Here I am, back with a new chapter, as promised for this weekend!

Now, I know I said there would be angst from now one, but I'll give you one more chapter of ... sorta fluff? Be prepared for a) confident Lothíriel, b) horny as fuck Éomer, c) lots of heart eyes and d) a fuck ton of flirting.

Warning: As this chapter is written from Éomer's perspective, there will be a whole lotta swearing ahead!

Thanks for all the comments, likes and love! You're awesome!

Alright, enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

23. When in the South, do as the Southerners do

Éomer couldn't quite recall anymore who made the decision exactly. Was it he himself that first – stupidly – brought up the idea? Or was it his wife that sneakily introduced it one morning at breakfast, not quite three days after his sister's wedding? And who had the questionable sense to actually think that this was a good idea anyway? And who the fuck of the two of them had the audacity to actually decide that they were going to go through with this?

Fuck. Great. Here we go again.

Not even a week after Éowyn's wedding to her Southern prince, his sister's impatience and insistence to get out of the Stone City and into her cushy new love nest of a home, had become too much for him to bear – and so, Lothíriel and him had made their way down the North-South road towards Ithilien and its new capital, Emyn Arnen. Not that the king and queen of the Mark had been actually received there, Éomer thought, snorting contemptuously. Oh, no, the new Lady of Emyn Arnen was a very private person (since fucking when?!), and while the shieldmaiden had been happy enough to let them accompany them on the road (to give her even more time and opportunity to rub this new marriage-situation in his face, no doubt – who knew the walls of a tent could be so fucking thin?!), one week of marriage was way too early, she had crooned, for the first-year-marriage-visit to the bride's family. Sure, right – the only way she could have brushed him off any more politely or subtly, would have been by her flipping him off with her fucking sword.

So, that had meant no brotherly ordained detour to his newly-married sister's home; instead, they had taken a turn to the right – right into fucking fucked up, and where the fuck is fucking up and down – right onto a swaying, wavering, moving monster of a ship that had taken them down the great Anduin river towards the coast and then onto the watery borders of Dor-en-Ernil. No, that's alright, there had been no need for him to hold on to the contents of his stomach; sure, let him throw up all over the fucking deck, that had been so fucking kingly.

Fuck boats. Fuck this heat. Fuck all of this.

When at long last he had felt solid ground under his feet again, he had felt happy enough to drop down to his fucking knees and kiss the good, green earth, but he had decided against it – wouldn't have been too fucking kingly either. His wife – fucking bless her – had only smiled that sweet smile of hers that told him he wouldn't be able to keep up with her even if he tried (it was safe to say, he had stopped trying a long time ago), and he had grown quite familiar with that smile. It was the same kind of smile that decorated her lips lately whenever he pulled her close and kissed her deep and fucked her good like she just wanted him to – it was the kind of smile that said … do it again.

Right, none of that now. Keep your head straight.

They had made the rest of the journey to her birthplace on horseback, and he was still glad about it, because he didn't really need to disgrace himself in front of the whole fucking peninsula by looking greener than the grass steppe he called home and puking out the last shreds of his dignity as the ship docked at the capital's harbour. His wife had graciously and surprisingly enough relented and agreed to riding the last miles to her home – he had suspected she was trying to make a point, that she was no longer a princess from the sea, but a Queen from the Mark, and although he couldn't quite figure out to whom she was trying to prove that, he had to admit, it was working for him.

When they had entered the city side by side, he had watched her smile and wave and act like the proper, little Queen she was – and he had to give it to her: she was good, she was really good. Because while he might have managed to be the perfect fucking rider on top of that horse, he knew he was far from kingly – with one hand holding the reins, the other hand on the hilt of his sword (he had never liked large crowds), he knew the crown on his head had looked fairly askew and his smile had been more grim than regal. But she – Béma, help him, she really had looked like a Queen! She'd really looked like the swarming masses of people cheering on their entrance to the peninsula city hadn't bothered her at all; she'd really looked like she was in her element. Oh yeah, she was so good in fact, he couldn't even tell if she'd been faking it or if she'd actually liked to play that part.

Béma, he really didn't deserve that woman.

They had been greeted by her family, once they had arrived at the palace by the sea – oh boy, and what a greeting it was! He had once fought on for two days straight with an arrow stuck in his balls but not even that had been as painfully awkward as this family reunion right there. No, honestly, no kidding, that first meeting with her family was indeed very telling of that whole family situation.

The greetings she had exchanged with her father were stiff and formal, and she had barely even looked at him. Coolly she had taken the bowl her lord father had handed them, to take the customary sip of seawater (he had grimaced all the way through it, seawater had lost nothing of its unsavoury taste for him) and had offered him her forehead to draw the symbol of the trident on, but she might as well have been a thousand miles away and her father might as well have not been there – she had stared right through him.

Her greetings with her oldest brother Elphir had only been a little warmer – as the firstborn and heir, he was most like his father, a politician through and through, more quiet, perhaps, less arrogant even, but undoubtedly his father's son in every way that mattered. He had also been introduced to the oldest brother's wife, a young timid woman by the name of Adaneth, and their two sons, and he could tell, by the way Lothíriel's jaw had tightened as she'd smiled her sweet smile that seeing her sister-in-law highly pregnant yet again was hurting her a lot more than she would really let on. In that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms, to never let her go and comfort her, but she wouldn't have appreciated that sort of emotional display and he wasn't really the kind of man to make it – and so the only thing he could do, was to take her hand in his and squeeze it – but judging by the look she gave him then, it must have been enough.

The greetings with her second oldest brother, Erchirion, had been much warmer already, although the embrace she had received then and there had seemed slightly painful, given that he, as Commander of the High Naval fleet of Dol Amroth, always wore his shiny, shiny armour. The mariner had been pretty jovial and loud – just as he had remembered him to be from the time they had spent at the end of the War of the Ring – making crass jokes about the joys of married life while giving first Lothíriel and then him a pat on the shoulder that had left her swaying and him coughing.

The greetings with her last brother, Amrothos, had showed a true family bond at last, as they both hugged each other as tightly as possible and with him lifting her almost off the ground. When Éomer had extended his hand for shaking, he had wondered at first why that insolent man-child would only stretch out his left one, but he'd soon understood as he respectfully ignored the two missing fingers on the prince's other hand, or the sun reflecting off the silver ring in his ear or the blinking of the golden tooth that he flashed with his annoyingly bright smile. He'd had that rumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach then that this fucker would be just like Déor and it had already annoyed the fuck out of him.

Now, of the three brothers, that arrogant gander had been the only one he hadn't met before this day. Erchirion he had met on the battlefield, together with his father, the Prince Imrahil, as a general; and Elphir he had met in the days when the prospect of marriage had been discussed – but the youngest brother he had never met, as he had not, unlike the older brothers, attended the wedding of their sister, but he had heard much and more about him, that's for sure. He knew that Amrothos had not fought in the War of the Ring, not really anyway, not in any way at least that an honourable knight or rider would count. With a rogue crew made up of low-life criminals the youngest nobleman's son had launched a series of guerilla attacks on some fleets of Corsair ships, but, rather than killing the men on board, he had made some dubious deals that would keep them out of the war and the coffers of his ships well filled. It was a questionable contribution to the war at best, but it was a contribution nonetheless, though few had applauded him for that and many more had whispered the word pirate.

Fucking pain in the arse was a better word for him though.

When that awkward as fuck family meeting had been done and over with at long last, and he had been able to get his wife alone and to himself again, he hadn't really minced his words and told her outright what he thought of her brothers. Fish stick, Beer belly and Slippery eel he had dubbed them, which had made her laugh at first, but then she had frowned, turning to him and asking what he would call her, and well, sometimes he just didn't know when to keep his damn mouth shut. And to be fair, the name Black Swan could definitely be understood as a compliment, surely, because that wife of his was sure as hell nothing like the rest of her family. And, perhaps, she'd even understood it as the compliment he had meant it to be, or perhaps she'd thought he was just making fun of her, but either way, when she'd tackled him then to launch a pretty serious tickling attack, he had let her because she was laughing and she was beautiful and she was happy and …

Béma, help him, he really had no defences when it came to that woman.

And that's exactly how he found himself here now, wasn't it? Because sure as hell, Éomer King, Lord of the Riddermark would not have chosen a fucking Southern gala as his favourite place to be – given in his honour and in the honour of his visit (yeah, sure, whatever). No, truly, if it weren't for him trying to please his pretty little queen, he definitely would not find himself here right now with a glass of sweet red wine (stronger than it had any fucking right to be) in his hand, laughing at some stupid jokes he couldn't understand, attempting to talk to some stupid airheads he couldn't stand, awkwardly trying to fucking fit in with the most snobbish, dishonest, self-obsessed collection of people he'd ever met.

The things he did for love, right?

When the heavy doors to the ball room were pulled open then and the entrance of the Queen of Rohan was announced, he was so glad to be freed from this awkward attempt at socialising that he was ready to run towards her, sweep her off her feet and into his arms and then to bolt right out of that fucking ball room and back to their assigned chambers were he would be making sweet love to her for the remainder of their stay. But of course, he didn't do that. Not only because he knew very well that this wouldn't be very fucking kingly of him – in contrast to what those Southern court cringers thought, he actually knew something of proper manners and royal etiquette, thank you very much – or because she probably wouldn't take it too well if he were to embarrass her like that in front of all those arse-kissing guests. No, indeed, the most obvious reason was that he, along with apparently the whole rest of the guests, too, was simply too stunned by her entrance.

She strutted into the ball room like she fucking owned the place (and granted, given who she was and what she'd been born into, she most certainly did), and exuded an air of power unrivalled by what she had let him see before. That was not the shy wife he had got to know over many weeks, that was not his polite lady that spoke quietly and respectfully, that was not his little politician that thought tactically and acted decisively. This was the entrance of a queen and she milked that moment of glory with everything she had. Sporting a long, dark-blue shoulder-free dress and a cleavage that left little to the imagination, she carried herself with a confidence that, quite frankly, took his breath away … and then some. Walking past the dropped jaws of those Southern court cringers, his queen had eyes only for him, and it reminded him of that first entrance she had made to the council meetings all those months ago. Back then she had held his gaze to give herself strength, now she held his gaze to show him how strong she had truly become. Béma, he would be lying if he said it didn't arouse him then and there to see her like that, walking up to him like that …

'My lord, you see something you like?', her question pulled him out of his daydreaming and he realised he must have been staring at her like a love-drunk fool while she had walked all the way over to him, and immediately he felt his cheeks blush. She smiled that sweet smile that reminded him of less proper interactions, and he chuckled lightly to cover up that he was trying to clear his throat or looking for the right words to speak or trying to relocate his heart that seemed to have dropped right down into his pants, trying to make itself annoyingly, awkwardly known.

'My dear wife, you look … ', he started, but stopped as he tried to find the right words to describe her.

What? Beautiful? Pretty? Lovely? Ravishing? Well, she was certainly that … and then some.

Licking his lips, he looked her up and down, his eyes drawn to the belt around her waist, the one with the buckle in the shape of a horse's head – and seeing her wear that wedding gift never ceased to touch his heart or to make his eyes soften with tenderness for her – and to her long raven hair that she had tied back in a ponytail (a bit on the nose for a Horse-queen, but hey, he loved it!). Now, he knew that for these Southerners an exposed neck on a woman's body was apparently considered somewhat scandalous, and seeing that bit of naked flesh on her so out in the open, well, he kind of understood why. Seeing her tilt her head to her side, exposing that long line of bare flesh, all the while smiling at him like a cat playing with a mouse, he really had to remind himself that they were in public and that he couldn't very well pull her close or plant wet, open-mouthed kisses on that long, delicate neck of hers …

Snap out of it, man.

'You truly look like a queen today.', he finished at long last, trying to look smug and in control, but seeing her barely veiled amusement, he knew that he failed miserably at that. Oh, she knew he was already hers. Oh, he knew he was already fucked.

'And don't you forget it.'

Yep, he had fallen for her – hook, line and fucking sinker.

She was laughing.

Apparently her brother Amrothos had just told the funniest joke in the world – some nonsense about seamen. Now, Éomer didn't get it and he was simply too annoyed at being forced into attending one of these social-butterfly-events, and at having to listen to this pirate tell one stupid joke after another, to even pretend to be amused, so he simply bobbed his head in acknowledgement of how utterly funny that joke was.

Stupid annoying little shit.

Éomer emptied his glass of wine in one gulp, wondering when might be the appropriate time to actually broach the subject of retiring for the night – he was sure, once he was alone with his queen, she would be all his wife again – when Lothíriel touched his arm to call his attention to the newest member of their merry round of noble folks.

'My lord, I have the great pleasure of introducing the Lady Saelwen of Mardë Annan.'

'Westu Éomer hal!', the lady spoke then with an almost impeccable mockery of the language of his birth, and granted, it could have just been the obvious level of teasing at hearing someone clearly not Northern speak his mother tongue with perfection, but just a little too much perfection for it to be honest, that had him staring at the woman with squinted eyes and frowns on his forehead, but that would have been a lie. No, it probably had a lot more to do with the fact that the beautiful woman standing before him was of dark skin, black shiny hair and foreign brown eyes. In the back of his mind he remembered having seen someone like her before, and he remembered even clearer that that encounter had not been pleasant – for either party involved.

'I do hope I'm saying it correctly.', the lady Saelwen threw in then in an obvious attempt to try and fill the deafening void of a silence he had left with his unresponsive staring, and there was just something in her tone, even as she tried to be polite, as though she just could never quite get rid of that tone of mockery, 'My sensitive tongue is so unused to your harsh Northern words.'

Yep, more staring, more silence – he could do this all night long, he wouldn't cave in.

'I am talking in the common tongue, am I not?', the lady spoke again then, once more trying to strike up a conversation with a conversational partner that was very much not conversational,'I was informed that you are not familiar with our Southern words.'

Nope, he wouldn't budge. Silent as the fucking –

'She's just teasing, husband. It's okay to smile … or form words.'

And that did the trick – one word from the lips of his sweet wife and the mighty warrior caved in. Éomer sighed and closed his eyes, hanging his head low for a moment before straightening his shoulders and clenching his jaw in preparation for a conversation he did not want to have (so, like most conversations really), with a person he was determined not to like (also, like most people really).

Béma help him, he really had no defences when it came to his wife.

'Forgive me … madam.', he started, staunchly refusing to address her by his proper title, thinking that if she wanted to mock him with her passive aggressiveness, he would show her some real passive aggressiveness, 'But there are a lot of Southern ways I am unfamiliar with, and the last time I saw someone … like you, I was knee-deep in blood and guts.'

'Dear me.', the lady countered then, her smile wavering for only fraction of a second, as she remained chillingly unimpressed with his rude example of comparisons and allusions that she surely must have heard a thousand times by now, and if he had thought to shock and stun her then, he really had not met many Southern ladies yet.

'But you're so … tall. It would be a hard thing indeed to believe you knee-deep in anything – other than your boots perhaps.', she continued to croon then, and even Éomer could hear the bite in her tone then. That does it! Not only had he been forced to wear the dresses these Southerners had the audacity to call tunics, but now he was also, all of the sudden, made painfully aware of being the only man in the hall wearing boots rather than supple leather shoes. So, he wasn't going to lie, that embarrassment was kind of fuelling his anger, even more so than her quips and mannerisms from before had.

'Have you been here in the South long, madam?'

'Longer than you, that's for sure.', the lady snarled then, rolling her eyes and remaining annoyingly unimpressed by his attempts at insulting her, but instead of firing back another one of her subtle stabs, she simply switched to the Elven tongue as she remarked something utterly and outrageously funny to his dear wife, as his queen laughed whole-heartedly, with wheezing breath and tears in her eyes and all, before answering in the same foreign tongue. Éomer was at his breaking point by now, breathing hard through his nostrils, trying to remain calm while feeling like a fucking toy these two ladies played with, and it really didn't help that this … this lady did not waver in her glare, and he had the strangely uncomfortable feeling – and had he been a braver man, surely, he would have had to admit that it intimidated him – that she had already destroyed a thousand lives by that stare alone.

'Oh, but I do believe I am needed elsewhere … to bring more colour to otherwise colourless conversations.', the lady crooned then, and the switch had been so sudden, that it caught Éomer very much off guard, and though the lady smiled sweetly enough, even the king of the Riddermark could tell that this empty phrase was more or less a ploy to get out of a conversation that the dame was no longer bothered enough to continue. She curtsied deeply to both him and his wife, though only the curtsey with regard to his wife could be considered genuine in nature, and smiled sweetly once more, before she was gone in a flash of swirling skirts and a saccharine dismissal, 'Your majesty – Éomer … king. I'll take my leave.'

'That wasn't very civil, my lord.', his wife purred then, as they both watched the lady Saelwen walk back over to her husband, an elderly man with grey hair but keen eyes, and whatever she whispered to him made him break out in roaring laughter before he lifted his glass of wine to toast to them from across the ball room. And while his queen responded in kind, lifting her glass as well before taking a languorous sip, the king did not miss that the smile on her lips was quite frosty at the corners.

Fuck. Mandos' halls wouldn't be nearly deep enough to hide from the veiled anger of his sweet wife.

'Well, she was rude first.', Éomer answered then, trying to defend himself and his less than honourable actions and behaviour, and even while the words were leaving his mouth, he was fully aware of how ridiculously, ludicrously, painfully inadequate they sounded.

'Oh, she was nice enough.', his queen countered then before she turned to him at last, swirling around the wine left in her glass, and when she looked up, there was an expression on her face he found very hard to read, 'But I do believe us ladies of the court have simply spent too much time pretending … for it to sound genuine, even if we are genuinely trying to be nice.'

Éomer made a non-committal sound somewhere between a groan and a hum, as he grabbed a new glass of wine from a tray that one of the servants carried while walking past, and gauging that look in her eyes, he wondered then aloud (before he had the time to restrain himself or his curiosity), 'So, what were you two talking about just now?'

'Oh, not much really.', his wife stalled, before she added with a wry grin, 'She claimed that she found you to be quite an … impressive specimen of men.'

'Really?!', Éomer questioned, and his tone did not hold back with the scepticism he felt at that statement.

'Yes, she said she's never met a man like you before.', his queen mused dreamily, a mischievous smile playing around the corners of her mouth, and he had the feeling that while his wife might be telling the truth here, that the words were not quite meant as the compliment she tried to make them out to be, and seeing her trying to hold in a chuckle then was all the confirmation he really needed. Surely, he should have felt offended at being so politely insulted – because, by all means, what else could these Southerners imply with such a statement? – and surely he should have fumed in anger at the rude offence these Southerners gave him, a king? But his queen was laughing, trying still and yet failing to hold in the fits of laughter, and … and she was beautiful and she was happy. And, of course, he couldn't but smile at that, too – honestly, who could be mad at a sight such as this?

'My dear, I must say it is good to see you laugh – even if it is at my own expense.'

'Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to laugh at you.', she managed to bring herself to say, once she had recovered from her laughing fit long enough to actually catch her breath, 'And neither did the lady Saelwen. She's a good woman, really, I swear.', she added, trying to convince him of her truth, all the while trying not to burst out laughing again at the sight of the amused scepticism on his face, and who knows? Maybe it was that laughter too that made her careless then, or the carefree atmosphere between them, the way his sense of humour made her relax, so much that she would drop her guard and lower all of her defences – even if only for a moment.

'Honestly, of all the Southern ladies, she is the only one I would truly call my friend.', his wife said then, smiling, and then her smile froze, her face shifting from good-humoured to stunned as she realised what she had just said, at what she had just admitted, and immediately, she scrambled then to quickly cover her slip of tongue, her accidental revelation of a very private and very vulnerable truth, and just like that her mask slipped back into place, 'Does that shock you, my lord? That a charming lady such as me would have so few friends?'

'Actually … ', he started carefully, regarding her with watchful eyes, picking up on all the signs of uncertainty she tried to hide, sensing that fear of rejection she always pretended she did not feel, glimpsing the insecure maiden behind that facade of aloof bravado, and he understood the need for that shield of strength so well, that need to protect the true, vulnerable self of one's soul – but, being with her, he had learned that while walls could could keep you safe, they could keep you imprisoned as well, and he didn't want her to feel that she needed those kind of defences with him, 'Actually, I'm surprised there's even one of those vultures you would call friend.'

Looking up at him, he could see the shock then written all over her face, but that moment, when she had been startled into realising just how easily he had learned to see right through her, lasted only for so long and then she remembered who she was and how well she had been trained all her life. Swallowing hard, she put on a smile that was neither entirely true nor entirely fake, but somewhere in the middle, a muddled version of that old mask slipping out of its place but yet not truly shattered – the strings that tied her to that old life were not yet cut, and he could understand so well why she would try to hold on to them for as long as she could, even as he wished that she wouldn't.

'Ulmo help me, you have become quite the observant one, haven't you?', she crooned then, before downing the rest of the wine in her glass with one large gulp before waving over to one of the servants to get herself another, 'I guess, I'll need to watch my back with you from now on.'

Éomer snorted at that, amused at first at the indirect warning she was issuing to him, but then he saw the strange expression in her eyes hiding behind that wry smile, and he began to suspect that, perhaps, she was not even joking here. The king of the Riddermark realised then that, perhaps, trying to get her to come out of that shell of hers wasn't going to be as easy as he had thought, and that the road to mutual trust would, perhaps, not be a linear one – but he would not stop trying. He smiled back at her then, tenderly, understanding her just a little bit better, even while she tried to hide herself from him.

'I'm sorry, if I was rude to your friend.', he relented then at last, acknowledging his misbehaviour from before, obviously putting in some effort in redeeming himself in her eyes, and he could see the surprise palpable in her face – she actually had not expected him to fall in line so quickly, and it showed in the way her eyes lighted up or the way the corners of her mouth lifted ever so gently; well, it was nice to see that he could still surprise her, 'If she's your friend then she'll be my friend as well, and if you trust her, then I'll – '

'Wait, wait, wait, hold your horses there.', she interjected him then, much to his confusion, and not only because she was chuckling so hard it was difficult to make out much of what she was saying, though he got the gist of it nonetheless, even if it only served to confuse him even more, 'I said she's my friend, alright – I never said anything about trusting her.'

'Because of the – ', he started slowly then, carefully treading his words as he waved his hand in front of his face to suggest the reason for her apparent mistrust.

'No.', his queen countered then, shooting him down immediately, even going so far as to roll her eyes at him, even though she was smiling still while she exchanged her empty glass of wine with a new, full one when the servant she'd waved to earlier brought the tray across to her her, but she would only continue her explanation once the servant had moved on again, and it was such a small, calculated move that he wouldn't have noticed it several months ago – but he did notice it now.

'However, I do not doubt that many people here do mistrust her for the sole reason of her foreign appearance. But for me … ', she added then, the smile on her lips slowly making way to a more serious, thoughtful expression as she disclosed more information of that part of her he had never got to meet, that part of her that had grown up and lived and thrived in the South, that part of her that had had a very unique relationship to the truth … as he had come to learn.

'She's just so good … terrifyingly good at her game, you know? Deception and manipulation come so easy to her, it's almost frightful to behold what a whisper from her tongue can set it motion. Trust me, I should know, I've seen her in action more than once. She's truly a marvel to behold. But perhaps, I'm also just … envious of her talent? I mean, I was good, back in my days at court, I was really good – but I was never that good.', his queen spoke then, and the dark tone of admiration in her voice sent shivers down his back. Of course, he had known her to be a lady of the court, but he had always been under the impression that she'd been pulled into these games of intrigue against her will, or that she hadn't been particularly fond of playing these games. But this here right now? Béma help him, she sounded as if she actually missed this – the lies, the intrigue, the manipulation, the tricks – and not for the first time since they had come down here into the South did he wonder if he really, really knew that queen of his that he called wife?

' – I mean, she practically had you quaking in your boots by the time she left.', his wife continued meanwhile, and though he was annoyed at yet another joke she was making at his expanse, he was also glad for the distraction it provided him, to push back those thoughts of doubt to the back of his mind – he didn't want to deal with the implications of these thoughts or the possible answers to such dangerous questions.

'I was not quaking in my boots. The king of the Riddermark does not … quake.'

'Oh, I'll keep you safe enough.', she commented then with a wry smile, winking at him, before leaning over to him, dangerously close, to whisper in his ear, and her breath hitting his skin sent shivers down his back, 'Trust me, right now, in the whole wide world, there is no place safer than at my side.'

Éomer king smiled when she leant back again, nodding his head in acknowledgement that she, indeed, had gotten him good there, silently giving her credit for using the very same words he had used back when he had first put her on the back of a horse, but he could not deny that this verbal little trip down memory lane, brought up other memories of another kind of ride, and just like that he could feel the air between them changing, shifting from humour to quite something else entirely. He could tell that she knew very well what he was thinking about right now, because he saw her blush and bite her lip and look around to check if anyone had noticed the change in them – because when she turned back to him, she looked at him with eyes that invited him. And Éomer was just about ready to grab her hand and pull her out of the ball room, down the many halls, back to their chamber, into their bed and into his arms and to –

A giggle to his left pulled him out of his very wanton daydreaming and put him right back into reality, and when he looked over to the source of the noise, he had to blink several times to make sure he was really seeing what his eyes very much saw. Before them stood two young women, fans held up to their faces to hide their wide smiles, and Éomer wasn't sure if he was only seeing double or if the women before him were merely twin sisters, because they looked so much alike that the only way to really tell them apart was by their dresses (one night-shade blue, the other anthrazit-grey). Both women curtsied deeply then – and in perfect fucking unison as well – before greeting them amidst even more giggles (also in perfect fucking unison!), 'Mae govannen, híril nín … hîr nín.'

And that was about all he would understand from the conversation that was following, but then again, Éomer was happy enough to just shrug it off and to lean back and let his queen do the talking. And that seemed to be a pretty good plan, as the two young ladies mostly addressed his wife anyway who patiently indulged them in their rapid-fire questioning, smiling graciously while sipping her wine in between her little conversational cues, a nod here, a raised eyebrow there, to keep the small talk going. A pretty good plan indeed – were it not for the way that these two young ladies practically undressed him with her wanton, sea-grey eyes. Now, Éomer had met quite some forward women in his life, but these two here looked about ready to pounce on him and tear his fucking clothes off, right here in the middle of the fucking ball room. When the two ladies curtsied again then, to signal their leaving, Éomer was sweating from the huge discomfort of fearing that his wife probably knew very well that these wanton hens had had on their mind, ogling him like that in front of her.

'I believe you've just been invited to their bed.', his queen announced then nonchalantly as they watched the two women waddle away, giggling still – and the way she said that, as if it were the most boring, meaningless thing in the world, had him sweating even more, because, surely, his wife could not care as little as she pretended to do. That had to be a trick, right? To see how he would react?

'But … I'm married.', he countered then with exaggerated outrage, putting in some extra more or less feigned shock, to let her know, simultaneously, how ridiculous it was that any woman would dare approach him with such an offer and also that there was absolutely no chance in the world that he would ever even think about any other woman with her by his side.

'So are they. But that's never stopped them before. Or their husbands.', she commented then, still smiling, and he couldn't quite place that smile – was she masking her anger right now or was she genuinely amused? By them? By him? By this situation?

'They invited me too.', she added sweetly then as she waved at them across the hall with a smile that had them giggle even more behind their fans. Emptying her glass of wine and handing it off to a servant passing by, his queen turned to him once more and looked at him with eyes slightly squinted, and he wondered then what she was seeing in his gaze or what expression his face was showing, because she only chuckled quietly then before giving off her definite answer, 'No.'

'I didn't know you were the jealous type.', he commented then, as he lifted his glass of wine to take a long sip, his cheeks hurting from the wry grin that split his lips apart, feeling strangely aroused by the thought of his wife actually being that possessive of him, feeling also very much excited at the idea of teasing her with it later, when –

'Oh, I'm not jealous.', she countered then – lying through her fucking teeth no doubt, that sneaky minx – taking his wine glass from his hands and looking at him with burning eyes as she downed it in one fucking gulp, 'I'm confident.'

Oh yeah, he was definitely hers – hands, tongue, eyes and fucking heart.

FUN FACT #1: We'll be staying the South for quite a few chapters and I'm psyched as hell for that.

FUN FACT #2: I really enjoyed writing in Éomer's voice. Usually I keep my swearing to a minimum - it was nice to finally be able to just write without that polite restraint.

FUN FACT #3: I'm banging to this new bardcore sound from Hildegard von Blingin' as I'm writing these chapters, and it really helps. Check it out, it's all you've never thought you wanted to hear music-wise in the year 2021! Their pumped up kicks version has been stuck in my head for weeks now! What will be your catchy tune? Lemme know!