I just had to get this started. I know I'm currently working on "Indifference," but I do think these stories would have blended into the same one to some extent so I don't know what that means for each of them. This is just a different take on Mareke and Eomer. It was driving me nuts so I had to begin. Typically Gemini. How many projects can I not finish?
Enjoy!
The courtyard of Minas Tirith's highlest level was full of tension as Éomer arrived alongside Aragorn, flanked by noblemen and soldiers from both Gondor and Rohan. They waited in silence as the delegation from Harad made their way through the hall, all dark silks and exotic adornments that stood in stark contrast to the stone walls and bright banners of Gondor.
At the center of the group was a man who Éomer knew had to be King Na'man, his bearing proud and his gaze cool, scanning the Northerners with a scrutinizing eye. But Éomer's attention was drawn to the woman beside him, her beauty stark and mesmerizing, like fire veiled in silk.
Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed golden brown and her hair was a mass of dark curls that hung about her shoulders, with a band of gold attempting to keep the unruly mane out of her face.
She moved with grace, eyes cast slightly down, though her shoulders were held high. Every step was poised, as if the hall itself was her stage.
Princess Mareke, Éomer realized, feeling a jolt that he could not quite place. Aragorn had briefed him on the most important members of the Haradrim delegation and there were few women in the group, none who carried themselves as the woman before him.
Éomer's eyes lingered a moment too long, and he caught the sharp glance of the man standing at her other side—the general, Baran. His stance was rigid, jaw set, and his hand hovered protectively near Mareke, as if the very air between her and any of the foreign men was a threat. Baran's dark eyes locked onto Éomer's with a possessive gleam, his meaning clear: She is mine.
But Éomer was not easily intimidated, and he did not lower his gaze. Instead, he nodded in Baran's direction, acknowledging him with a confidence that bordered on defiance, before looking back to Aragorn.
Aragorn, already stepping forward to welcome Na'man, extended his hand. "Welcome, King Na'man. Gondor is honored by your presence, as we are hopeful that today marks the beginning of true peace."
Na'man grasped Aragorn's forearm and offered a formal nod. "The honor is ours, King Elessar," he replied smoothly, though his voice was cool, calculated. "This is my sister, Princess Mareke, and General Baran."
Aragorn inclined his head respectfully toward Mareke, but Éomer's gaze lingered on her a moment longer. Mareke's eyes briefly met his, just a flicker before they lowered, as was expected of her in these circumstances. Yet something in that brief glance conveyed awareness—a sharp intelligence behind her lowered gaze.
She executed a perfect curtsy to Aragorn and then, in turn to Eomer when he was introduced.
Éomer found himself thinking of words he might say to her, but his thoughts were interrupted by Baran's subtle move closer to her side, his body language unmistakable: he was shielding her, claiming her presence in the way only a betrothed would dare.
Aragorn beckoned servants forward to show them to their rooms. They would have some time to refresh themselves and prepare for the opening celebrations.
ooooOoooo
As the sun dipped below the stone towers of Minas Tirith, the hall glowed with the golden light of countless torches, casting flickering shadows against the pale walls. Éomer was seated near the head of the hall, flanked by advisors and nobles, but his gaze was drawn to the doors as the Haradrim delegation entered for the feast.
When Mareke stepped forward, it was as if the air itself paused in reverence.
She wore a dress unlike anything the hall had seen, of black silk that shimmered like oil. Her skirt flowed with each step, its slit revealing a single slim, dark leg that moved with feline grace. The bodice was bold, baring her midriff and the lines of muscle there, her skin inked in intricate tattoos that told stories in patterns and symbols Éomer couldn't decipher but felt inexplicably drawn to.
The hall hushed, whispers rippling through the crowd as eyes turned toward her. Even the Northerners, who prided themselves on a stoic demeanor, seemed caught off guard by her bold elegance, her beauty so stark it was nearly otherworldly.
Éomer found himself staring, though he tried to appear casual, his fingers curling slightly on the arm of his chair. She was no shy flower brought to be admired, but a flame—deliberate, fierce, and striking.
As they made their way into the hall, Mareke's brother led, head high and bearing the air of one accustomed to power. But it was Baran who walked closest to her, his every move shadowing hers, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory watchfulness. Every so often, his hand would hover near her lower back, guiding her as if to assert his claim, his possessive aura unmistakable.
But Éomer noted that, while Mareke allowed his closeness, she wasn't tethered by it. Her gaze was sharp as she looked over the hall, a small, polite smile touching her lips as she accepted the glances, the admiration, even the surprise from the Northern lords. Her eyes briefly met Éomer's once more, and this time, he sensed a flicker of something beyond the mask—a glimpse of determination, perhaps, or resignation. He couldn't tell which, but it intrigued him.
When the trio reached the head of the hall, Aragorn rose, offering a welcoming smile as he addressed them. "Princess Mareke," he said with a nod, "you honor us with your presence."
She inclined her head gracefully. "The honor is mine, King Elessar," she replied, her voice low and smooth, like silk over stone, while heavily accented. The words were practiced, polite, but Éomer sensed they came more from duty than warmth.
Baran's dark gaze swept over the table, lingering on Éomer with a subtle warning in his eyes. He leaned toward Mareke, murmuring something in her ear, and Éomer noticed her expression flicker, a moment of annoyance quickly hidden behind her composed mask.
But the moment hung in the air, as if charged, and Éomer couldn't shake the sense that her beauty—stunning as it was—was only a part of her presence here. There was more to this princess than her looks, more than the inked stories on her skin or the controlled elegance in her gaze. She was a diplomat, a tool in her brother's game perhaps, but also, Éomer suspected, something else.
As the evening deepened, the music grew softer, and the laughter around the tables became more relaxed, Mareke slipped away from Baran's side, fulfilling her duty to mingle with the Northern guests. Her brother had made it clear: her purpose here was to charm, to enchant. She moved among them with a graciousness that belied her inner constraints, speaking with the lords and ladies who seemed as captivated by her words as they were by her beauty.
Éomer watched her from afar, marveling at her skill. She was careful, respectful, yet her gaze always held an edge of mystery. Despite everything, he sensed she was aware of every word spoken to her and every look cast her way.
His gaze, however, shifted when he noticed Baran, half-hidden in a shadowed alcove. To Éomer's surprise, the general was not watching his betrothed or even engaged in conversation with any of the Northern men. Instead, he was leaning close to a young Gondoran noblewoman—a striking figure with hair as pale as moonlight and eyes wide with admiration.
The noblewoman's expression was one of surprise mixed with excitement, and Éomer recognized her look all too well. She was unprepared for Baran's dark allure, his easy charm, and his boldness as he leaned in, whispering something that brought a flush to her cheeks.
A realization settled over Éomer like a stone sinking in water. Perhaps Mareke was not Baran's prize but merely the most visible one, the most important in terms of status. To him, Mareke was likely another mark of power, the ultimate conquest to secure his position beside King Na'man, while these other women—the ones who had no royal ties or political influence—were convenient distractions.
Éomer's jaw tightened. He had seen men like Baran before, men who wielded their charm as casually as they did their swords, reveling in each conquest as though it were a testament to their prowess. But Baran was a man meant to protect his people, his kingdom, and above all, the woman he claimed as his own.
A surge of anger surprised Éomer, mixed with something else he couldn't name. He turned his gaze back to Mareke, who was engaged in polite conversation with a Rohirric nobleman. She was listening attentively, though Éomer could sense the distance in her eyes, as if she were playing a role, her mind elsewhere. It struck him then, with a sharp pang, that perhaps she knew exactly who Baran was and had no choice in the matter—that she was, in the end, a tool wielded by both her brother and her betrothed.
He couldn't shake the thought, and he knew it would linger well past the evening's feast.
ooooOoooo
The next morning dawned crisp and bright, a contrast to the shadows that lingered in Éomer's mind from the night before. The formal peace talks were held in a council room that commanded a sweeping view of Minas Tirith, though the assembled men gave little attention to the landscape beyond the stone walls.
As they settled into their seats, Éomer's gaze flickered over the Haradrim delegation. King Na'man sat at the table's head with an imposing, confident presence. Beside him was Baran, his expression controlled, a faint smile tracing his lips as if he were already savoring victory. Éomer noticed how Baran held himself—proud and relaxed, yet always watching, assessing each man in the room as if they were pieces on a board, his role to maneuver each as he wished.
But Éomer's thoughts returned, unbidden, to Mareke. Though the peace talks were a gathering for men alone, he couldn't help but wonder if she'd been part of her brother's preparations. It was hard to imagine Na'man not seeking her counsel, her quick wit and sharp intelligence evident even in their brief interactions. She had a way of reading the room, of responding with carefully chosen words that revealed a mind capable of far more than simple charm.
As Na'man began to speak, outlining his vision for a lasting peace, Éomer found himself scrutinizing the cadence of his words, the subtle turns of phrase. It was oddly… eloquent. Thoughtful, even. The more he listened, the more certain he became: there was a careful balance here, a delicate attempt to appeal to Gondor's sense of duty and Rohan's pride. This wasn't the language of warriors or generals, and it didn't seem like Na'man's voice alone.
Éomer could almost see Mareke's touch in the crafting of these speeches, the carefully shaped appeals that danced on the edge of flattery but never crossed into it. Her influence, he suspected, lay in the restraint, in the deliberate respect the Haradrim king displayed toward his Northern counterparts.
Baran's occasional interjections were another matter. Whenever he spoke, his tone was sharper, a reminder of the power he wielded on the battlefield. Where Na'man sought common ground, Baran spoke as though he had already seized it, his words nearly arrogant in their certainty. Éomer's unease grew with each interruption, a bitterness rising in his chest as he recalled the general's easy flirtation with the Gondoran woman the night before. How quick he was to take liberties, to claim.
As Na'man concluded his opening address, the room fell silent, and Éomer leaned forward. "Your words honor our halls, King Na'man," he said, his voice calm, measured. "But I must ask—what assurances can you offer that this peace will hold?"
Baran's eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth, but Na'man held up a hand, silencing him with a subtle gesture. "Rohan's concerns are reasonable, and I respect your directness, Éomer-King," Na'man replied, his words tactful. "Perhaps it would ease your mind to know that Harad has no desire for further bloodshed. We seek only the prosperity of our own people, and we know that can only be achieved by extending our hand, not our sword."
As Na'man spoke, Éomer could almost hear Mareke's voice behind her brother's, the same thread of sincerity mixed with diplomacy she'd wielded with practiced skill the night before.
Éomer gave a slight nod. "I hope that your people share that vision. It would be a poor peace indeed if it were broken by those who cannot see beyond old grudges."
Baran's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his gaze narrowed on Éomer. It was a clash of wills without words, and Éomer felt a surge of satisfaction. Baran could try to claim everything he wished, but respect was something he would have to earn, and Éomer had no intention of granting it easily.
As the talks continued, Éomer's mind wandered to Mareke once more. He imagined her in her chambers, perhaps going over each word spoken, every pause and inflection of her brother's speech. She was as much a part of this peace process as any man in the room, he thought, though hidden behind silks and smiles.
ooooOoooo
The feasts each night were grand affairs, laden with rich foods, fine wines, and music that echoed off the high walls. The guests, both from the North and Harad, mingled with wary politeness, each gesture and word a reflection of their countries' histories and ambitions. Éomer observed the room with practiced detachment, noting the alliances and animosities that simmered beneath the formalities.
And every night, Mareke was there, moving through the crowd with a quiet grace, a diplomat in her own right. She seemed to have a keen understanding of whom to approach and how to engage them, shifting her demeanor with each person as though she were a performer, tailored to her audience.
Watching her work was mesmerizing, and finally, Éomer could no longer resist the pull to speak with her. He had delayed it, uncertain what he might say or how she might respond. But tonight, he felt a surge of resolve as he watched her conversing with a Gondoran lord, her head tilted with attentive interest, a slight smile on her lips.
As soon as the lord took his leave, Éomer crossed the room to her, catching her attention with a small bow of his head. "Princess Mareke," he greeted her, his voice steady. "I hope I am not interrupting."
She turned to him, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, a spark of recognition lit her eyes, and she dipped her head, acknowledging him. "Éomer-King," she replied, her voice smooth and warm.
He noticed the subtle shift in her posture, the way she angled herself just so, as though even her body language was designed to invite conversation while maintaining an aura of mystery. He offered a slight smile, attempting to ease the formality between them.
"It seems to me," he began, choosing his words carefully, "that you have a gift for knowing precisely whom to speak to and how to win them over." His tone was light, but his gaze was searching, curious to see how she might respond.
"Have you been watching me, Éomer-King?" Mareke's smile was soft, perhaps even a touch sad, though she masked it quickly. Whe he flushed at being caught, she continued. "It is a skill that has served me well," she answered, her eyes meeting his. "In my position, knowing how to charm and disarm is sometimes more useful than knowing how to wield a weapon."
Éomer's expression turned thoughtful, and he nodded. "It seems you wield your gifts admirably," he said, his voice lowered so only she could hear. "Your influence is unmistakable, even if it remains unspoken."
She looked at him, truly looked, as if gauging his sincerity. There was a flicker of something vulnerable in her gaze, and she hesitated before replying, her tone measured. "Words and charm are all that are expected of me. It is rare that anyone… notices beyond that."
The admission hung between them, quiet and startlingly honest. For a moment, the mask slipped, and Éomer glimpsed the woman behind the role, the weight of expectations she bore in silence. He felt a pang of something he couldn't name—admiration, perhaps.
"Perhaps more people notice than you realize," he said softly, his eyes holding hers. "But it is easy for men to see what they wish to see."
A glimmer of surprise crossed her face, and she looked down, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You are more perceptive than most, Éomer-King," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
They stood in silence for a beat, the world around them fading to a distant murmur. Éomer felt a strange sense of understanding, as though he had glimpsed a hidden truth, a connection that transcended their titles, their roles in these negotiations. Here was a woman bound by duty, much as he was, forced to play a part that didn't quite encompass who she was.
But before he could say more, Baran's presence loomed from across the room, his dark gaze fixing on them with a possessive intensity. Mareke straightened, her face slipping back into its carefully composed mask.
"Thank you for your kindness, Éomer-King," she said with a polite nod. "I am glad for the opportunity to speak with you."
The formality in her voice was unmistakable, and Éomer knew that Baran's watchful eye was a reminder of the role Mareke was expected to play. But as she turned to leave, she cast him a final, fleeting glance—one that spoke of gratitude, and perhaps a longing for something more than this life of duty.
And though she drifted back into the crowd, Éomer knew that their brief exchange would linger, a quiet understanding that neither of them could fully acknowledge yet could not ignore.
Mareke barely had time to collect herself after her exchange with Éomer before Baran appeared at her side, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. His hand wrapped around her arm, his grip firm as he steered her out of the great hall, away from the warmth and light of the feast. She held her head high, her expression serene, though inside her heart raced. She knew what this meant. She had seen that look in his eyes before.
They made it down a quiet corridor before Baran stopped abruptly, pulling her close and releasing her arm only to grip her shoulders, his fingers pressing hard into her skin. She tried not to wince, keeping her composure, but her breath hitched involuntarily.
"There is no need for you to speak to the Rohirric King," he hissed, his voice low but sharp as a blade. "Your brother has him in hand, and your charms are better spent on those who need persuading." His tone was venomous, each word dripping with resentment. She could see the jealousy, the possessiveness flaring in his dark eyes, and she knew better than to respond.
When she didn't reply, his grip tightened. "Do you think I haven't noticed how he watches you?" he spat, giving her a slight shake. "How his eyes linger on you as if he could just take what belongs to me?"
She could smell the wine on his breath, mingled with the bitterness of his anger. Despite herself, a tremor passed through her, though she tried to remain still, her face an impassive mask.
"Answer me, Mareke," he growled, his grip bruising now.
"I have done nothing but what my brother asked of me," she replied, her voice steady, though each word felt like glass against her throat. She knew better than to anger him further, but she also knew she couldn't afford to appear weak. "I speak to those he would wish me to speak to. That is all."
He stared at her, his gaze searching her face for any hint of defiance. Then, with a roughness that barely concealed his rage, he released her shoulders with one good shake, rattling her body. His eyes still held their dangerous glint.
"You belong to me, Mareke," he said coldly. "Not to Na'man, not to Éomer, not to anyone else. And you would do well to remember that."
She inclined her head, her face impassive, and kept her voice neutral. "Of course, Baran."
Satisfied, or perhaps merely placated, he stepped back, though his gaze lingered on her, the warning clear. "You have been given a task. Do not fail in it by wasting time with unnecessary distractions."
With that, he turned and left her in the shadowed corridor, his footsteps echoing down the stone floor as he returned to the feast. Only when she was alone did Mareke release a shaky breath, the mask slipping as the weight of his words settled over her.
For a long moment, she stood there, her body rigid as she absorbed the sting of his grip and the familiar chill of his possessive anger. The ache in her shoulders was nothing compared to the knot of dread twisting in her stomach, a reminder that her life was not her own, that her fate was bound by duty, expectation, and the whims of the men around her.
And yet, despite it all, her thoughts drifted to Éomer. To the brief glimpse of kindness in his eyes, the warmth in his voice. It had been nothing more than a fleeting exchange, a moment lost in a sea of duty and restraint, but it lingered in her mind—a fragile spark that, for reasons she couldn't explain, offered the faintest glimmer of hope.
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Happy reading,
Avonmora