I thought, "Heaven can't help me now"
Nothing lasts forever
But this is gonna take me down

(Wildest Dreams (Taylor's Version) – Taylor Swift)

On the road to Minas Tirith, December 3019

"So," said Amrothos, and Éomer tried not to snap when his friend interrupted his thoughts for the third time that hour. "How does it feel?"

"The same as it did ten minutes ago," said Éomer dryly. He resisted the temptation to urge Lightfoot faster, knowing he would leave the youngest son of the Prince of Dol Amroth behind easily if he were to do so. Absently, in a gesture that had become so ingrained within him over the past few months that he barely questioned it anymore, his free hand went to the thick chain around his neck. He rubbed the the rough, weather-worn metal between his thumb and forefinger, and then let his hand drop. The chain was always cool to the touch, and he had been meaning to ask the blacksmith to look over it and decipher what it was made of, but that would mean taking it off, and he could not bring himself to do that. Besides, it helped calm him down, and he appreciated that. After all, as irritating as his incessant questions could be, Amrothos was not simply his friend; he was the ambassador of a rich, populous city, a city Éomer needed to maintain relations with. As his advisory council had already informed him.

Repeatedly.

"You are taking the thought of your sister's marriage much better than I would mine," said Amrothos, and Éomer flinched. He had been unable to help it; whenever the elusive Princess of Dol Amroth was brought up, he found himself desperate to avoid the subject. It was not because he thought she would be unpleasant – he had no idea what she even looked like – nor was it because he found the concept of arranged marriages archaic – it was too common amongst royalty for him to have not known it would be his fate.

No, he found himself unwilling to discuss a match with the Princess because a certain handmaiden's necklace was still around his neck, boring a hole through to his heart where the metal met his skin.

"Your cousin is a good man," said Éomer instead. "I would see my sister happy, and she has chosen him. There is nothing more to be said."

"I did not know love matches were so common in Rohan," said Amrothos, and Éomer's discomfort spiked once again. "Tell me, my friend, is that why you remain unwed?"

"I harbour no such fantasies, Amrothos, as you well know," said Éomer, forcing himself to sound as flippant as his companion. Amrothos was a master of subtext, after all; it was why he was proving to be a much better ambassador than anyone had anticipated. "Choosing the Queen of Rohan is not as simple as choosing the first Prince of Ithilien, or his wife."

Amrothos nodded thoughtfully, and Éomer was rewarded for his – partial – honesty by silence. It was a welcome respite. After all, he had spent the better part of the last few months defending his sister's choice of a husband.

Éomer himself had not fought the match, despite how much people had assumed he would. But everywhere he had turned, there had been objections to contend with. Rohan was bleeding, his Riders had said. Éowyn was a comfort to the people; the women loved her, the men admired her, and the children ran after her horse every time she rode through a village. Her loss would devastate them.

But Éowyn had sacrificed enough for the kingdom. Her youth had been given to her uncle's care – Éomer had long ago decided the rest of her life would not be in service of her brother. He had known Faramir would come to him with his proposal sooner rather than later. When the son of the Steward of Gondor had arrived, Éomer had not spoken of consent – my sister requires no man's permission to marry, he had told his brother-in-law to-be – and had merely ordered preparations to be made for Éowyn's dowry. Rohan was his responsibility; Faramir's responsibility was now his sister's happiness.

Happiness. It was a luxury he was quickly realising he could not afford.

"You are too honourable to keep jesting with me this way, my friend," said Amrothos, interrupting their companionable silence. "You know, of course, what it is that I am keen to discuss with you."

Éomer kept his face blank. "I have spoken with my council, Amrothos, if that is what you refer to."

"So you have heard the proposal."

"It is not a proposal. It sounds like a trade deal."

"Can it not be both?"

"As I said, it is not so simple," said Éomer, for what felt like the hundredth time. "I do not merely need a wife. My people need a Queen, a leader they can follow in my stead, should the need arise. Heirs need to be produced; treaties need to be signed. Lives need to be rebuilt, Amrothos. I have no doubt your sister is as accomplished as they say, but I do not know her. I do not know if she is best for my kingdom."

"She ruled the city during the siege, and maintained order after our mother died," said Amrothos. "She has had the best tutors, dined with the best statesmen, and grown up without murdering my eldest brother in his bed. You may find that thought amusing," he added, when Éomer snorted. "But it is no mean feat. Her patience is admirable, to say the least. You will not find many women in both our kingdoms who have accomplished half of what Lothíriel has."

"It is not so simple," repeated Éomer.

"Make it simple, Éomer," said Amrothos, his tone turning serious. "I am the ambassador for my people but also your friend. My father will discuss this with you, and he will not be as diplomatic as I. He will demand that you hear him out, and then you will either accept his terms, or you must refuse. And if you refuse, you better have a damned good reason for it."

"What of your sister?" asked Éomer, finally voicing the question he had been dying to ask for weeks. "What is her stance on it? Has she agreed to be married off to a man she has never met, to serve a kingdom she has never visited, where she does not even speak the language?"

"My sister will do as she is told."

That was it. That was the problem. Éomer pursed his lips and nodded, signalling the end of the conversation, and finally Amrothos urged his horse ahead and left the King alone with his thoughts. The ambassador believed his sister's obedience to be a good thing, there was no doubt about it, but it made Éomer even more determined to find a way out of the match. A woman known for her blind obedience was not meant for Rohan. Amrothos had been careful every time he mentioned his sister over the past few weeks, clearly intending only to reveal complimentary things: Éomer knew she could ride a horse better than most maidens in Gondor, he had learned she was a skilled artist, and that she looked like Faramir's mother, a known beauty if her portrait had been any indication. And the match was what his council wanted as well, although their reasoning had less to do with the Princess' suitability, and more to do with her rumoured dowry. They could not force him, of course. But Éomer knew, as they all did, that he had not been trained to be king. To him, their advice sounded like a command. And currently, he had only been receiving one consistent message.

Marry the Princess of Dol Amroth.

Éomer continued to hold to the hope that Prince Imrahil could be persuaded to see reason. From what he could gather, the Princess was young, almost seven years his junior, and a favourite of her father's. A pampered Princess was not in Rohan's best interests, and nor was Rohan in hers. Gondorians thought Rohan a rough terrain, with no sea to gaze at and no castles to rest in. Meduseld was nothing compared to the grand palace at Dol Amroth, and there was no sea to speak of unless one counted the acres of green farmland. And even that, Éomer was loathe to admit, had been mostly destroyed during the war.

Of course, her dowry could rebuild the nation twice-fold if given the chance.

Despite himself, he found himself resenting this weak-willed princess. His sister would never have consented to let her brother arrange a marriage on her behalf, passing around a proposal like a trade deal at a council meeting in a land completely alien to her. Éowyn's bravery was just as well-known as her independence, and Éomer had always been proud of her. And he had always expected that he would marry a woman who was the same way. Love had never been part of the equation, of course, but could he respect a woman like the Princess of Dol Amroth when everything he heard about her, from her own relatives, indicated the opposite would be true?

Éomer was still brooding when the sparkling lights of the White City came into sight, and although the sun had set hours ago, the sounds of a city amid celebration rang clear through the air. As they grew closer, Lightfoot jerked at his reins, eager to find the stables, and Éomer did his best to calm the horse down. He slowed to a canter as the Riders around him sped up, anticipating refreshments and rest. Éothain slowed to match his pace as Amrothos seemed to shed his ambassadorial aura as soon as the city came into view, declared that drinks for the night were on him, and promptly began to race half the company through the streets.

"Hard to believe he is as good a diplomat as they say," said Éothain as they watched the dark-haired man urge his far inferior horse to go faster. "Did he bring it up?"

"We knew he would," said Éomer.

"And you said?"

"The usual. He was not convinced."

Éothain let out a low whistle. "They must be desperate to get rid of her."

Éomer snorted. "Why, because they are willing to marry her off to me?"

"She does not just get you," reminded Éothain. "She gets a crown—a kingdom. We may get her dowry, but do not forget, my lord; they need us just as much as we need them. How many of our Riders did Prince Imrahil ask for last time, to help those Swan Knights patrol their borders?"

"Enough that I could have asked for his daughter in return," said Éomer shortly. "Does that make it the right thing to do?"

Éothain did not respond, not that Éomer expected him to. Their difference of opinion was clear: Éomer could not see the honour in agreeing to a blind and decidedly one-sided match, and Éothain did not see why they had to care about the feelings of a foreign Princess when no one else seemed to. Nothing more, however, was said on the subject. They broke off from the rest of the company and rode to the palace in silence, followed by a few soldiers and the two councilmen who had insisted on attending the wedding. Ordinarily, they would have taken the time to rest, but Gondorian customs were still foreign to many of them. Apparently, it was considered rude to allow one's guests to retire to their rooms after three days on the road without a publicly visible meal.

Cultural differences, indeed.

Two squires ran ahead to open the doors and announce their presence to those inside the hall. As they waited, Éomer fixed his guard with a stare. "You know what to do?"

Éothain nodded. "I have practised enough. How hard can it be to get a few knights talking when we survived under Grima's watchful eye for years?"

Éomer did not smile at his friend's attempt at a joke. "Be careful," was all he said.

"Always, my lord."

The doors swung open finally, and the two separated, Éomer bound for the High Table and Éothain accompanying the rest of the company through the hall. Fortunately, Éomer was spared any discussion of his impending marriage at dinner, which was a quiet affair. They had arrived later than expected, and the royal family had opted to retire rather than wait for them. However, Éowyn had stayed to welcome them, and his sister's presence was a comfort at the foreign table. Prince Imrahil had also stayed, and the overt display of friendship was not lost on Éomer, nor on the Gondorians who witnessed the warm welcome. Éomer was grateful for it, even though all it did was remind him of the lengths Imrahil was willing to go, to ensure peace between the kingdoms of Men was maintained. However, when the Prince stood up after dinner and indicated that Éomer should follow him to his chambers, Éomer did so without a second thought. It was late, and they were both tired; surely, the Prince of Dol Amroth did not plan to bring up something as important as that dreaded subject now, when the clock was about to strike midnight?

Imrahil was well-bred, impeccably dressed, and polite to a fault. It was not until Éomer was seated in his private rooms, with a glass of the finest wine Dol Amroth had to offer – a wedding gift for the upcoming festivities, he learned – that the conversation drifted away from small talk.

"Amrothos wrote to say you handle your council well," said Imrahil, filling up Éomer's glass again. "It is no easy feat for a young king. Advisors tend to forget their words are meant for guidance, not commands."

"Fortunately, I remind them," said Éomer, raising his glass in thanks at the compliment. "If their advice leads us down the wrong path, it will be my fault, after all."

"I was in a similar position to you many years ago," said Imrahil. "When my father died, I was ill-prepared to take on my birth right. The responsibility weighed heavily on me for many years."

"I am worse than ill-prepared, my Prince," said Éomer, smiling bitterly. "With you, I can speak openly. We both know I was never even prepared for this."

"Perhaps not, but you have certainly earned the respect of your men," pointed out Imrahil. "I see the way they look at you. I did not inspire such loyalty when I first became Prince."

"The loyalty is from my days as Marshal, not from taking a crown," said Éomer dismissively. "Most of them do not care for titles. Neither do I."

"Yes, I am aware," Imrahil smiled. "I have always liked that about you, my friend. Your uncle was the same way. It was a quality I greatly admired."

Éomer nodded, not trusting himself to speak. But Imrahil was still looking at him, and he knew the Prince wanted him to respond. "He was a good man," he said finally. "An even better king."

"You will make a fine leader, Éomer King," said Imrahil. "You only need a little help."

"You have helped me enough, my Prince."

Imrahil shook his head. "You flatter me, my friend. Although, I did not mean myself. Did I not say the responsibility of a crown also weighed heavy on my head?"

"You did," said Éomer. Sensing the Prince wanted to tell a story, he humoured him. "How did you overcome it?"

"I got married," Imrahil laughed, and Éomer froze, his goblet halfway to his lips. Seeing his discomfort, Imrahil laughed harder. "Come, have you not thought of it? Surely, your advisors in Rohan have broached the subject."

"They have," said Éomer slowly. Amrothos's words rang out in his head. He will demand that you hear him out. "But I would focus on my sister's marriage first and see her settled."

"Your sister's marriage is happening as we speak," said Imrahil, still amused. "A good king knows how to divide his attention."

"It seems I have much to learn yet."

"You have learned a great deal, if you are avoiding the subject so skilfully," laughed Imrahil. "Come, let us speak openly. Your sister is marrying a man from Gondor and seems content with her decision, happy, even. What of you, my friend? There are maidens enough in Rohan and Gondor to catch a man's eye, even without a crown."

Despite himself, the image of a certain dark-haired maiden with green eyes flashed through his mind, and Éomer snorted. "Aye, there is no denying that fact."

"Yet I sense no willingness on your part even to consider the idea of marriage."

Éomer repeated the speech he had already rehearsed. "It is a hard life, in Rohan. Harder still to be Queen of the Mark. While I find myself ill-equipped to deal with the responsibilities of being a King, I cannot in good conscience marry. Who will teach her?"

"An interesting defence," said Imrahil. "What of a woman who requires no instruction?"

You cannot be serious. "I do not know about Dol Amroth, but we do not make it a habit to teach women how to rule in Rohan."

"We have no queens, that is true," said the Prince. Without invitation, he filled Éomer's cup again. "Humour your friend, Éomer. I have a proposition."

For Bema's sake, it's the middle of the night, and I'm on my third glass of wine. "You have a match, you mean."

"I do," Imrahil nodded, and finished his own cup. "My daughter." Even though he had known it was coming, Éomer choked on his wine. Imrahil laughed again. "You are surprised?" Unable to speak, Éomer merely nodded. Surprised you brought it up so casually. "She is a good girl, you know. Beautiful, accomplished, charming. You do not need to teach her to be a queen. She has already been taught everything one should know. And she could help you as well; in Dol Amroth, Princesses are born and raised to advise their Princes. It is a great honour, and my daughter has been trained well. No man wants to hear it, but there are things we could learn from the women around us, and you would be a better king for it."

"Your daughter sounds as though she would do better as an ambassador, or a diplomat," said Éomer, his grip tightening on his cup. "Rohan is not a forgiving country, my friend. It would be an… adjustment."

"My daughter was raised to be royal, Éomer. In that, she is like you and me. All we do is for our people, and our lands; it is our duty, and our honour. But you are a good man; my daughter would be happy by your side, I know it. As a father, it is all I could want. And as her Prince, it would assure me that our kingdoms could work together."

"I would think our friendship would ensure that."

"A friendship that turns into a familial relationship signals strength," said Imrahil. Avoiding the Prince's eye, Éomer took a larger sip of wine, wracking his brain to think of another excuse. None came; Imrahil's eyes, grey as those of his sons', were observing him, and his friend's gaze always made him feel small, and woefully unprepared for his role. Would the Princess' gaze make him feel the same way? Éomer was convinced it would. His fingers twitched with the desire to touch the cool metal of the chain around his neck, desperate for a way to calm himself as Imrahil, successfully and smoothly, backed him into a corner. However, he resisted the urge, knowing that fidgeting would not make Imrahil respect him. Offering his daughter was a compliment of the highest order, and Éomer knew he would be a fool to refuse outright.

However, he had always been a little reckless…

"You honour me, of course," Éomer said slowly. "Amrothos has told me of your affection for the Princess, and I am gratified that you would consider me worthy of her hand, never mind the gains that come from the match for both of us." Imrahil raised his cup in acknowledgement of the praise. "I understand the way matches are made in Gondor differs from Rohan, and I respect your ways, my friend; you know this. But I do not know your daughter. I have never even met her. Before I give you my answer, I would ask for an audience with her, to ascertain for myself whether this is the right decision. The marriage would not simply be between two people, and I cannot place half the trust of an alliance between two entire nations in the hands of a woman I have never met."

Imrahil's eyes glinted. "Is that your condition, then? You want to meet her?"

"Before I agree or refuse, yes."

The Prince stared at him for a full minute. Then, he moved to refill his glass. "I will speak to the Princess," was all he said.

Éomer nodded. They did not speak of it again for the rest of the night.

Considering the unexpected twists his evening had taken, Éomer was not wholly surprised when he finally arrived in his chambers to find his sister waiting for him.

Éowyn snapped the book she had been reading shut and glanced at his face. "Drink," she said decisively.

"I have had enough," said Éomer, sinking into the chair by the fire. He indicated the vacant seat opposite him. "But stay awhile, and help yourself."

Despite his protests, when his sister joined him and offered a glass of whiskey from Rohan – taken from the bottle in his saddle-bag, he noted – Éomer accepted it.

Éowyn did not speak, but she did not have to. Éomer grinned lazily and held up his glass to her. "To your future, sister, in this strange land you insist on making your home."

She did not smile at his weak joke. She merely gave him a look of concern. "You are tired, brother," she said, and the guilt in her voice was unmistakable.

He shrugged. "It was a long journey."

"Made longer still by what awaited you here," said Éowyn. "I spoke to Councilman Guthmer. He said the decision was unanimous regarding the Prince's proposal."

Éomer smiled bitterly. "Of course it was. I did not get a vote."

"You have concerns?"

"They are not for you to worry about."

"You can still say no," said Éowyn immediately. Beautiful, brave, headstrong Éowyn, whose only naiveté lay in her belief that her brother held any authority over his kingdom and his advisors. "You should say no. Faramir does not care for my dowry. Keep it; the money could help Rohan."

"We need more than your dowry can provide, Éowyn, and I will not send my sister away with no security," said Éomer. "I know Faramir does not care for it. I have spoken to him. He has assured me that money is for you and any children you may have."

Éowyn seemed torn between appearing pleased and continuing her concern. In the end, she reached over and grasped his hand. "You are a good brother," she said softly. "You have always looked out for me. You know how much I appreciate it." Éomer waved away her words, embarrassed as always by her insistence on voicing that which was wholly untrue: he had not looked out for her, not as much as he could have. But Éowyn was determined to see him as a hero, and it was sometimes comforting to pretend she was right. When he did not answer her, she bit her lip. "So you have decided, then. About the proposal."

"I have decided nothing," said Éomer. Shortly, unwilling to dwell on it too much, he summarised his earlier conversation with the Prince. Éowyn's eyebrows shot up as he spoke, and by the end, they were lost in her hair. He chuckled at her expression. "Are you proud of me?"

"Proud and impressed," said Éowyn. "You are far too honourable to agree to a marriage just like that. That part is not surprising. But I wonder at Amrothos and Imrahil, thinking that describing Lothíriel as a meek and subservient housewife would make her appealing to you."

"I am certain they expect her dowry to be appealing enough," said Éomer dryly. "No doubt, it is appealing, but even a hard-hearted cynic such as myself cannot be expected to make do with just that. What if the people reject her?"

"They won't," said Éowyn dismissively, making Éomer wonder just how well his sister knew the elusive Princess. As if reading his mind, Éowyn added, "She is beautiful, intelligent, and perfectly pleasant. As far as Queens go, you won't find a better one."

"And as Queen of Rohan?" demanded Éomer. "Have you been in Gondor too long? Are you forgetting what our home is like compared to this place?"

"I am not," said Éowyn calmly. "And you are not a cynic, brother."

"I do not plan to make this woman fall in love with me, sister. It could never work."

"Why not?" asked Éowyn. Éomer grunted in response, his free hand fidgeting with the chain – still abnormally cool to the tough – once again as he quickly refilled his glass from the bottle lying on his desk. When he returned to his seat, Éowyn was watching him closely. "Who is she?"

Éomer looked up from his glass sharply. "What?"

"The woman who gave you the charm you wear around your neck." As if burned, his hand fell away from the chain, and Éowyn sighed at the apparent guilt in his eyes. "Oh, Éomer, I know you can't stop thinking about her. Is she the reason you don't want to marry the Princess?"

"It is nothing," he said dismissively. "A trinket."

"But it is from a woman?" asked Éowyn. When he continued to stare into the fire, she sighed again. "I have seen you wear it for months and never thought to ask why. Oh, this is a mess."

"There is no mess, Éowyn," he said shortly. "I do not even know her real name. She never learned mine. And nothing happened," he added, as Éowyn grimaced. "We met on the road, and I helped her. That is all there is to it."

"But you still wear it."

"I know my duty, Éowyn. It is to Rohan. It will always be to Rohan. Nothing will come in my way, I assure you." And no one.

"I know how committed you are to your duty, Éomer," said Éowyn softly. "And I also know why you find love so distasteful. Do not deny it, not to me," she insisted, when Éomer glared at her. "But not every story ends like our parents' did. If you genuinely feel for this woman, you could –"

"Éowyn, you know I love you, and I respect your opinions," interrupted Éomer. "But this is not about something as trivial as a passing fancy with a pretty girl. This is about Rohan. This is my duty, and my responsibility. You can disagree with my motives, but you must trust me enough to know I will always do right by our people. I will only refuse Prince Imrahil's daughter if she is wholly unsuitable to Rohan. Beyond that, nothing else matters, and all the money in Middle-Earth will not convince me otherwise."

To her credit, Éowyn merely nodded and did not argue with him. She left soon after, only once Éomer had assured her he would finish his drink and retire; there were two days left to the wedding, and Gondorians had a host of rituals to complete before the ceremony. Éowyn had no family present, except her brother, and he had promised her he would not let her feel the absence of everyone they had lost.

However, his work was not done for the night. Hours went by before Éothain knocked on his door, but Éomer had not bothered to sleep. Nursing another glass of whiskey, he glared at his friend when he sidled into the room. "Well?"

Éothain ran a hand through his hair awkwardly. "Mixed opinions," he said finally. Éomer nodded to the second glass on the desk, and Éothain accepted it. He sank onto the chair opposite Éomer's, taking a deep breath. "The Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is quite beautiful, and performs her duties well. Imrahil was right; you would not need to teach her anything. She is even an accomplished horsewoman, from what I hear."

Éomer raised his eyebrows when Éothain paused again. "Is that all you gained? She can ride a horse and knows how to keep a table?"

"Hardly," said Éothain. "She is… well, they say she is spoilt. She likes fine things. Silks, jewels, expensive sweets and wines. Her brothers never refuse her, and she has grown more wilful since their mother died. Did you know she has hardly ever worn the same crown twice? She has hundreds, studded with jewels, made of the finest gold and silver. Different jewels, and practically one for each day, mind you."

Éomer winced. "I see." What was Imrahil doing to him?

"I tried to find out if she knew about the match, but no one seems to have an answer," continued Éothain. "But she has plenty of friends at court, so it is likely she did know."

"But unlikely that her father spoke to her of it?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I did hear that many of her suitors retracted their offers after the war. Do you think Imrahil has been planning to offer her hand to you for that long?"

"I do not know," said Éomer honestly. "Imrahil is a brilliant statesman, but he cares for his children. He would not use her as a pawn in this way. I think he truly believes she would be a good Queen."

"He could be right," offered Éothain.

Éomer ignored him. "But none of this is useful, Éothain."

"I do not know why you are interested in knowing her in the first place," shrugged Éothain. "This isn't still about that maid, is it?"

Éomer did not blink. His conversation with Éowyn had prepared him for this. "I do not know who you are talking about."

"Yes, you do. I saw you scanning the hall when we arrived," Éothain narrowed his eyes. "As your friend, my lord, I must discourage you. A dalliance with a maid, no matter how beautiful you thought her, would be –"

"Speak as my guard and advisor, Éothain, not as my friend," snapped Éomer. To his credit, Éothain did not look offended and merely nodded. "Do not think I have forgotten my duty, or I could have just as easily asked you to find out what you could about the maid, not the Princess. I know what I must do, but that does not mean I will do it blindly."

"One can never accuse you of such, my lord," said Éothain. "But it is a delicate time. If the Princess were to hear that you have a preference for her maid –"

"Do you think I do not know that?" demanded Éomer. "They are watching every move I make, Éothain. Her father, her brothers, even her cousin and Elessar. They have not even let her be in the same room as me yet. Do you think they would have ever considered a man of Rohan for her hand had I not gotten this crown?"

"That choice has nothing to do with you," said Éothain calmly. "And your worries are needless. You have never wanted to fall in love, Éomer. Her dowry is what we need, her father likes you, and they say she is a beauty. Rohan needs money, and heirs. What does anything else matter?"

His friend's words were blunt, but they were not dishonest. The comfort of a woman whose father was willing to send her to another country was not his business; he would do what he could, but if she agreed to the match, his conscience would be clear.

And yet, the idea of a woman agreeing to marry him without so much as a look at him or, Bema forbid, feeling she had been coerced into it made his skin crawl.

"I asked Imrahil if I could meet with her," he said finally, and Éothain groaned. "I need to know she is not being forced into this, Éothain. Arranged or not, there is no honour in forcing a woman's hand."

"You and your honour," muttered Éothain, even as his lips twitched. "Some things never change, do they?"

Éomer had always hoped they would change. Now, with change on the horizon, he was not sure his hopes had been wise.