Alone in the Courtyard at the Citadel of the White City, two young people were speaking in hushed tones. They suited each other well - one a Princess by birth, the other a King by chance. The tall, Kingly man stood towering over Lothíriel despite her being a tall woman herself. Strangely enough, it was as intimidating as it was comforting to realize that he considered her the only one worth paying attention to.

Ah, but the comfort was not for her to enjoy.

Lothíriel shook her head to reel in her wandering mind, both for the sake of herself and for the sake of the man in front of her. Then she took a step back and cleared her throat.

"Your Majesty, what –"

"Call me Éomer."

Cruelty was insisting on intimacy after denying her the most significant right to it – that of a spouse.

"I shall not, milord." Defiance crested in her chest and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "I may have forgiven you for your treatment of me, but we are not friends."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he slammed it shut and cast his eyes to the ground.

There was a reason he had chased after her, however, her anger and her exhaustion were begging her that she should quit his company regardless of how august he looked in the light of the Courtyard lanterns.

"If that was all, milord, I should be – "

"Wait, I wish to speak with you." His hand shot out and he rested it on her arm, only to wince.

"Lothíriel," he said, looking at her with great consternation, "you are – you are freezing!"

"I know, Your Majesty, which is why I wish to retire to my room." She made no effort to hide her impatience with him. She needed to go before she did something untoward.

But before she could take another step, he hummed as if he made a decision, and released his hold on her. Then, swearing under his breath about absurd Gondorian fashion, he took his maroon and gold cape off and draped it over her shoulders. Immediately she was enveloped by its warmth and his scent of horse, hay, musk and something indescribably pleasant. The weight and the texture of his cape were soothing and she felt her eyes droop for a split second.

For a moment she was back on Firefoot, hidden away in his arms as they made their way towards the City Gate.

But the noise that suddenly filled her ears was not the loud clacking of horse hooves on stone.

Sound of chatter and music scattered across the Courtyard as a few people exited Merethrond, unwittingly imposing on the pair's privacy. Without delay, Éomer grabbed her by her shoulders and gently pushed her back towards the kitchens. He opened one of the doors in the hallway, guided her in and closed the door behind them.

Lothíriel's heart thudded loudly in her chest as she processed what just happened.

He had managed to achieve what he wanted and what she had been desperately trying to avoid.

In a storage room with barely any space to walk, she was still held in place by the warm and large hands of Éomer King. He stood with his back against the door and met her bewildered gaze with his unreadable one. Dim light, streaming in from the small window above the door, just barely lit their faces. The rest of the room was covered in a shroud of darkness. And it was quiet enough for Lothíriel to be aware of their breathing. If either of them moved, they would hear and sense it rather than see it.

For a spell, they stayed silent. Not minutes ago, they had been out in the open, thereby allowing the effect of his being to dissipate in the crisp spring air. Now his presence filled the small room up to the brim, with not just his hulking figure, but also his scent, his heat and the inescapable hold of his gaze.

His proximity was intoxicating.

Once again the suggestion of kissing him came to the edge of her mind. Before she could fall off the precipice, she forced herself to focus.

"Your Majesty," she said rather breathlessly, "this is highly improper."

Unlike her brothers and other men of Gondor, Éomer always seemed to take his time just enough before answering her. Even now he examined her face closely before he replied in a soft voice. "I do not remember you worrying about propriety... Before."

The gentleness of his speech only irked her.

"That was because I was a fool, then," replied Lothíriel, not bothering to keep her voice even, "in the past, I was merely blinded by my foolish and naive feelings."

Again he stared at her, his brow furrowed and his jaw set. Then his hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, shifting aside his cape and leaving goosebumps on her skin in their wake. He took a deep breath before speaking softly once more as if his words would shatter and scar him if spoken too loudly. "There is nothing now that can blind you, then? No more feelings?"

He finally had worked up the courage to address how she felt. It had only taken him about five months.

"What I feel is none of your concern, Your Majesty – "

"My name is Éomer!"

His protest was loud and Lothíriel flinched. He never did like being addressed with his title.

"We have no understanding that allows us to be so informal, milord." Her voice cracked, but she was grateful for the semi-darkness that hid her face from him. "Whatever we had... In the end, it was you taking advantage of my weakness for you so you could have an escape from your responsibilities."

She heard his breath catch in his throat, yet this time he was quick to respond.

"Yes. Yes, you are right. I took advantage of you, and I cannot apologize enough for my conduct. But I do not regret any of my time spent with you. Lo – Princess, I..."

His hands slid further down her bare arms and the cape around her fell to the ground with a quiet thud. Again she shivered -not because of the cold, no, he was warm enough for the both of them - but her body relished in his touch. If he had noticed her reaction, he paid no heed to it. Instead, he sought out her gaze with his and brought his face closer to hers. "There is no one like you. The way you can calm my mind, and the way you ease my worries... Lothíriel, I feel human again because of you. Even now. When I am with you... I am Éomer."

She stared at him in awe as she attempted to figure out if she was dreaming or having drunk delusions. But all her senses insisted on reality. It was not a dream. Éomer had spoken those sweet words to her. Fragile, sensitive words that did not seem to match their origin - oh, but they did! In this delicate juncture of impropriety and sincerity, he had at long last spoken of how he felt about her. And hope bubbled up in her chest, lightening the burden in her abdomen.

And yet...

There was something else inside her besides hope that insisted on reaching the forefront of her affected mind.

Something did not sit right with her and it would not be shaken, indeed it demanded the highest attention because it had always been there. Pushed aside, ignored, trivialized, yes. But it had never left.

Anger.

"So, you felt at peace with me?"

He blinked, taken aback by her flat tone of voice. "Ah, yes."

"Comfortable even?"

"Well, yes – "

"Comfortable enough to kiss me and then reject me promptly after?"

"No! That is not what I had intended – "

"No?" She glared at him, her lips pressed thin in exasperation.

Perhaps she had not forgiven him after all. Perhaps she had been too hasty in easing his guilt. Perhaps she was not as magnanimous as she thought herself to be.

The hurt ran too deep still because even as he stood mere inches away from her, the pain of his refusal of her many months ago rang as true as her love for him did in her foolish little maiden's heart. And it finally claimed its release.

"Pray tell me this, milord. What were your intentions with me?"

Sensing the urgency of a quick reply, Éomer immediately said: "I never intended to hurt you - "

But she interrupted him, as he did not realize that she needed a straightforward answer from him." What were your intentions with me, Éomer King?"

This small pantry of the Citadel kitchens could have been a realm of its own, if only for the fact that there was no room for courtly manners. There was hardly any space anything at all. Yet there they were. Too intimate for two people who were not involved in any kind of relationship, locked away with only the company of emotions now unsuppressable.

Nevertheless, his hands remained at her elbows, their rough heat warming her skin. She was all but enveloped by him and she took a secret pleasure that he no longer seemed daunted by emotions - neither his nor hers. But she needed more.

Lothíriel sighed. "Tell me, milord. What do you intend to do at this very moment? Now that you have me here... alone and all to yourself."

Her words were effective in charging the already tensed air between them.

He let out a shuddering breath that caressed over her face, and she smelled wine and spearmint. He was nervous, and it was because of her.

He might not love her, but his desire for her was undeniable.

As she studied the soft golden colour of his beard and the shape of his lips visible in the dim rays of the lanterns outside, she wondered if she should act upon their mutual attraction. She was half a step away from an embrace. It would be so easy to press her mouth against his, to tenderly touch his cheek and neck, and to find out how strong the taste of wine was on his tongue.

No one else would have to know if she did, either. He would probably deny it and she would keep it hidden from everyone - a bittersweet secret to entertain herself with during her moments of melancholy. Indeed, she was already drowning in her unrequited feelings, how much of a difference would it make if she added a bit more unresolved intimacy?

Yes, it increasingly looked like a good idea to Lothíriel.

But even now her anger still needed to be answered. He did not wish to marry her, so why did he seek her out? He would have to tell her.

And she would make him.

At first, Lothíriel let her fingertips only graze the lush fabric on his chest, recalling the tattoo of the Riddermark on his pectoral. The chance to see the inking of the Rohanese Sun once again was slim, but knowing that it was hidden below the fabric was thrilling enough for her. She bit her lip as she remembered their time alone together in the Warden's office. As a Healer's assistant, charged with the task of caring for him, she had been able to touch him. However, that touch had been professional - mostly - but right now her thoughts veered dangerously into areas she had no experience in.

And she had a strong urge to change that, even if she was still quite cross with him. She increased the pressure of her hand and ran it up to his collar to caress the side of his neck. His breath hitched audibly, and she regarded his face once more.

"You wanted to talk to me, milord. Remember?"

He grunted and cleared his throat. "Forgammon."

"Yes?" she answered neutrally, though glad that he had remembered what he wanted to say to her. Meanwhile, her hand continued its appreciation of the beard hairs on the side of his neck. "You wish to talk about him?"

Again he took a moment to collect his thoughts. "I do not - I cannot understand. I thought you disliked him."

Lothíriel weighed his words carefully and she could not fault him, because she had told him as such. "Lord Forgammon wrote his motivation to me and his logic was sound. So I figured that there was no harm in him courting me."

He scoffed and shifted in place as he tried to reign in his disbelief. "What wisdom did he impart to you that made you change your mind about him?"

Lothíriel traced the embroidery of the collar before letting her hand glide towards his left shoulder, anchoring it there with her fingers. "It was more the straightforward manner of his communication that appealed to me. He knew what he wanted and thus he told me."

"And what – what did he want?" A stutter, as if he was almost unwilling to find out.

"Power. Connections. My ambitions." She stole a glance up at him before letting her hand glide down his chest again, and her mind's eye recalled how that very hand had applied Sorrowfew on the bare skin of this man.

His breathing was rapid now, but he had yet to make a move to stop her.

No, he was enjoying her explorations as much as she was.

"You are fine with him desiring you for your title?"

"I am a Princess, Your Majesty," She replied airily, "my station and my connections are supposed to be alluring to ambitious men. He respects me enough to be honest with me about how he feels... I have learned to put value in that."

He scoffed again, but he was not deterred. "Your brothers do not like him either."

"My brothers do not need to like him, Ada likes him well enough."

A soft grunt of frustration.

"Amrothos likened him to late Steward Denethor."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes impatiently, her hand now ghosting over the other side of his upper body.

"Amrothos is an emotional fool who pays too much heed to Aunt Ivriniel's stories. Their marriage was doomed because of the Shadow's hold on Uncle Denethor's mind and Aunt Finduilas' weak body."

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps reflecting on his mental image of Faramir's father. Meanwhile, Lothíriel allowed her hand to caress Éomer's bicep, relishing in its firmness and the resulting stuttering sigh.

He was affected by her touch, she noted with no little satisfaction, despite making a valiant effort to move as little as possible.

"Do you want me to stop touching you, milord?"

She heard his breathing still and he groaned. "Lo – Princess Lothíriel, please."

"Yes?"

He inhaled and exhaled. And then grunted noncommittally.

Coward, she thought ruefully.

"The man... He spent years belittling you. Will you even be able to see Forgammon as your husband?"

Lothíriel sighed softly and then decided to speak dangerous words. Something provocative. She simply had to.

"I had my doubts about that as well..." She paused for dramatic effect, "but it helps that he knows how to kiss."

"He what?!"

Lothíriel flinched again, his sudden loudness startling her. It was what she had hoped for. Indeed, her provocation had been very effective.

His hands gripped her tighter, trembling with suppressed fury. In the dull light shining on his face, she saw his face contort, and her stomach twisted with guilt and desire.

But also sheer vindication.

He was jealous and he made no attempts to hide it, either.

Again hope bubbled up.

"The bastard dared to touch you and your father saw no problem with it!?"

"Usually when two people are courting, it is tolerated, Your Majesty." Her voice wavered towards the end of her sentence. Despite her bold behaviour, she was intimidated by him.

His glare was intense and Lothíriel swallowed hard. How could one look so terrifying and handsome at the same time?

Before she could dwell on the beautiful ferocity in his eyes, he spoke once more.

"Show me where he touched you."

Haf she truly heard him say that or was it her half-drunk imagination distorting reality?

She stared at him, at a loss for words.

He had the same amount of patience that she had for him, which is to say – none, for in the next moment he pulled her closer so their faces were mere inches apart. The meagre light now illuminated her body more clearly while he was cloaked in darkness.

Éomer placed a single hand on her lower back, large, heavy and insistent, its heat seeping through her skin and spreading through her veins.

"Show me!" His growl in her ear was both terrifying and arousing, and she gasped out loud, shaken to her core.

She did not have the power to refuse him. Nor did she wish to do so.

Slowly she raised her trembling hand and showed him the top of it. Then with a slight tremble, she demonstrated how Forgammon had stroked her arm and her shoulder before she grazed her lips with her thumb. Then, as his eyes followed her every move, she dragged the back of her hand over the skin below her left ear and then down her neck.

A heavy silence spread between them for merely two seconds before he broke it with a vehemence. Éomer swore loudly and turned away from her to hit the door with his fist, his noisy temper filling up the cramped space.

Lothíriel stayed frozen in place, quiet in her anxiety and curiosity as she observed him. He was resting his forehead against the door as he took deep, heaving breaths to steady himself.

"Is that all it takes for you?" He asked in a rough voice as he continued to lean against the wood. "Some words... a few touches?"

Perplexed, she tried and failed to solve the puzzle of his words. "I - I am afraid I do not follow your meaning."

With a huff, he stood back up and rubbed his face in frustration. "You told me, a few months ago, about how – what you felt for me..." He shifted in place again and the wan light momentarily illuminated his face. It was pulled into an incredulous expression. "That is all gone now because, he what - he kissed you and, ah - touched your arm?"

It took a beat, but then the accusation hit Lothíriel hard in her chest, causing her jaw to drop in consternation.

"Heed your words, Éomer Éomundson!" She exclaimed, her anger once more coming alive.

He scoffed, his eyes narrowed in anger. "So now you remember my name?"

"You were the one who told me to forget about you, which is what I have been trying to do." Lothíriel stepped closer to him and fixed him with the angriest look she could muster. "You have no right to question my love for you – or for anyone else."

"Indeed I do have the right! Did I mean so little to you that you moved on so easily? To Forgammon, of all people?" He took a step back and let out a short, humourless bark of disdain.

She cast her eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation.

"Honestly, Éomer! If that were true, would I still be here with you right now?"

He was a fool. By Ulmo, he was such a fool.

"What does your being here matter if you have agreed to marry Forgammon, Lothíriel?"

"Who told you I agreed to that?" She asked him, empathically.

He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. "You went out with him to the courtyard. And when you returned, on his arm, you were laughing and talking. And then you danced. Because you... you accepted his suit."

He had been watching her. And for some reason, that mollified her.

"No," she replied plainly, "we agreed to end the courtship."

Éomer opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly confused. Then he asked in a softer voice: "But Prince Imrahil looked so happy when you went to speak with him?"

Lothíriel shook her head. "He was just pleased that I was able to end the courtship on good terms. Forgammon is a very influential leader and a close friend to our family."

"I see." All anger and frustration left his tall frame and he leaned against the door, attempting to process her words. "You are not getting wed."

"Nothing of the sort."

He peered at her from under his eyelashes. It seemed that he fared well in anger. Now that that emotion no longer stood between the two of them, he was at a loss for how to behave.

Frustration rose in Lothíriel, though. He seemed relieved that she was not tying herself to Lord Forgammon, yet he just stood there, gazing at her in his irresolution. What did he want? Did he not wish to have her by his side for the rest of his days?

"Éomer."

He straightened up and looked at her questioningly.

"Why are we here?"

There was not even a foot of distance between them and Lothíriel's hands ached to continue touching him. The blend of his body heat, his scent and the sound of his breathing was potent, and she struggled to keep her mind clear.

While he stood there, once more thinking - and not acting.

"Éomer," she said in a tone that clearly showed her disquiet, "did you put me in a compromising position just so you could question me about Lord Forgammon?"

At once his body, before in a passive stance, shrank together with abashment, "I... I did not intend for it, but you kept avoiding me."

"Could you not have asked my father about it?"

"I could not find him."

"What about Amrothos?"

Éomer sighed and shook his head. "I tried, but he told me to ask you."

Lothíriel then recalled that she had told Amrothos to keep mum about the ended courtship of Lord Forgammon. She could have not foreseen being put in this situation.

This mad, ridiculous situation.

Why could he not be honest with himself?

She observed him as he kept his eyes averted from her. He was supposed to be fearless. How much longer would he continue to play with her sensibilities?

"Éomer, you cannot do this to me," she said softly. "Was I not clear to you that I want to keep my distance from you, last time?"

"Last time you also told me that you loved me..." His voice trailed off, still unsure of what he wanted to say.

"Aye, so I did, and you said you could not accept me. Has anything changed for you since then?"

Once more Éomer did not respond and instead chose to stare off into the darkness with a troubled look on his face. A twinge of affection broke through the clutter of impatience and annoyance. Perhaps he required some encouragement - if so, she was glad to give it to him.

Lothíriel took a step forward and placed a hand on his chest, forcing him to meet her gaze. Then she placed her other hand there too before sliding it up over the side of his neck. She ran her nails lightly over his cheek, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his facial hair and the scratchy sound resulting from it.

"I wish you would answer me, Éomer," she whispered wistfully as she savoured the sight and feel of audaciously touching his face in a manner so intimate and delicate, that she could not quite believe it was happening. But it was, and he seemed to endure it quite willingly.

Éomer had closed his eyes and he was breathing heavily, the only movement that he allowed himself.

Waiting for an answer was torture to the young woman, however, and every second that passed in silence, the bigger the stinging weight in the pit of her stomach became.

It was purgatory.

A part of her was still clamouring to kiss him, ordering her to ignore the renewed heartache and instead take what she could from him, because otherwise – it reasoned – once she quit this pantry, she would be left with nothing at all.

Before she could decide whether or not she would indulge herself, it was Éomer who made the next move.

Much like he had done roughly a year ago, he took hold of the hand on his cheek and brought it to his lips.

A gasp escaped her when he pressed a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. Sparks spread throughout her whole body as she continued to stare in awe, once more confused about whether or not she was imagining things.

But then he whispered, his voice deep and affected. "Lothíriel."

As he beheld her with narrowed, dark eyes, she forgot how to breathe. Éomer then wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. Releasing her wrist, he instead cradled her chin in his hand. Lothíriel allowed her head to be tilted upwards without a second thought, for thoughts were useless when one was not sure whether they were awake or quite dreaming.

Just then the warrior from the North closed the distance and lightly brushed his lips against hers, his moustache tickling her mouth.

"Oh," she breathed, her heart aflutter with the realization that he had kissed her. Through half-lidded eyes, she glanced up at him, and she wondered what was next. Because though she appreciated the soft kiss for its existence, she wanted more.

Éomer had not moved away, his fingers still holding her chin and his arm still around her waist, but he seemed to be frozen and lost in thought anew.

No, she did not have the restraint to wait. Lothíriel moved both of her hands to grip his embroidered collar tightly and stood on the tips of her toes – as she was tall, yet he was taller – and firmly kissed him again, leaving no doubt as to what she thought of him and what she wanted him to do.

Fortunately, that seemed to snap him out of his stupor, quite violently even, because she felt a soft growl vibrate from his throat - and then he was kissing her back hard, keeping her tightly pressed to himself.

A sweet mix of joy and heat flooded Lothíriel's senses as she came to terms with the reality of his passionate embrace. She slightly opened her eyes to see that – yes, it was Éomer Éomundson and it was his hand that was now cradling the back of her head. It was his solid body that was now pinning her against the door. And unlike last time, it did not seem to be a sudden onset of lust. He had taken his time to consider their entire situation and finally, finally had he realized that there should be no distance at all between the two of them.

Lothíriel let out a sigh of relief against his lips, even though a small part of her still resisted letting go of her reticence. After all, who knew what would happen when this kiss ended?

Her eyes fell shut again, annoyed by her own thoughts. She buried her fingers in the hair in the nape of his neck and slanted her head so that she could kiss him with renewed vigour.

A sound of amusement slipped from Éomer, and she could feel his smile. At this, fluttering warmth gathered in her core, and Lothíriel half-hoped that their kiss would never end. Nothing else could defeat the sheer bliss of being held by the one she had loved and desired for so long.

Nothing else except for more of him.

Lothíriel parted her lips, offering him access to a deeper kiss and, to her utter gladness, he eagerly partook in the further exploration of her mouth. Tentatively she caught his bottom lip between hers and ran the tip of her tongue across it, tasting him.

Éomer grunted and pressed her harder into her before copying the gesture.

Oh, he was delightful and delicious, a wonderful blend of warmth and wine, tender and yet tenacious with his attention.

Thus, they continued to cling to one another tightly, alternating sweet gentleness with passionate pressure until she eventually worked up the courage to deepen their kissing by darting her tongue against his.

"Mmh!" Éomer let out a surprised moan, but he did not relinquish his hold on her and instead responded in kind, very lightly, before breaking the kiss.

It had been a wise move, as it was only when they broke apart that Lothíriel remembered she needed to breathe to stay alive.

Panting heavily, the Princess and the young King maintained their embrace and merely stared at each other as they processed what had occurred just now. And while his expression was unreadable, there was exuberant chaos unfolding in Lothíriel's mind.

He had kissed her - again!

They had kissed, earnestly and extensively, and they had enjoyed every second of it. Even now he was holding onto her, adding weight to the belief that he was done being uncertain. Perhaps now he would not betray her heart again, for Éomer, King of the Riddermark, was nothing if he was not loyal and true to those he loved. And perhaps it was not love that he felt for – not yet, but he would not have kissed her if he did not favour her.

But despite being pleasantly stuck between the door and his delightfully solid body, she could not help but feel unnerved by his silent stare.

What was he thinking?

Indeed, was it not straightforward now what he needed to ask her? – a mere formality hopefully at this point, but crucial nonetheless. He would not quit this storage space without committing to her, would he?

"Éomer… It seems we have kissed again." Lothíriel whispered to him, bravely addressing the matter at hand. "Do you consider it a mistake?"

"No!" Fortunately, he did not wait with his response, because he blurted it as his eyes widened and his hands squeezed the softness of her hips. "No, it is no mistake. But – "

Lothíriel tensed. There was a but?

"How much have you had?"

She stared at him, confused.

"Wine. How much wine have you had tonight?" There was a tension in his voice that she did not like.

"I do not know exactly," she murmured, trying to recall the banquet and the drinks shared with her family. "maybe two? A third, I am not sure – "

Éomer rubbed his beard with one hand, his frustration apparent. "Lothíriel, I – I have to go."

"You have to go? Now?"

Lothíriel could not wrap her mind around what he was saying. Asking if she was drunk and then wanting to leave. What was wrong with him? It could not be that after everything that had taken place, he still had no plans of marrying her.

Fatigue washed over her then. Not only was the lead weight back in her abdomen, but her dress once more bore down on her, itching her skin and aching her limbs. Her heavy, braided updo made her neck hurt and her feet were swollen and sore. Yet the sum of all her physical pain was no match to the smarting of her heart.

She gritted her teeth and pushed Éomer away from her. Caught off-guard, he stumbled and hit his shoulder against one of the shelves.

But Lothíriel could not bring himself to care.

"All this time I have been calling myself a fool, Éomer Éomundson," she hissed at him, shaking with anger renewed, "but now I realize, there is none as great as you!"

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned around and tried to open the door.

A second later she felt his hand on her shoulder.

"Lothíriel, listen to me." He spoke with a voice that was calm somehow. But she shook him off and glared back at him through the tears that were forming in her eyes.

The door was not opening, and she desperately needed to get away from him. She should have left the storage room immediately upon entering it, but her silly heart had insisted on staying here to listen to what he had to say to her.

And now she had gotten hurt. Again.

"I shall not listen to you, that is what caused this mess in the first place. Now, open this door, and - and go wherever you need to be!"

"No, wait, I want to – "

"Do not ask of me my patience for I have none left for you."

She turned around to look at the handsome and earnest man who was easy to love and difficult to leave. There was apprehension on his face. What more could he want from her? In this case, as well, anything other than complete acceptance was a refusal. Even if that something was an intimate moment of gentle touches and deep kisses.

"Are you stopping me from leaving, Your Majesty?"

Her accusatory tone spurred him into action. With a soft click of the door, he opened the door for her, picked up his cape and followed her out. There was no one in the hallway to the kitchens. In the distance, they could hear the din of the ongoing celebrations.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of her new surroundings when she felt his hand take hold of her upper arm. "Lothíriel, if you would just listen to me for a moment, I can explain why I have to go at once – "

And once again, she wrenched herself free from him. "I am tired, milord. Tired of you and tired of everything else. I do not wish to hear any of your excuses or – or justifications as to why you think it is fine to leave – " She paused her clumsy words to gesture towards the door, " – such a delicate matter in such a precarious – "

"Please," he interrupted her, his brow furrowed in desperation, "I must meet with Aragorn and Imrahil about – "

"Go do your Kingly duties, then!" Lothíriel was not in the mood to hear whatever trade deal or supply issue was more important than her. "They are no concern of mine, you have made that clear."

She then picked up her heavy skirts and walked past him towards the entrance of the Southern Guesthouses. Éomer was not to be deterred and he began striding after her.

"You must listen to me, this does concern you – "

"Do not follow me, Éomer King!" She exclaimed and quickened her steps. A glance over her shoulder told her that he had obeyed her and halted in place. She wanted to laugh. Such gentlemanly behaviour! It would have been put to better use inside the supply room.

Absently she could register him shouting something at her, but the echoes of her steps, the rustling of her skirts and the mad thrumming of her heart drowned out any words that she could have heard. Not a few seconds later he was out of earshot and out of sight.

Lothíriel followed a flight of stairs up and then slowed down when she entered the hallway that led to the Dol Amrothian Quarters.

There was a burning feeling in her chest - a salmagundi of anger, heartbreak and the remnants of bliss sourced from Éomer's embrace.

Gingerly she touched her lips and found that they were still sensitive. No, she would not think of him for even a second more.

She picked up her pace again for the last stretch to her destination. When she entered the rooms of her family, there was no one there. She let out a grateful sigh, for she knew she looked a fright, and she was in no mood to explain herself to Amrothos.

Then she rang the bell for her chambermaids and she entered her room. In record time the two maids got her ready for bed without speaking a single word, sensing her disquiet. When they left, she sank onto her bed, her head unwillingly full of thoughts of Éomer. This had been the third time that he had rejected her and she marvelled at her own stubborn heart, that it refused to love him any less.

Exhausted by the long and eventful day, she promptly fell asleep.