Edoras, six months later

Éomer woke up with a start and stared blankly at the ceiling above him. He couldn't see anything at first in the complete darkness that surrounded him. But as the moments passed he began to see the outlines of the room and his breathing became calmer. He was in his own bed in Meduseld, the night was quiet and cold. He could hear no rustling from the outside and was quite at a loss for what had happened to waken him. Right. There was a dream, his usual nightmare... Éomer half feared, half treasured those dreams. Feared, because he broke to pieces every time he saw the face he loved dead and motionless. Treasured, because it was only in those nightmares that he saw that face at all. The face of Lûne. The king of Rohan had no good dreams about her anymore, and he hadn't seen the princess or heard from her for many months now, since their last meeting in the stables of Minas Tirith. He longed to see her again on the day before his departure, but there was a sudden outbreak of fever in Lossarnach and she rode there without even saying goodbye. He was in no temper, but everyone thought it was due to the parting with his betrothed. It suited him, so Éomer made no objections to Aragorn's consolatory words and Queen Arwen's soothing smile and farewell. Only his sister seemed to know the real matter of his petulance, but she never spoke of it again. Éowyn. Yes, today she comes to Edoras with Faramir, his little sister is with child now. What a relief would it be to have her under this roof once again, if only for a fortnight.

Éomer couldn't sleep anymore, so he washed his face in a basin (the water was cold as ice), dressed up and sat by the window to wait for the sun to rise. But his thoughts were no more pleasant than his dreams.

'My brother, you look miserable,' said Éowyn after the welcoming feast. Together the two of them walked to the gardens of Meduseld, leaving the others to enjoy the singing of minstrels and the finest wine of the West. How lovely was Éowyn clad in white! She looked almost like in the days of yore, though now her eyes were full to the brims with happiness, not sorrow.

'I'm sad that your betrothal was broken off,' she said wistfully.

Éomer scoffed, his pacing became uneven.

'But I am!' cried his sister. 'Though I know that it was Lothíriel, who changed her mind, not you.'

They stopped and looked at each other.

'And do you happen to know the reason for that?'

Éowyn gave a small nod, but her brother didn't notice that and continued as if she'd answered negatively.

'Well, then I can share my thoughts with you. The daughter of Prince Imrahil refused to come to the Mark, because she was scared of me. Scared of my temper, my barbaric looks and tastes, my vices — that means, I drink too much and speak too harsh. She was afraid that all that I was interested in was blood, horses and ale. Not even my crown could tempt a woman to marry me.'

He took a deep breath.

Éowyn looked scandalized.

'Brother, you're imagining things, decidedly...'

'Imrahil came to Edoras to break off the engagement and bring his apologies. Of course his words were smooth. Ah... You of all people know that I was not happy with this betrothal, that I stuck to it solely to keep my word... and still it hurts.'

Éowyn looked puzzled, but said nothing, gathering her thoughts. Éomer rearranged her shawl, the evening was chilly, though spring was approaching already. They continued walking slowly.

'The evil things you said were not the thoughts of a gondorian princess, they were of your own, brother. It is you who speaks so trenchantly and deprives yourself of any hope for love and better life.'

Éowyn talked gingerly, trying not to be severe on the man she loved so much.

'As a matter of fact I do know why Lothíriel didn't come to marry you. Prince Imrahil visited us before he rode to the Mark and I can tell you, that it was mostly his idea to break the betrothal off. Not only he couldn't imagine his daughter happy with you, but also he treasured you so much that couldn't stand watching your misery. He was shocked to see how hopeless you became after the engagement. He told that to Faramir, not me, the Prince is rather delicate, you know. As to your faults... you are not some reprobate, Éomer. Everything you said was an utter fallacy, of course...'

She pondered a bit.

'... but I fear that it might become a truth one day, if you married Lothíriel.'

They sat on a small wooden bench and Éomer threw his furry cape on his sister's shoulders to ensure her comfort. She leant her head against his shoulder.

'I am lost, sister. I feel that the last months were the darkest in my life. It is almost a blasphemy, how can I say so when we finally have peace and there's no more need to struggle and fight.'

'What does your heart tell you?'

Éomer contracted his brows.

'You know what. But listening to one's heart is never an option for a king.'

'Silly you, Éomer. At first you try to convince yourself, that it is impossible to love a Haradrim. Then you are afraid to marry the one you love lest it brings you more pain. Finally you are ready to marry another woman just because some time ago her father thought it to be a good match. And now... now you run out of excuses, brother.'

Éowyn's voice became playful and she smiled at Éomer. He still sat with his head down and his brow shadowed.

There was silence. Éowyn bent down and picked a small green fern.

'O humble herb, you bear no blossom, still you are full of subtle beauty, I'd choose you over splendid flourish, for I have faith in those immortal...'

She tucked a fern in a tab on Éomer's throat. All the colors were washed off his face.

'What were the words you cited?' said he coarsely.

'Your eye is wakeful, brother. Lûne translated many poems of Harad and presented me a manuscript. I enjoy it immensely.'

'How is she?' At long last he asked the very thing he wanted, at last Éowyn managed to break the ice.

'She comes to stay with me in Emyn Arnen in a few weeks. I am afraid that she thinks too much about going back to Harad, and, you know, after her uncle was found dead this autumn, it is almost suicidal. As to how she is... I can't say really. You'd better come and see for yourself.'

Two weeks later Éowyn and Faramir left for Gondor, making Éomer promise to join them in a week. The spring came to Rohan early that year, and the meadows were already covered with little yellow flowers, when Éomer watched his sister and her escort riding away. He felt much better now, his nightmares almost ceased, he started to laugh again and made no more orders to bring the liquor to his quarters after the nightfall. He was almost afraid to scare away the tiny bubble of hope that he had now in his chest, but everyone still saw a change in a grim master of Edoras. One morning, when Aretha, an old servant, was fussing with the linen in his bedroom, her King entered the chamber and asked her to "give an extremely good spring-clean to the palace" while he'd be staying in Emyn Arnen, for he, Éomer, hopes to return with a new queen of Rohan herself. No more was said to this matter, but since then the talk in Edoras was unceasing. Fraca and Dimbold were once again summoned and interrogated on the subject, because every maid in Meduseld still remembered them yarning about Éomer and his supposed infatuation with the pharadine.

When Éomer finally came to Ithilien, the joy he felt subsided considerably. His old fears and doubts returned, his look was once again gloomy. It was a very bright afternoon and the contrast between blooming Emyn Arnen and its northern visitor was stunning. Éomer came to the great hall to hail his sister and her husband, and among all the happy ejaculations and hugs he noticed a pale tense figure of Lûne. She stood by the mantelpiece and, though Éomer didn't know that, her astounded face was a perfect reflection of his own. He knew at once that Éowyn preferred to keep his coming in secret from the pharadine, but some moments later she mastered herself and bowed to him most gracefully. He didn't see her or hear from her for seven months and those months changed her greatly. She wore a plain woolen dress and a simple braid, she bore no tan anymore and looked no more foreign than any man or woman in that room. And her figure... it looked not willowy anymore, but almost emaciated and child-like gracile. She looked nothing like the haughty and splendid princess, but to Éomer it was of no importance. Finally he wanted to be in no other place in the world.