nearly killing another, I do not know."

Éomer cleared his throat. "War makes us do strange things, Princess."

Lothíriel snorted. "Not war. Grief."

He had no answer to that. Lothíriel placed the basket at her feet, but instead of removing flowers from inside it, she knelt by the Horn and tugged out the remaining flower from her hair, placing it between her cousin's feet. As she bowed her head, Éomer heard her mutter what sounded like a prayer in Sindarin, and he lowered his head in respect. As she finished and stood, her hand touched her hair absently, as if to readjust the headband; as she did it, however, the band dislodged from where it was nestled into her hair, and slipped off her head. It landed on the ground with a harsh clang, and two of the jewels in it fell out and scattered across the floor. Automatically, Éomer bent down to retrieve it before she could, following the path of the gems easily and swiping them up before they rolled further away. However, when he turned around to hand her possessions back to her, Lothíriel seemed pale. He shifted the band in his hands, about to ask her if it was valuable as he tried to ensure he would not damage it, when he realised the weight of it was off. On her head, it had glinted as though made of solid silver; now, without the daylight to reflect upon it, it looked as though a dull metal had simply been polished, again and again, to retain some kind of sheen. Suddenly forgetting that Lothíriel was standing opposite him, he stared at the gems in his other hand, noting the dullness of the colour and the lightness of their weight. Éomer was no miner, but he had grown up around enough precious metals to realise that whatever he held in his hands was not fit to belong to a wealthy royal.

"Apologies," blurted out Lothíriel, practically snatching the gems and band from his hands. "My clumsiness is quite legendary." She laughed, and it sounded as fake as her smile had looked when she had seen him earlier. She hurriedly dropped a curtsey and mumbled some excuse as she made to rush past him, clearly anticipating his questions.

Éomer caught her sleeve before she could move. His mind was reeling, endless questions on the tip of his tongue, but he forced himself to calm down. "Stop," he said, lowering his voice. "I think, Princess, I am owed an explanation."

Her nervous demeanour vanished, and she glared at him. "I am getting rather tired of you thinking I owe you anything, Éomer King."

"Unfortunately for both of us, you do," he said, indicating the stones clutched in her hand. "Those are not gems. They are bits of coloured glass, if that. Are they not?"

"And if they are?"

"Then I must ask what else you are concealing," he bit out. "My country proposed this marriage because of your dowry and Dol Amroth's wealth. If the facts have changed –"

"They have not," she said coldly. "My dowry, I assure you, is quite substantial."

"Your crown is made of glass and iron. That hardly signifies wealth."

"Because I sold the real one!" she hissed. Her words were so shocking that Éomer dropped her sleeve, and she immediately hid her hands behind her back. "And not to pay for whatever frivolities you think I indulge in, Your Majesty. I sold the gems in all my tiaras before the siege of Dol Amroth for grain for my people. If you would like to see the accounts, you only need to ask."

Éomer stared at her. A reasonable explanation had been the least likely of all the things he had expected her to say. "Your father never told me that."

"Why would he? It was not a notable feat, nor the work of a warrior." He was not imagining the bitterness in her tone now. "I did my duty to my people. I care not for trifles and trinkets, but they are all I possess. Even my dowry is not my own, or I would have spent it all already. The next time you visit Gondor's court, pay attention to the jewels every councilman's wife wears around her neck, because they were probably once in Dol Amroth's vaults.I did what I could to keep my people safe, and I will never apologise for it, not to my father or brothers and certainly not to you."

"I am not asking you for an apology," said Éomer. He did not know what made him reach for her suddenly; perhaps it was to reassure himself she would not suddenly dart away and disappear, or sweep off in the dramatic fashion he suspected she was prone to do. But Lothíriel took a hurried step back when his outstretched hand grazed her arm, and he dropped it immediately. "I am merely asking for the truth," he continued, keeping his tone gentle. "We cannot – this cannot happen based on lies, Princess."

"This, as you so eloquently put it the other night, may not happen at all, so why would I tell you anything?"

Her tone made his temper spike again, even as he tried to keep his voice down. "You are misunderstanding me. Again."

"Why would I waste time trying to understand a man who thinks himself so far above me that he would rather watch people die than marry me?"

Éomer physically recoiled at her words. "I never said that."

"You do not want to marry me, and in doing so, you are dooming my people to certain death at the hands of pirates, and your own to starvation," snapped Lothíriel. "And I can't do a damn thing about it, because no one listens to me!"

"What would you have me do?" he demanded. "You say no one listens to you? Very well, I will do so now. Tell me what the best course of action is – agreeing to a match doomed to fail? My country is poor, the weather is harsh, and I am not the kind of man who could make you happy. You would hate Rohan, you would resent the marriage, and you will grow to hate me for agreeing to it. Tell me, Princess, how conducive is that to diplomacy?"

Lothíriel stared at him again, her eyes wide with the same expression he had seen her wear the last time they had spoken. She looked irritated and angry, but more than that, she looked at him as though he were an idiot. It made his anger rear its ugly head again, begging to be unleashed upon the woman who, for all her delicate looks, seemed more than capable of throwing it right back in his face at the first chance. "Do you think so little of me that you assume I would jeopardise the lives of people I would die for simply because I find Rohan's weather unsatisfactory or that you cannot give me attention?" She spat the words out, and her voice rose until it echoed around them, her anger bouncing off the marble walls. "I do not know how many times I must say this before you will grasp it, but I do not care if you love me. Currently, I do not even care if you like me. I care about my people's lives, and I am tired of being asked to prove that I am capable of making decisions based on facts rather than feelings, when you seem to struggle with that concept far more than I."

"This marriage has nothing to do with my feelings." Liar.

Lothíriel folded her arms across her chest triumphantly. "That is precisely what I have been trying to tell you."

Éomer was saved from answering when heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber, and suddenly, the curtain was pulled back to let in a stream of daylight, as well as the two guards who had stood at the door. Automatically, Lothíriel took a step back from Éomer, and he followed suit, suddenly conscious that they had been standing too close together, alone, for too long a period. Clearly, Idis and Éowyn had left before their argument started.

"Princess," said the first guard. His eyes bore into Éomer's with a viciousness he was used to at the hands of Gondorian soldiers. "We heard raised voices. Do you need –"

"Forgive me, I have duties to attend to. Please escort the king to his chambers." Stiffly, Lothíriel curtseyed again, and Éomer had just enough presence of mind to bow his head and stand aside as she swept out of the small passage, the curtain falling shut behind her. There was nothing in her wake but silence, two glaring soldiers, and the lingering smell of her perfume that Éomer was sure would haunt him until he saw her again.

Fantastic.

If Éomer had assumed his meeting with Amrothos would go any better than his conversation with Lothíriel, he was soon to be proven wrong.

Having taken possession of an empty study only a few doors down from Éomer's chambers, Amrothos was already hard at work when Éomer finally knocked on his door at the appointed hour. They had both skipped luncheon in the hall, Éomer because he did not want to see Lothíriel again, but Amrothos had a bowl of fruit near his free hand that he was plucking grapes out of, scribbling on a piece of parchment with his other. Éomer swiped an apple from the bowl and bit into it, taking the vacant seat opposite his desk and waiting for him to finish.

"Apologies," said Amrothos, finally dropping his quill. "An ambassador's work is never done, as you know."

"You're my ambassador, and I assigned you no work," said Éomer dryly. "Do not blame your tardiness with your tasks on me."

"Speaking of blame…" Amrothos pushed a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass towards him, indicating he should help himself. Any conversation with the ambassador that began with the offer of a drink usually ended badly. Éomer braced himself as he poured a generous amount of the liquid into his glass, doing the same for Amrothos as his friend began to peel an orange. "I heard of your confrontation this morning," he said suddenly, without looking up.

Éomer froze. "Confrontation?"

Amrothos kept peeling his orange studiously. "Voices carry in the Hallows. It was never an issue before today, since everyone in there is dead, but my sister does have a flair for the dramatic."

Of course, he knew. Éomer had no doubt the guards had informed him. He sighed. "Your sister was not the only one at fault," he said. "I can keep control of my temper at the worst times, but she seems to have a way of drawing it out. I should not have spoken to her like that. I will apologise when I see her next."

"You needn't feel so guilty," snorted Amrothos. The careless way his friend dismissed his desire to apologise irritated Éomer., but he held his tongue. "I have no doubt she made the situation worse. Lothíriel is impulsive, and she is used to getting her way. As her brothers, we have spoiled her. It is partly our fault."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "Interesting that none of these characteristics came up when you were trying to get me to agree to marry her."

Amrothos chewed on the fruit slowly and continued to avoid his gaze. "I did not think it mattered," he said finally. "I thought the trade agreements would be enough to convince you. Besides, Lothíriel is beautiful, perfectly respectable when she wants to be, and has never shied away from duty. But if you are both spending time hiding behind curtains screaming at each other flocked by graves, perhaps I was too hasty."

Éomer sighed in relief. "Perhaps you were. Then this can be fixed?"

"Fixed, yes. Undone, no," said Amrothos. "You need the money. We need the men. And my father truly believes your marriage can be a lasting symbol for peace and unity."

Personally, Éomer suspected his life would be the furthest thing from peaceful if the fiery woman who enjoyed yelling at him in dark corners of the palace ended up sharing his bed, but he kept his thoughts to himself. It was difficult to argue with Amrothos's logic. Finishing his whiskey, he poured another and waited for the ambassador to continue.

Instead of speaking, Amrothos stood up from his desk and went to the door. He poked his head out, said something to the guards stationed outside, and returned to his seat. He had only just poured two more glasses when there was a sharp knock at the door, and it opened before he could allow admittance.

"You sent for me?" The voice made Éomer freeze. "I am busy, Amrothos. What is it that you want?"

"Have a seat," said Amrothos. Éomer remained tense, and Lothíriel sighed with irritation as she quickly crossed the room. He heard, rather than saw, the exact moment she realised he was sitting next to the vacant chair she was moving towards; her steps faltered for half a second, and then she continued on her way, sliding into the seat and folding her – bare – hands on her lap as though nothing had happened. She did not look at him, but she did not need to; there were no flowers in her hair, but the now-familiar scent of her perfume hit him again, and Éomer gripped the arm of his chair, his irritation spiking at his body's inadvertent reaction.

Amrothos pushed the extra glass of whiskey towards her, and Éomer was only partially surprised when she picked it up, swirled the contents twice, and downed it in one go. Placing the glass back on her brother's desk, slightly harsher than necessary, Lothíriel leaned back in her seat and folded her arms across her chest.

"I have twenty minutes," she said crisply. "Talk."

Amrothos wasted no time. "I have asked you both here to discuss the matter of the engagement, which is apparently incomprehensible to you both," he said. Éomer tried not to wince at his words, knowing that his reaction had caused this discussion. However, from the corner of his eye, he saw Lothíriel fidget, leading him to suspect that perhaps he had not been the only one to voice his opinion. "While I would like to assuage any concerns you have regarding the logistics of the match, I must repeat what I have said to you both individually many times. This match is one of the most fruitful acts of diplomacy my father has managed to do in his time and is a rare example of both sides benefitting equally. I do not pretend to know what exactly it is about each other that has resulted in the need for my intervention, or your performance earlier today, but I would urge you to reconcile now."

"This is a ridiculous conversation," said Lothíriel impatiently, and Éomer could not help but agree with her. "Did you call us here to chastise us because a guard heard us talking loudly? What are we, children?"

"No," said Amrothos evenly. "You are both adults and have free rein to refuse the match. To convince you not to, I have a proposition that I think will be fair to all parties, created by myself, as a neutral figure."

Éomer snorted. "You are her brother."

"Outside of this room, yes," said Amrothos. "Inside this room, I care about nothing but the alliance I have fought to maintain between our countries. Lothíriel understands that. You will soon learn, Éomer King, that my sister is a better diplomat than many of the men who surround us."

Lothíriel did not respond to her brother's compliment. "What is this proposition?"

"The terms for your engagement," said Amrothos. He fished two pieces of parchment from the sheaf of papers on the desk and slid them over to the couple opposite him. "One for each of you. Read, please."

It was a short list, only a few sentences each, written out in a clear hand that Éomer had not thought could belong to Amrothos, judging by the ink stains on his fingers. It was so short that he read it thrice before he was expected to look up and respond.

I, the undersigned Éomer King of Rohan, commit to the terms set out by Amrothos, son of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, to court Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth for the customary period of six months until such a time as a proposal of marriage can be made and accepted.

In exchange for the promise of my proposal, I offer the principality of Dol Amroth two hundred of the five hundred men promised to the Prince of Dol Amroth upon my taking of his daughter as a wife as a sign of my friendship and commitment to the match.

To reciprocate, I acknowledge that the country of Rohan will receive one-third of the total sum of the Princess of Dol Amroth's dowry, to be paid in advance by the principality of Dol Amroth.

Éomer and Lothíriel finished reading at the same time and looked up at Amrothos with identical looks of shock.

"You cannot be serious," said Éomer finally, as Lothíriel continued to gape at her brother. "Two hundred men for one-third of the dowry? Without a marriage taking place?"

Amrothos nodded. "An engagement present, from each of you to the other. And in exchange for these gifts, you two will receive something even better. Time."

"Time," echoed Lothíriel. "So this is not blackmail, but bribery? Brother, have you been drinking?"

"You came to me with concerns," reminded Amrothos. "In fact, both of you did, at different times. I would not be a true ambassador if I did not address them."

"So you intend to pay him to marry me, even though the benefits far outweigh the costs?"

Éomer's temper spiked again. "This was not my idea," he said coldly. Lothíriel still refused to look at him, which only irritated him further. "You may assume what you like about my character, Princess, but I would never barter a human being."

Lothíriel scoffed. "You certainly had no problem deciding the barter for my dowry was not worth the trade."

"Stop it," warned Amrothos, before Éomer could respond. "Until this matter is solved, you will speak to me, not each other. This was my idea. These terms are not bartering. They are mere… incentives."

"They are threats, Amrothos," said Lothíriel. "Should either of us refuse, the benefits are forfeit."

"That is one way to see it," agreed Amrothos. "My way, however, is better. I offer you six months to follow the traditional patterns of a Gondorian courtship. Judge each other's suitability, perhaps even become friends. Once you agree to marry, Lothíriel's entire dowry is yours, as are the five hundred men Dol Amroth requires to keep its harbours safe. Should you decide not to marry, however, like any other contract, I will dissolve this agreement and draw up a timeline for returning these gifts in a way that is fair to all. But the rest of the benefits, the money and the extra men, will be forfeit."

Suddenly irritated, Éomer tossed the parchment back onto the desk and turned to Lothíriel. "Will you have a say in this, or is your brother to make all your decisions for you?"

"Do not speak to me like that," said Lothíriel, her voice frighteningly even. "And do not even presume to know how I make decisions."

"Then I will ask you," said Éomer. Since you constantly complain that no one does. He did not need to say it out loud; Lothíriel's eyes flashed to his face before returning to her lap, and he knew she understood. "Tell me, do you even want to marry me?"

Lothíriel was silent. Amrothos cleared his throat, and his sister looked up at him slowly. He gave her a knowing look. "You know I am right."

She was staring at her brother unblinkingly, her face a mask. Éomer could not tell if she was offended that her brother had made the decision for her or pleased that he was asking for her opinion before agreeing to it. There was no way to decipher her expression, and then she was nodding, her movements still slow and deliberate, before her eyes flickered back down to her lap.

She still did not look at him.

The silence ticked by until Éomer realised the siblings were waiting for him to speak, and he was staring at the side of Lothíriel's head. Maddening woman.

He picked up the remainder of his drink and downed it, placing his glass back on the table before speaking. "I have no objections if the Princess does not," he said. "But Rohan does not have the money to return even a fraction of the dowry, should she refuse in the end."

Lothíriel snorted, finally turning to face him fully. Her green eyes glinted with irritation. "Why do you think I will be the one to refuse? You could just as easily say no for any ridiculous reason."

Éomer clenched his teeth. "There are far more reasons for you to object than you realise."

"Currently, my biggest reason is how little you think of me."

"I think nothing more or less of you than what I have heard and seen."

"And am I to trust your judgement over my own beliefs?"

"Enough!" snapped Amrothos. "Are you both children? You have known each other for a grand total of hours, barely spoken ten sentences to each other, and this is how you behave?" They both froze at the accusation, and Éomer did not dare turn to look at her, even as Lothíriel began to fidget, her bare fingers tangling together in the same way they had earlier in the day when she had still been wearing her gloves. Oblivious to their tension, Amrothos continued, "Lothíriel, our mother and our aunt taught you better than this, and Éomer King, I expected a great deal more from a man as committed to his country as you. I do not know what petty squabbles you both have decided to let interfere with this decision, but I will again remind you of who you both are. You are the King of Rohan and a Princess of Dol Amroth. Your wants have no bearing over the fate of your countries and your people. I suggest you both consider this decision and get back to me once you have composed yourselves."

Lothíriel glared at her brother before snatching up her copy of the parchment, practically running out of the room. Éomer stood up automatically as she left, and for a moment, he debated following her. Before he could, however, the door had slammed shut, and Amrothos was groaning as he ran a hand over his face tiredly. "I handled that badly," he said as Éomer slowly sat back down. "You do not need to say it."

"Then I will not," said Éomer. "But your diplomacy skills need work."

Amrothos sighed. "She is the Princess of Dol Amroth. Getting her to agree to do what is right was never difficult. I do not know what has come over her."

Éomer gave his friend a sharp look. "I will not marry a woman against her will," he said. "I have accepted your terms only because she has. If at any point over the next six months, I feel she does not want this, even a hint of it, Amrothos, I will reject the proposal."

"She said yes," Amrothos said. Despite his apparent success at his sister's agreement, he sounded defeated rather than triumphant. "I did not force her, I promise you. I asked her before you for a reason so that you could judge her willingness. Now, your chivalric duty is done. You need not feel guilty over this match, not anymore."

Again, his irritation spiked. "It is not chivalry," Éomer snapped. "She is your sister, Amrothos." And I would never treat mine as you do yours, he added silently.

"She is the Princess of Dol Amroth first and my sister second," said Amrothos. "She knows it. I know it. My family knows it. And if you are to marry her, you ought to know it too."

It was impossible to find peace in Minas Tirith.

Éomer had spent hours trying to find a moment for himself, to sit and process and think after his conversation with Amrothos earlier that day and even with Lothíriel before that. But he had gone straight from Amrothos's study to say goodbye to his sister. Then, Elessar and Imrahil had pulled him into a council meeting about assigning more soldiers to protect nearby towns. When he had finished with them, he had thought he could finally be alone. However, Éothain had reminded him of correspondence that needed to be dealt with, letters to nobles and diplomats that could not be avoided, including a sheaf of papers that had been delivered to his rooms containing the finer details of his impending marriage, and the settlement that went with it.

He was going to go mad.

As the daylight began to wane, he had finally abandoned his desk and left Éothain inside, intending to make a quick trip to the stables before being expected at dinner. Not for the first time that night, he felt suffocated and took a path he had not been down before, relishing in the crisp evening air. Gondor was not as cold as Rohan, and the weather was pleasant enough for him to eventually slow his pace, enjoying the silence of his surroundings and, for once, in his head as well.

Unfortunately, his solitude was broken when he turned a corner that housed nothing but benches and a pond at the edge of the gardens and found the area occupied by at least seven large swans, and a woman tossing pieces of bread to them. It was, he realised, Imrahil's sister, Ivriniel, who had played the harp at his sister's wedding. She saw him and smiled, but did not stand up.

"Ah," said Ivriniel. "What a coincidence. Forgive an old woman, Éomer King, if she does not stand to greet you immediately. My knees are certainly not what they once were."

"Please, my lady, do not trouble yourself," said Éomer. He bowed stiffly. "I will leave you; I apologise for the intrusion."

"You are not intruding," said Ivriniel. "And I am leaving soon, if you would like a few moments of peace. It must be hard to come by for you."

Éomer hesitated. Ivriniel paid him no mind, and continued to shred the remaining slices of bread in her lap, pausing only to toss some more pieces at the swans crowding by the pond's edge. Deciding that the company of a woman he did not know was better than whatever alternative he had, he sat down on the bench next to hers, watching the birds fight over the scraps she continued to throw for them.

"Pretty creatures, aren't they?" asked Ivriniel suddenly. "I was always delighted, as a child, that our insignia was a swan."

"Yes," said Éomer, unable to think of anything else.

"They can be vicious too," she said. As if on cue, one of the swans beaked the other in the head rough enough to push it back several paces and snatched the bread it had been eating. Clicking her tongue, Ivriniel tossed more bread at them and turned to face Éomer. "Angry creatures, when provoked. Have you ever seen a swan before today?"

"Rarely, my lady."

"Underwater?" He blinked in confusion. Ivriniel tilted her head to the side, watching him curiously. "Well, have you?"

"I have no idea what you mean, my lady."

She smiled, and the resemblance with her niece suddenly struck Éomer. He had never met Imrahil's wife, but he had thought Lothíriel looked little like her father and brothers when he had met her. Then, he had seen the portrait of Denethor's wife and assumed she resembled her the most. But now, with Ivriniel seated across from him and giving him a knowing smile, he realised where she got her expressions from.

"Well, at least you are honest." She finished shredding the bread and placed her hands neatly in her lap. "Swans, Éomer King, are majestic creatures. They glide through life effortlessly, with a grace that the rest of the animal kingdom constantly admires. But if you ever look beneath the water's surface, you will see its legs are always paddling furiously to stay afloat." She raised her eyebrows at his look of surprise. "Oh, it is quite true. One of nature's curiosities is how the water's surface never ripples, but chaos is always underneath. And the chaos helps the swan look, to the rest of the world, as though it is perfect. But you never see how hard a swan has to work to stay afloat. It would ruin the illusion."

He had no idea where this was going. "I see."

"Food for thought," she said. "As promised, I will leave you now," she added, standing up and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her dress, the move so reminiscent of Lothíriel that Éomer stared at her, almost missing her goodbye.

Pushing the strange conversation out of his mind, Éomer remained seated and tried to summon back the silence he had enjoyed on his walk to the pond, but the swans by the edge of the water were surprisingly loud. One seemed intent on picking a fight with the others, causing more commotion than he was in the mood for. Throwing the birds a dirty look, he stood up again and made his way to the stables, a glance at the setting sun informing him that he was going to be late for dinner.

It was too late to go for a ride by the time he arrived, but he checked on Lightfoot anyway, and the stable hand inside seemed surprised to see him.

"Apologies, m'lord," he said. "We've no squires nearby to assist you. I did not think anyone was riding this close to dinner."

"I am not," said Éomer. He patted his horse's neck, noting that Lightfoot seemed more at ease that day than before. "Have you been rubbing him down? He seems much more mellow."

"Aye, the Princess told us the better way to deal with your horses, seeing as we see so few of them," answered the boy, and Éomer was taken aback. Apparently not needing encouragement, the boy continued shovelling the hay piles, still chattering away. "She likes your horse the best, I think, but maybe he likes her too. Came in to feed him an apple just now and comb his mane, even told off the stable master for trying to move him into a smaller stall." The last part seemed to delight him. "Old man could use the telling off more often, methinks."

Éomer shook his head in wonder, his irritation fading slightly as he ran his fingers through Lightfoot's mane and noted the absence of tangles. Women did not simply groom random men's horses in Rohan, but there was no way for Lothíriel to know that. He had caught her with Lightfoot before, and as far as he knew, there was no horse in the stables that was her own. She had only said she liked animals, and once again, he found the thought of her sneaking into the stables to check on his horse, even when she did not want to see him, oddly… endearing.

As he had suspected, Éomer arrived late to dinner, finding everyone already seated and the third course, at least, being served. With only a few people left after the wedding, the room had been rearranged to house one large table in the middle, with people seated on either side and Aragorn and Arwen at each end. The only vacant seat was between Éothain and Elphir, and Éomer quickly approached it. Despite himself, his eyes sought out Lothíriel; she was three seats down from his at the opposite side of the table, moving her food around on her plate but not eating, holding a glass of still-full and untouched wine. As if he had called her name, she broke off mid-conversation and suddenly turned her head, catching his eye. They stared at each other for barely a few seconds, although it felt like longer, and Éomer finally broke her gaze when Éothain turned to greet him. When he looked at her next, she was deep in conversation with her aunt, her cheeks pink.

Dinner was more distracting than usual; he ended up seated next to Elphir and his wife, Reyna, a pretty woman who spoke little but seemed to watch his every move with intelligent-looking grey eyes. It allowed him little time for his thoughts or even to indulge in his new hobby, which was sneaking glances at the green-eyed woman sitting not too far away. At times, he could have sworn she was trying to find excuses to look at him, too, but he knew better. The very thought of it was, of course, impossible.

Reyna was explaining the location of her hometown to him when a commotion broke out across from them. Ivriniel, it seemed, had asked for something, Elphir had obliged, and then his aunt was scolding him for supposedly handing her the wrong dish. Two servants appeared to ask what was wrong, and Reyna broke her conversation with Éomer to go to her husband's aid. However, she did not need to as Éomer watched Lothíriel intervene, taking the offending dish away from Ivriniel and putting the correct plate down while gesturing to a servant to remove the incorrect platter in less than ten seconds. As everyone else giggled at the familial dispute, what Ivriniel said next gave Éomer pause.

"Thank you, my swan," she said, patting Lothíriel's hand. "Your brothers will never learn."

Lothíriel smiled and replied, but Éomer remained frozen and did not hear her.

My swan.

"They never will while our Swan Princess is nearby to do their work for them," teased Reyna, and the surrounding people laughed at her comment.

Éomer did not.

Swan Princess.

The next time he tried to look at Lothíriel, he caught Ivriniel's eye instead, and the knowing look the older woman gave him told him everything he needed to know about their earlier conversation. Coincidence, indeed.

Next to him, Éothain gesticulated wildly and dropped his spoon for the fourth time since the meal began. Éomer waved away the attendant, who immediately stepped forward to retrieve it. As he bent down to pick it up, he immediately spotted something from the corner of his eye that did not look right. A row of expensive shoes was in front of him, corresponding with the rigid postures and polite conversation above the table. But one was out of place. A few places down, right where the princess sat, there should have been a pair of perfectly crossed ankles and neatly folded hands, reflecting her uncanny ability never to have so much as a hair out of place. It was what he had expected, and what Éomer was realising was also expected of her. But more than anything, he had expected stillness.

He had not expected her to kick her shoes off, one leg folded under the other thigh while her free foot dangled a few inches off the floor, swinging back and forth to a rhythm only she knew. There was also a rip in her stockings, and the hem of her dress was darker than the rest. He realised it was caked with mud, that the dim light of the hall had probably hidden, but he was close enough to see. As he watched, he realised she had taken the glove off her left hand, and her fingers were drumming an impatient beat on her thigh, even as he heard her let out a perfectly musical, polite laugh at whatever her companion was saying.

Éomer straightened up, his lips twitching. Opposite him, the princess ended her conversation and looked up again, finally catching his eye. He did not hide his smile quickly enough, and her mouth quirked upwards in response, almost automatically. It differed from the smile she had given her companion, and they broke eye contact again as the next course was served.

It had not been the polite smile of a noblewoman intent on impressing a nobleman.

It had been the quick, almost absent smile as if they were sharing a private joke, and she did not want anyone else to know she was laughing at them.

It had been a smile he recognised.

The realisation was slow to come, but it finally dawned on him as he watched her for the rest of the night, finally seeing her. The way she rolled her eyes at her brothers; the knowing looks she shared with her sister-in-law, or Idis; the polite smiles she gave everyone, including himself, whilst her hand continued to beat out an irritated tune, hidden from view.

"You never see how hard a swan has to work to stay afloat."

Was Ivriniel right? Was what he had been observing merely the behaviour of a woman doing what was expected, rather than the real her? He had barely had two conversations with Lothíriel since arriving in Minas Tirith, but even then, he had only seen glimpses of the woman he had met all those months ago. And he had liked her more than he had been willing to admit, more than he was still willing to accept. Her cold smiles and rehearsed responses irked him, but the flash of anger in her eyes told him there was a version of her he could get along with. And if that was the real her…

"Pay attention to the jewels every councilman's wife wears around her neck, because they were probably once in Dol Amroth's vaults."

Her headband glittered in the dull candlelight as though made of real gems, and Éomer was sure there were hardly a handful of people at that table who knew the truth and even fewer who truly appreciated what she had done. So, he did what she had asked; he scanned the nobles around him, his eyes zeroing in on the women. Two were wearing earrings made from large emeralds; another woman had a sapphire necklace, each stone glinting fiercely in the candlelight; and only two seats down from him, a young lady was wearing a bracelet made with perfectly-cut squares of amber. Ridiculous displays of wealth, and every stone the exact shape of the purple chips of glass he had held in his hands hours ago, when he had accused her of lying to him.

And then there was Lothíriel, seated opposite him with her mud-caked hem and ripped stockings, all because she had wanted to feed his horse an apple before dinner, even at the risk of running into him, a man she thought hated her.

The solution was so simple he could have hit himself for not thinking of it sooner.

And if it worked…

I can do this, he realised. I can marry her.

I just need to get her out of here.