I. AM. BACK.

Hello, my lovelies! I know it's been a while, but work has kept me busy and my muse dry and out of reach.

Also, this is a long-ass chapter, and actually it's even longer because I'm withholding the second part for now. I'm still figuring out whether to simply add it to this already long chapter or to publish it as a consecutive chapter. It's wirtten already, but I need some time to ... ah ... well, see in the Fun Facts!

As always, have fun reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

34. Mereth-en-nîn

There were definitely too many people here.

When his queen had told him that they would be celebrating the beginning of the raining season with a festival in the streets of the city, his mind had somehow convinced him that it would be like one of his Northern feasts, held on a plain outside of the city gates, free and open and wide; with a jolly but orderly atmosphere, lots of drinking and merrymaking of course, but at least a semblance of calm steadiness and at least some show of the infamous Southern countenance.

Instead what he found was absolute excessive, joyful chaos.

Cramped and packed in the streets, hundreds and thousands of people were moving about like ants on an anthill, going this way or that, pushing past each other, running into each other, bumping against each other. People were walking one minute with great haste, only to stop dead in their tracks in the middle of the already full street to have a little talk with an old acquaintance that they just happened to have come across – laughing and boisterously chitchatting as though they weren't a complete nuisance to the people trying to walk past them. But apparently this was perfectly acceptable behaviour on a day like this, as no one seemed to mind it all that much.

Even worse, however, were barkers and market criers that were shouting and complimenting their own wares and items with surprising volume, and their little stalls with all sorts of spices, herbs and food and all manner of fabrics, pottery and jewellery around the bazaars were making the place feel even more cramped than it already was. And in between were children running around, screaming, laughing, playing catch and stumbling along with no regard to other people or delicate things that might break in the process. All in all, it was a mishmash of sounds, smells and colours that was an altogether overwhelming onslaught on the senses.

Éomer had been in the City of Dol Amroth before, more than once even, back then after the War of the Ring and during the wedding negotiations later on, but never before had he experienced the city-by-the-sea quite like that – and that was quite understandable. After all, it was one thing to make one's way through the streets on the back of a horse, high up, removed from the lively chaos on the ground, but it was something else entirely to be in the thick of it, on foot, with no way out and being pulled along hastily by a beautiful woman he just happened to be in love with and whom he could deny no thing she asked for.

Lothíriel squealed in delight and stopped in her tracks, only to point towards something high above them, but even as he followed her gaze towards what she was pointing, his eyes only vaguely caught sight of something brightly blue flashing from one of the balconies before his eyes settled back on her, and despite the chaos around them, that she had pulled him into, he could not help but smile warmly at her for a moment there. He loved this side of her: her high spirits, the giddy excitement, the girlish curiosity – it was a side of her he so rarely had the pleasure to see and it reminded him once more that she was a young woman still, younger even than his own sister. It was truly heart-warming to see that for once she felt comfortable enough to relax, to not have to be princess or politician or wife or queen, but simply a young woman out on a festival.

That she had decided to take him with her, to share this with him, to allow him to see her like this, he could truly feel the weighty meaning behind it touch his heart – something that was probably also fairly clearly written all across his features. Because when she suddenly looked back at him again (perhaps wondering why he wasn't looking at what she excitedly had pointed towards just moments before), she wasn't chiding him for his lack of interest in what she had wanted to show him, but only laughed at the love-struck expression that had surely been painted on his face.

He tried to play it down of course, but they were both very much aware of the true depths of his feelings for her, though they both tried not to think about it too much, as the previous times he had admitted to his profound love for her, her reactions had not been welcoming, to say the least. Instead, he sought to switch to a safer subject by pointing out that the bright blue piece of cloth being waved from a balcony, back and forth, was the same fabric with which she had garbed herself today; so, once again, the civilised code of complimenting another one's attire saved them from the dread of a long and awkward silence.

To be fair, though, her attire was indeed worth complimenting. For this holiest of days in her water-based faith, his queen had fitted herself in a traditional blue outfit: a long skirt, a short tight vest, and a gaze veil draped around her skirt and then sideways alongside her whole upper body. Dark blue, of course, all of it, clearly reminiscent of her family's sigil – a boat in the form of a swan, silver upon dark blue. However, what went through his mind now as he was looking at her, was not the significance of the tone of the colour of her dress, but rather the memory of her putting it on.

It had been the first time she had dressed in full sight of him again, and what a show she had put on for him! Before their reunion at the beach in the night, whenever she had dressed or undressed, she had usually hid behind a folding screen, but now, now she had wanted him to see her. Putting on piece by piece, she had taken her sweet time, and even though she'd had her back turned towards him the whole time, the slow way in which she had slipped into each item or the sultry way in which she had thrown a glance over her shoulder back at him every now and again had him ready to tear off her clothes again as soon as she had put them on. But he had held on to his self-control for the most part, curiosity winning over desire, except for one moment.

When she had wanted to fasten her gaze veil, she had invited him over to her to help her with it. Tucking one end of the veil into the waistline of her skirt, she had handed him the other, and as he had held it up, she had begun to whirl around in slow, deliberate circles, and with every turn and every spin, the fabric had wrapped itself around her waist and skirt, and in doing so, had brought her closer and closer towards him. He had caught on to her spiel by then, his smile deepening, taking on a hungry note, as he had held on to the fabric, waiting patiently for her to stop spinning and for the cloth to run out of length; and when she did come to a stop at last, she was in his arms then, their faces practically meeting at their noses. He could have kissed her right then and there, kissed her and enfolded her and pushed them down to the floor right then and there, clothes and holy days and festivals forgotten.

But just in the very moment he had moved in to steal a kiss from her, a servant girl had interrupted them by knocking and opening the door, and although he had not been able to understand a word of what the two women were exchanging, he had understood very well that the moment of intimacy between them was over. Turning away to give his wife some space – so she could adjust her gaze drape, throwing one end over her shoulder, to have it swing behind her back in a rhythm of her movements or even to use as a hood – the king had thought to do some readjusting himself (his breeches felt awfully tight all of the sudden), when out of the blue his queen had taken him by the hand and led him along down to the city proper.

And that's how he found himself here now: a Northerner among Southerners, a rider among water-sprites and sea-believers, and a horse-lord of the Mark garbed in the blue silks of a foreign country and faith – and rather than feeling affronted or shamed by having been made to wear such colours unnatural to him, the king only smiled as his queen complimented him in return. Because the truth of the matter was that even if he had wanted to worm his way out of this festival walk or to protest against wearing such foreign garbs and colours, he would not have done it – because it had been his queen who had asked it of him. Not with words, of course, but the hopeful plea shimmering in those sea-grey eyes – to have him join her, to share this with her, not as a king and queen, but simply as a couple being simply in love – had been enough to have his will melt away and to have him cave in. Because, when it came to his queen, there was hardly anything he could deny her; and if that made him weak, so Béma help him, he had long since stopped caring about that.

Love, apparently, made fools even of kings.

Another tug at his arm catapulted him back into the here and now, and just like that he was pulled along again, trying to keep up with his queen who was giggling and grinning in between wildly pointing towards one thing and then another, almost stumbling over her explanations in her giddy excitement. Éomer was sure, if she hadn't already explained all of this the day before, then he surely would have been very confused indeed. That was not to say that he wasn't overwhelmed, because who would not have been with such an onslaught of information? But the king had learned enough from his wife to have at least a somewhat rudimentary understanding of the intricacies of this holiest of days.

To mark the beginning of the raining season, the festival held in its honour had already started early in the day and would last well into the night. Throughout the day one could see people dancing in the streets in thin dresses of bountiful colours (though blue was, as in all their things, preferred), singing songs and praises, and in doing so, prayed for the eagerly awaited rains to come and to bring life, blessing and fertility to the land and its people. And nowhere was this merrymaking as obvious and as pronounced as in the Harper's court, where the world's most famous harpers played in honour of their god and patron Ulmo, and the music and the dancing was so rousing and so moving that even his usually so reserved wife was simply throwing off her veil to swing and sway and dance alongside the other people in the square. Even Éomer, who had hoped to excuse himself from the dancing by nursing a mug of ale in his hands, was mercilessly pulled into the crowd of dancing bodies, and even though he had thought to protest at first, he soon enough simply enjoyed himself by whirling around his wife and queen, laughing with her, as if they truly were just a young couple in love without a care in the world.

It was only when they were utterly spent and out of breath that they stopped their dancing to leave the Harper's court behind and to set off to see what else the holy day of Mereth-en-nîn had to offer. Passing through the streets, squeezing past the many people coming or going their way, his queen showed him the many things there were to see. At every turn there were stands selling the finest pottery, and his wife explained with reverent eyes that those jugs and mugs and pots would actually be used to catch and collect the rain water that would be pouring down upon them later – for blessings, as she emphasised. Éomer didn't question that, he simply nodded, silent questions running amok in his head.

Further down, leading towards the centre of the city-by-the-sea, where streets crossed each with other with unruly precision, people were painting the white limestones with chalk in the brightest and fullest of colours, making it seem as though the floor beneath their very feet were coming to life. But that was an illusion that was not to last, his wife assured him pointedly as he marvelled at the beauty before him, as the paintings were made only to be washed away with the coming of the first rain. To remind them of the fleeting nature of their existence; like the waters of sky and sea, all life was bound to change and that nothing lasted forever, and thus to enjoy the moment and to live life to the fullest.

And around every corner, it seemed, a small wooden stage had been put, where men and women would croon songs and recite poetry, or even perform plays detailing the many tales and legends the South had to offer. Most of them revolved around their god Ulmo and his underwater-court and his mischievous disciples; some depicted the lives and loves and losses of important mythical figures; and all spoke of that innate yearning for the sea that each and every soul in the city seemed to burn with.

Although they appreciated each play they passed with at least a momentary stay, there was one play in particular that seemed to really capture his wife's attention, and when she explained that it was actually a highly stylised version of the tale of Mithrellas and Imrazor the Númenórean, her supposed ancestors, the king understood, and thus he did not press her to leave too soon, but rather waited patiently and watched the performance with at least a mild sense of interest. The Elven maid that bound herself to a mortal man only to be seduced by and lost to the calling of the sea; that sounds awfully familiar, Éomer thought bitterly, but he held his tongue – at least, until she broke their mutual silence.

'It's considered a high honour for every woman and girl to play the role of the Elven lady Mithrellas.', his queen spoke then, eyes trained in appraisal on the actress playing the very part, and it was not entirely clear whether she approved of the acting or whether she felt like her own ancestor was probably turning in her grave, but the little smile playing around her lips spoke volumes enough, 'When I was fifteen I played the role myself.'

'Your family must have been proud.', the king responded then, not sure what else to say, if indeed there was anything he could say to that. Sometimes he still could not read her; sometimes the expressions she held or the words she spoke still were barely more than a mystery: a broken mirror that reflected a thousand images and none. Whatever he saw in them, need not be what it really was. Perhaps that realisation would explain best her next words, and even though they were hardly more than another one of her riddles, he got the idea that, maybe, this riddle was supposed to serve as a lesson more than it served to confuse him – and, who knew, maybe it was a lesson she herself had been made to riddle once?

'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man or woman in their time may play many parts.', she spoke slowly, lips curled in a wry smile as each syllable dripped off her tongue like poison. But as he watched her then, face turned towards the stage, he realised that she wasn't appraising the performance at all; quite on the contrary, there was a sort of morbid admiration in her eyes, as though one rival might applaud another for the viciousness with which they fought. It was a truly haunting thing to see: eyes hardened in manic acceptance, jaws tightened in desperate defiance, lips that smiled in cruel nostalgia. It made him wonder if he would ever be able to truly solve the riddle that she was or whether there would always be a part of her that would remain an enigma to him?

And then they were on the move again.

This time though, when they turned heir backs on the stage's performances, to return to the wild, moving masses of the streets and to seek out the next attraction on this holy day, it wasn't her that pulled him along, but it was him who took her by the hand and led her away from her bitter reminiscing and towards brighter prospects. He knew it wouldn't always be enough. He knew that there would always be days when he wouldn't be able to shake her out of her gloom so easily. He knew that there would be moments when all the light and lightness would seem gone and all she could see was blackness. But today, right here and now, he had the means to distract her from that past she just couldn't seem to let go of, and he would be damned, if he didn't try all to make the most of what he got.

However, that was easier said than done, as he was a stranger in a strange city and he had no fucking clue where the hell he was going. Behind him he could hear something like a chuckle, and he knew the man he had been before would have been affronted at her laughing at him, amusing herself at his expense. But the man he was now simply sighed in relief that the tense moment of darkness seemed to have gone and she was her bright self again from before. Even stumbling around the swarming masses of people like a clueless fool wasn't a price too high to pay for a sight of that rare and honest smile.

It was a sound to his left then that actually managed to pull him out of his tunnel vision and put a momentary stop on his single-minded mission to try and take her mind off things, and before his mind had even fully registered what he was hearing, he could already sense her laughing at him again. Perhaps she merely enjoyed the irony that while he had been trying to distract her, he had gotten distracted himself. Or perhaps she was simply amused by the fact that for a warrior like him, nothing was more attention-grabbing than the clanging sound of metal clashing together.

Moving towards the source of the sounds, they were soon met by a large crowd formed in a thick circle, with men, women and children all cheering on the two men currently locked in a fancy show-fight. Of course, it was not like Éomer hadn't expected there to be any gentlemanly fights held in honour of their god and patron, and in the name of chivalry and gallantry; as a matter of fact, he had been looking forward to it ever since his wife had mentioned it in passing while painting the picture for him of the festival to come. It was just that he had expected it to be more … well, chivalrous and gallant.

Instead what he found where two men with naked chests and naked feet, unbound hair and undoubtedly a bountiful intake of alcohol that left them dancing drunkenly rather than fighting honourably – or so it would seem. In their hands they also did not hold swords – or rapiers and sabres as they called them here – as he had thought them to use, but instead they wielded long three-pronged spears made of iron that his wife would not tire to remind him were called tridents. A weapon, she pointed out with the air of an excited schoolmistress, that had developed from a simple fishing tool to a sophisticated weapon, used with almost ritualistic reverence by the high and mighty and the dirt poor alike.

To him it looked more like an over-sized toothpick, to be honest, but he had the good sense to not breathe a word of this to his wife or to the people around him, because, for what it was worth, that oversized toothpick seemed perfectly capable of pulling his guts out. Also, the people around him seemed positively caught in a frenzy while cheering and clapping, with the men hollering in excitement and the women waving their veils and the young girls on the verge of swooning – so, he deemed it a rather foolish thing for him to go off and insult their favourite playing sticks.

Frankly, however, the king did not understand what all the fuss was about. What was so exciting about two peacocks going at each other with pitchforks meant for fishing in their hands? But, of course, there was more to it than that, as his queen emphasised – the trident was the insignia of power of their Lord Ulmo and thus sacred to them; to wield it with pride and with grace was to honour their god in deed and in spirit. Naturally, Éomer could not laugh at that, even if his Northern faithfulness rebelled against it. Also, in addition to that, he as a warrior would not complain about the much-needed break that this spectacle provided from all the busy musical and theatrical merrymaking he'd had to suffer through so far. And so, the king and his queen scrambled through the crowd to get a better view, and the warrior in him was already sensibly excited – a good fight was a good fight after all, eh? – to look on the duel with the eye of an expert critic, when –

Fuck.

There in the middle of the crowd formed in a circle, bare-chested, bare-footed, swirling around with an overly exaggerated flourish, was none other than Amrothos, youngest of the four brothers and a royal pain in the ass. Oh yes, it was him, alright! Without a doubt, he would have recognised that bright, shiny earring anywhere … or that golden tooth flashed in an obscenely wide smile. A smile that only widened as the pirate-prince seemed to become aware of them. Deciding then to show off as the arrogant gander that he was, the fucker simply gave another dramatic twirl while twisting the trident in his hands and throwing it high up into the air … only to catch it again once it fell down, ending his gratuitous performance at last with an overdone bow.

Under the thunderous applause that followed, Éomer seemed to be the only one present that did not erupt in frantic clapping and wild cheering, and frankly the amount of women and girls waving their veils in an almost obscene, suggestive manner seemed to be, to put it mildly, most unnerving and confusing. However, to his surprise, it were not only the women who were swooning and drooling over the sight of this half-naked, vain-glorious princeling; the men around him seemed just as in awe of his prowess and skill – if not even more so! – and some men even looked at him with eyes that were nearly as hungry as those of the women. The observation made the king shudder at the implication behind it, but he had the good sense to not let it show; he knew quite well that here in the South views tended to be a lot more lenient when it came to sexual experiments – at least, that's what he had come to believe – and even if his own preferences were nowhere near as experimental as that, he would not be so foolish as to judge somebody for it, especially not on their turf.

It was the sound of laughter then that pulled Éomer out of his thoughts (or was it the way the hand of his queen gripped his own?), and as he came back to the here and now, he realised with a slight shock that people were looking at him expectantly, with some snickering more or less openly behind raised hands. But as his quizzical eyes followed his wife's amused gaze he understood only too quickly and too perfectly what had been so damn funny here.

Prince Amrothos of the noble house of Dol Amroth stood alone and still bare-footed and bare-chested in the middle of the circle formed out of curious and excited onlookers and fans, his trident on his shoulders and his forearms hanging lazily down from it – and having the fucking audacity to look like an absolute specimen of a man. Even worse than that though was the wide-ass grin written on his face, the challenge that called from his eyes, the wink he dared to give him, the subtle but nonetheless patronising invitation that called from the fingers of his right hand beckoning him forward and into the ring.

Well, fuck that and fuck him, he had never been a man to shy away from a challenge before, and he wouldn't fucking start now! If that arrogant fucker wanted a proper beating, he could damn well have it! Rules of propriety be damned, Éomer thought, resolved, mouth curling into a wry grin of his own; that Southern man-child (even if he was only a few years younger than him) had been provoking him the minute he had arrived, and it was fucking high time he showed him a fucking appropriate Northern response. But just in the moment that he had meant to take a step forward, to enter the ring and teach that green man-boy (who was still only a few years younger than him) a lesson he wouldn't so soon forget, a hand on his arm held him back, and then a voice belonging to his wife and queen who must have instinctively understood what he had intended to do.

'I'd prefer my lord with all his limbs intact, thank you very much.', she said, and even though he could very well hear the cheeky smile in her voice, there was something else there too. Was it concern? Tension? Anxiety? There was indeed a deep care for him palpable in her voice, and even though she tried to hide it under her amusement about this whole situation, it still shone through. It created an all too intimate moment in an all too public sphere, and as it would seem, they were both happy when that moment ended and they could both pretend that a warning had been all her words had meant to convey.

'You think I couldn't take that arrogant peacock?', he countered then, recapturing her gaze (after eyeing the pirate princeling with no small amount of appraisal), and now holding it again. There was a challenge in his eyes, a silent question, almost daring her to tell him that this right here was something he couldn't do, knowing full well that he was the kind of a man who would do things just to prove that he could do them. And, of course, that sentiment was definitely there, her eyes lighting up in barely veiled excitement and deliciously dark flirtation, but there was also something else, something more, something deeper. Perhaps that was only the concern of a loving sister regarding her older brother who was foolish enough to dare her husband and king for a challenge? Or, perhaps, her concern here was not for her brother at all, but again for him, her husband and king? And perhaps concern didn't need to be a questioning of his skills, just like compassion didn't need to be pity, and just like caring could simply be lov –

'It takes a lifetime to master the trident, my lord, and even then, only our Lord Ulmo has only ever truly been its one true master.', his queen spoke then, skilfully evading his line of questioning while at the same time making it unmistakably clear that in a real fight he would not stand a fucking chance. And granted, the subtle warning in it was exciting him as much as it amused him – his queen had never seen him fight, so, naturally, it was understandable that she would underestimate his skills in battle. Or perhaps, he was the one overestimating his own skills here? His queen, at least for her part, seemed to enjoy this little game of cat-and-mouse, or how else could one explain her next slip-up (if it really was a slip-up and not intentional)?

'You did not really believe my dear brother lost his fingers to some fabled monster from the sea, did you?', she quipped then and that shut him up real quick. Whatever he had thought to throw her way during their banter, it all drained from his mind in a flash, with his eyebrows shooting up in utter surprise and his mouth dropping to the floor. Éomer wasn't sure what to respond to that; should he be disappointed that she had lied to him before or should he rather be glad that she was telling the truth now? If she was really telling the truth now, he thought cautiously, because who know? Apparently, for those who had spewed lies all their lives with such ease, truth would not so easily pass their lips.

But just in the moment that he had wanted to question her on the precise character of her remark, she had already turned from him, calling out to her brother and welcoming him with open arms, and that pirate fucker was only too eager to play the part of the good older brother. Planting his trident into the ground in a not so subtle demonstration of power, the princeling embraced his dear sister in such a whirlwind of affection that he practically lifted her off the ground – and that was just another demonstration of power. Of course, the fucker knew what he was doing; why else would he wink at him across his sister's shoulders?

But even more frustrating than that, was the intimate way in which these two siblings proceeded to talk (once they had finally peeled themselves out of their embrace). Completely side-lining him for a few minutes, brother and sister were apparently too busy exchanging pleasantries or even conspirational talk as only close siblings might, entirely forgetting that he was not privy to their special bond as he did not understand a fucking word of Elvish. That, too, was a power play of course; show the new husband just how very close the bond is between a brother and his sister, reminding him that he could never be a part of it. Perhaps the frustration he felt over all this was only heightened by the fact that he himself had not behaved much better with his own sister and her husband Faramir. The privilege and eccentricities of older brothers.

'Amri! I'm so glad you decided to join us. I knew you would come.', Lothíriel exclaimed then with unbridled joy, effectively pulling him back into the here and now by switching back into the common tongue of Westron, and even though she played it as though her entire focus were still on her pirate brother, Éomer could not misunderstand her trick, attempting to artfully pull him back into the conversation as well by reverting back to a language that even he could understand. And he would have been a lot more grateful for that, had that fucker not tried to ruin it.

'Oh, you know me best, sister, I wouldn't miss this for the world.', the pirate prince crooned with his smug sea-grey eyes trained on him and the cheekiest smile on his face than one had ever seen, before he performed a bow with such exaggeration that even a Northerner like him could understand that he was being made fun of. Well, it was safe to say that at this point the king was seething with suppressed rage, fuelled even more by his confusion over his own unfounded jealousy.

'Brother.', was all Éomer said as his greeting, the barest acknowledgement spat out to show at least some feigned sense of decorum. But it mattered not; even if all three were aware of the prince's antagonising or the king's innate dislike of the man, both men would not dream of admitting defeat by admitting that they felt disrespected. Instead – as men were wont to do – they simply continued their eternal pissing contest by claiming greater possession of the prize they were from now on forced to share. And so the princeling only grinned with a smug wink from his eye as he gave back as good as he got, 'Brother.'

During this whole interaction, the king could see that his queen would only shake her head in mild but nonetheless amusing annoyance, and he could understand so well what she would see in their stand-off. There they were, the two men she cared about most in this world, and yet they proceeded to tear each other to pieces over the things they believed separated them, instead of joining hands over the one thing they had in common: their affection for her. Jealous they were, of the part of her the other claimed; the husband envied the brother for the past they had shared, and the brother envied the husband for the future he would not be part of – each desperately clinging to a part of her instead of embracing the whole of her. It was ridiculous, no doubt about it, and that perhaps might explain her next words; making fun of her brother's attempt at antagonising her husband, but without really mocking him – a feat of diplomatic calculation or perhaps merely a sisterly tendency for a jab at a brother's expense? Either way, her words were a reminder for both men, that she could see right through them if she wanted to.

'So, who are you here with this time? Cailena? Ireinis? Phyllena?', the queen threw in then with a surprisingly wicked wink, all the while nudging her brother with her elbow, and it was clear to both men that – for better or worse – the woman at the heart of their affections would take over this conversation to make it work no matter what, and even if she would endure and suffer to do most of the talking here, to bridge the dagger-staring silence, they knew she would definitely not let herself suffer alone in this. Something that became quite evident as she continued – and with a lot less subtlety this time.

'Come on, Amri! I've never known you to spend your waters on Mereth-en-nîn on your own!', the queen joked so badly even Éomer could not help grimace at the poor attempt at humour, but even more surprising than her sudden emergence of terrible joking was that the fact that, apparently, it seemed to be working. However, not quite in the way they might have expected it to. Because, instead of rolling his eyes or engaging in a battle of banter as he probably, usually, would have done as a reaction to her teasing, the pirate brother simply blushed. He actually, really blushed!

The reason for it, however, became all too clear all too soon.

As the prince shuffled his feet and seemed to have lost his tongue all of the sudden, he looked back in a moment of unexpected nervousness, and with his turning to look, the king and queen followed his gaze. After a moment of confusion their eyes settled on the shape of a young woman, barely in her twenties, who, at the moment, was painting intricate patterns of colour onto the cobble-stoned streets of the square. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way: hair just as black as the rest of the Southerners, but it were her golden skin and her worn-out clothes – clean but simple – that made it unmistakably clear what made her so damn special. She was far from a noblewoman, or, to say it in plain terms: she was a commoner, as common as they fucking came.

'That's a new one.', Lothíriel said with a deadpan expression then, all emotion and wit drained out of her by the sheer amount of surprise she had to process just right then and there. And Éomer could not fault her for that, as he himself had to fight to keep his expression blank and neutral, so as not to betray his inner feelings. Because, after it all, it was quite the shocking revelation. Of course, it was one thing for a nobleman – especially if that nobleman was a man of the South, Éomer thought dryly – to enjoy the questionable company of women of questionable repute and station, but it was something else entirely for a nobleman – especially if that nobleman was a prince of a prestigious house and princedom – to actually entertain a committed relationship with a woman of commoner status. Not that it was unheard of; it was just not a thing acknowledged very often, mostly because it was frowned upon by the elite to mix with those of poorer disposition or social status, and also because that was the root cause for a whole lot of complications and problems (well, Éomer thought smugly, bastards, after all, did not just magically fall out of the skies).

But most of all, it was shocking because it was so very clear to see that for the prince this common woman was more than just a plaything or pleasurable diversion – he actually, genuinely, deeply seemed to care for her, as was also evident in the way he chose his words. There were not made of the same witty marble as before, not sharp as the trident plunged in the ground next to him; rather they were sheepish and dreamy and drenched in a warmth that Éomer was only too familiar with.

'That's Myra. I met her … after you left.', the pirate prince spoke quietly with his eyes transfixed by the woman who seemed to have stolen his very heart, and, when he turned back to his sister and her king, he did not even sound like a prince or a pirate anymore but only like a love-lorn man-child torn between the two women he loved most in this world, 'Would you like to meet her?'

'If she managed to hold you for that long, you already know she's a keeper.', the queen quipped back curtly then, and if Éomer was surprised by her rude dismissal, then her brother must have been even more shocked. But, of course, in a way, her dismissive attitude should not come as a shock. After all, some hard feelings could be understood; that the sister would take exception to the way in which her brother had chosen to keep this liaison a secret even from her. Had they not always been closer even than mere siblings? Twins in all but the name? And yet, in this he had chosen to leave her out in the cold, as though she were just like anybody else and not the sister with whom he had shared everything and anything before.

Indeed, to realise that their relationship – although against their will, without their knowing – had forever changed in the time they had been apart, and would now forever be changed … yes, that would be a painful thing to come to learn in a time and place like this. Where she had once feared him hurt that she had allowed a new man into her life – a man who would know things of her that even her brother had no knowledge of, a man who would live a life with her that her brother had no part in – she now realised that her brother, too, had found new company and a confidant, to share a life with that she no longer had any part in. Perhaps, it was only natural that she would combat the grief she felt over that loss with such stand-offish behaviour, as her brother himself had not reacted much better before. And perhaps it even was that knowledge, that the petty jealousy for she which might have chided both men before, had not spared her either.

Perhaps, that realisation, that she was no better at this than anybody else, and that emotions had often little reason and rhyme, was enough then to shake off those last bits of her dismissive attitude. Or perhaps it had been the look in her brother's eyes, the hope that shone out of them, begging for at least one member of his family who would approve; and faced with those eyes – eyes quite like hers – it seemed impossible to retain her unapproachable behaviour, as he was her dearest brother and she was his dearest sister, and she had never been able to deny him anything. And so, Éomer witnessed with infinite surprise how her eyes softened and her voice along with it as she added, 'Of course, brother, I would be glad to meet her.'

At this, the pirate prince seemed positively giddy with joy, as his eyes began to glow with excitement and the corners of his mouth lifted up into a wide, grinning smile, before he clasped her hands in his to blow a kiss or two (or a dozen) of gratitude on them. And then, just like that, he was off again, practically running over to his ladylove to tell her the good news, and even from their point of view a few feet away, the two of them could see the many different emotions play out on her face. Confusion. Disbelief. Surprise. Shock. Self-awareness. Nervousness. Slight panic. And then at long last, finally yielding.

'You think he's serious about her?', Éomer asked quietly then while watching the emotional exchange unfold before his eyes, without turning his head, his voice barely above a whisper. From that distance, surely, no one would have been able to tell if he were talking at all, or what he was saying in particular (especially since the two people he was talking about seemed so very occupied with each other). It almost seemed a testament to the lessons he had learned here in the South, and from his wife in particular, to be so subtle and unassuming in his secrecy, although kinder souls might have interpreted his quiet whisperings as decency and discretion rather than conspirational gossip.

'Serious? You mean if he's thinking about marrying her?', his queen retorted, just as quietly as he had, her whispering a mere melody on the back of the wind, but even though she had been far better trained than him, her face expressed a lot more of her brooding, as her forehead creased and her eyes seemed to glaze over, 'No, I don't think so. He knows father would never approve. And even though he's always been a disappointing child, I don't believe Amrothos would ever dare cross our father in this matter.'

Éomer didn't respond immediately, not with words at least, but there was the slightest head movement perceptible, as though he were nodding and agreeing with her. It was reasonable, even someone like him, reared in the North, with his aversion to social etiquette and norms, yes, even he could understand that no noble prince would ever marry a fishmonger's daughter – something like that happened only in fairy tales, and whatever this here was, it was most definitely not the stuff of fairy tales.

'However … ', his queen added pointedly then, a mischievous smile audible in her low voice as she spoke, eyes trained on the woman hanging on her brother's arm, still unsure and undecided how best to present herself to the royal couple, 'It would only take one member of the family to acknowledge her, for her to at least be accepted by high society.'

Éomer froze. Whatever he had expected her to say, it most certainly was not that. Not that he had actually expected her to say anything more, as he had not believed there to be anything more to be said on the matter. But, no, there she went, ready to kick the fucking hornet's nest – or was she? Éomer didn't have to turn to her (and couldn't very well have done it, because he didn't want to cause suspicion for the two lovebirds that they were talking about them) to sense that her mischievous smile was only widening at his obvious bafflement.

'Well, I'm sure the mighty prince Imrahil won't be too happy about that?', the king asked, picking up on his queen's vibe quickly enough, feeling the corners of his lips turn up into a smile of his own, though rather than mischievous, it was a hopeful one. Was that really defiance he had heard in the undertone of her choice of words? And if she were defiant here, in what other matter might she dare to defy her father? And indeed, out of the corners of his eyes he thought to have seen her smile take on a gloating note as she whispered back in secret conspiracy, 'I'm sure he won't be.'

There was a call from across the market centre, a waving of two different sets of arms, facial expressions that were schooled to be nothing but friendly and welcoming, and then at last the pirate prince presented his ladylove. Éomer could tell – by the way she smiled her professional smile – that Lothíriel was doing her best to make the young woman of common clay feel accepted: from ignoring her wobbly curtsey or her common clothing or even the faint but unmistakable stench of fish. But even more so, the face of the queen remained polite and inviting even while the young woman greeted her with a rapid-fire movement of her fingers instead of words spoken. First, her fingers moved down from her forehead in a sign of reverence before she moved her two index fingers towards each other and at last she ended that finger-spectacle by daring to openly point at a royal lady.

However, to his unending surprise, his queen did not scoff in offence nor even turn up her nose at the young woman's odd behaviour. Instead, the queen only smiled before returning almost the very same gestures in kind, though she added some more, while at the same time speaking her signed words to give voice to them in a form that even a Northern king might understand them, 'It's a pleasure to meet you too, Myra. But please, no more curtseying, for on this day of all days we are no more or less than sisters in the eyes of our lord Ulmo.'

And as the queen – as an even bigger surprise – then proceeded to pull in the young woman for a tight, almost sisterly embrace, Éomer, at long last, seemed to understand what was going on. Back in the Riddermark, after the devastation of war and loss, there had been many a person similarly afflicted, and even though these people were still there, they were somehow cut off from the other people around them, barely able to make themselves understood with crude gestures and hand signs. But this here was like a fluid, dance-like game of fingers and hands, nothing like what he was used to at home – at home, when nothing else worked, they used their hands to speak and listen; here, they used their hands to sing.

The sound of someone clearing their throat, however, was enough to tear the king out of his thoughtful observations, and he saw that the young woman by the name of Myra had by now turned to him, looking at him with bright, wide eyes. A moment passed, and then another, and then another one, and Éomer, not knowing how else to react, momentarily forgetting in his awkward helplessness what he had understood so clearly before, could only think of that old captain he had once known and how that man had used to communicate with them, and so he put his hands up, forming a tunnel before his widely opened mouth, and began to speak very, very loudly, 'HELLO, MA'AM. IT IS TRULY A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU.'

They all flinched back from the sudden onslaught of noise produced, though each and every one of them reacted slightly differently from the other. The young woman by the name of Myra merely giggled after rubbing one ear; queen Lothíriel looked about, wondering how much of a spectacle they must be presenting right there in the middle of the market centre; Amrothos rolled his eyes so much and so hard, one would have thought he would have been able to see back of his head; and Éomer, embarrassed, simply blushed, so hard and so red that it looked like flames licking up from the gold of his beard and hair.

In the awkward silence that stretched out between them, they were, of course, all thinking it, but only the pirate prince had the actual audacity to make the obvious even more obvious, and in quite brutal terms too. Turning slightly away towards his sister and his ladylove, the pirate fucker had the actual guts to quietly (though not nearly as quietly and secretly) mumble his final verdict of him, 'She's mute, not deaf – you insensitive, royal oaf.'

The jab produced a meaningful pause from the young woman, a challenging wink from her lover, and a sneaking little laughter disguised as coughing fit by none other than his own queen herself. The king, of course, was not nearly as amused by all this as the others were – who enjoyed having it really spelt out for them just how much they had committed a blunder? But even though the king glared at the prince with seething annoyance and eyes that shot daggers, the tension was quickly alleviated by the young woman Myra, who had been at the very heart of this mishap and whose hands and fingers now worked to make herself understood at last. And even though the pirate prince had mocked the king for his lack of understanding before, now jumped in quickly enough to put his lover's signs into words, so that her message might be known even by an insensitive Northern brute of a king. Not as a favour to said king, of course, mind you, but rather out of a habit born out of tenderness for the woman who seemed to have stolen his very heart.

'It is hard to know how to approach a king, when one has not known a king before.', the prince spoke, and one could not but be astonished at the sudden change in him. Gone were the smug grin and challenging wink, instead his eyes were hefted upon his ladylove with nothing but warmth; gone were the quipping sort of humour and mean-spirited streak in his voice, instead his words were nothing but quiet, and shy even, as though mindful not to cross a line, respectful but caring at the same time.

It would have been a difficult thing indeed not to be endeared by that, a feat not even a warrior of a hundred battles would have been able to perform, and so Éomer king simply sighed, and along with the air, he expelled the rest of his anger over the joke at his expense, leaving him to address the young woman once more, but more sensibly and sensitively this time. This time he made sure to hold her gaze and to speak slowly (and quietly), as though he were only trying to make his words count and as though he were speaking to any other person, 'Well, ma'am, I'm an open book to you.'

Now this approach, yes, this approach seemed to work quite well, as the young woman positively beamed with joy and excitement, butchering yet another curtsey in her eagerness to take him up on his offer. With hands flying in quick procession, the movements almost too quick to follow them with his eyes, the king instead opted to hold her intriguing gaze and to give her his undivided attention, leaving it to the pair of siblings present to fill him in with words spoken that he could actually understand. But, of course, the king should have known that the pirate prince would not miss this opportunity to cause mischief once again.

'I have always wondered, and your majesty may indulge me in this, is it true that the horse-lords have always been almost unnaturally fond of their horses?'

Several things happened at the same time then.

First, Myra's eyes widened in a moment of sheer shock as her hands clasped over her mouth. Amrothos, in response, almost doubled over in gloating laughter, which earned him quite the painful slap on the back of his head by his sister, who, although inwardly almost temped to applaud him for the guts he must have had to pull such a prank, still chided him for the offence it had caused, and not just to her lord and husband but to the young woman as well at whose expense the joke had landed. (Although, said young woman seemed to have recovered from her initial shock quickly enough, as she was defending her own honour and pride well enough, judging by the painful cough the pirate prince gave as his ladylove boxed him into the side with her elbow.)

Éomer, for his part, could only seethe in anger, his former smile turned to stone and as grim as his mood, leaving his wife and queen to jump in and try to calm down the situation that was by now very much on the verge of exploding in all of their faces, 'Oh, dear me, is that the time?! Myra, why don't you and – '

'Yes, why don't you and Myra go take a look at the lovely pottery over there? Didn't you say earlier, we still need some clay cups for later on?', Éomer cut in then, interrupting her, and if him talking over his queen like that in public wasn't warning enough that something was seriously afoot, then the death glare he directed at the prince – eyes never letting go of the pirate – would be more than telling enough. Amrothos, however, smug as ever, only smirked, holding his gaze, even as the king added with a menacing tone, 'It's time the prince and I have a little talk.'

Éomer could tell – by the way Lothíriel was shuffling her feet or by the way her eyes were looking from one man to the other and back again – that she remembered full well what it meant for her husband to go and "have a talk". But even though the unease was more than palpable in her expression, she still decided not to get in the way of things, as she understood quite well that this clash had been a long time coming. Myra, for her part, however, was a lot more confused and concerned, her hands and fingers flying to give voice to her worries, but her prince only waved them off with a smile and proceeded to catch each of her moving hands and to send her off with a kiss blown onto the back of her hands.

FUN FACT #1: Yep, that's a Shakespeare quote. From "As you like it". (Don't) Sue me!

FUN FACT #2: I hope you're looking forward to that "brotherly conversation", because it was such a fun to write.

FUN FACT #3: Did you notice the character of Myra? Did you notice her? Because ... I am writing a story about how she and Amrothos met. Yeah, and that's another reason why I'm a little late with the updates right now. But it'll be a glorious detour. Also, I need that couple's story out of my head and written out or else I won't be able to focus on the Éomer/Lothíriel story. It just has to be done.

FUN FACT #4: I was inspired for this festival after watching the movie "Jodhaa Akbar", and especially the song "Azeem O Shaan Shahenshah". Go look it up and enjoy it!