Lothíriel tapped her foot nervously on the wooden floor. It was all scratched and desperately in need of a fresh coat of varnish. She wondered how many pairs of regal feet walked its length throughout the centuries, and how many actually cared about the beautiful pinewood underfoot. The more she observed it, the more she thought she recognized the distinct wood pattern and wondered where the pines that had been cut down to become this neglected hardwood floor came from. She remembered green pines that lined the seashore down south, their dried up fir needles covering the ground like a soft carpet. So many days were spent in their generous shade, playing hide and seek, running up and down the slopes, never afraid to fall and bruise her palms and knees on that delicate cushion nature had fashioned. No, those pines were probably too small to be turned into anything. This must be some other kind of wood.

Lothíriel tore a piece of skin from the finger she had been biting with her teeth, and hissed when she realized she tugged at it too strongly. A small line of red flesh appeared along her nail.

For Valar's sake, where is he?

She had been waiting around the corner to the hallway which connected the main hall to the King's study. She saw him finish his meal some time ago and quickly took up her position, hoping she would catch him on his way back from supper. She was too embarrassed to wait in front of the soldiers guarding his door – what if they were the same ones she shouted at three days ago? It was even more unimaginable to go and talk to him directly out there, in public. She didn't know how he would react to her, and she would be mortified if anyone else found out how she had acted the last time they spoke.

Lothíriel knew she was acting way out of line as soon as she saw that disbelieving look in his eyes, as soon as he pointed out that messy working desk. In her own frustration, she forgot where she was, and most importantly, who she was here. She wondered whether she had gone too far down the rabbit hole; whether she had already forgotten what it was like to be in his shoes. To the common folk, the idea of being a royal seemed a dream come true, and if they could get one wish fulfilled, whatever it may be, many would choose to become a king and rule their own country. But Lothíriel used to know better – she remembered her father sitting in his solar as soon as the first rays of the sun appeared on the horizon, eating his meals standing over parchments or not eating at all, attending audiences and meetings with his councilors. Who knows how long it took him to contemplate the price of his own daughter? Was his appetite affected at all that day?

Lothíriel ran a nervous hand through her hair. She was already bored out of her mind and her thoughts were taking her places she did not wish to go.

Her heart skipped a beat when she caught the sound of soft footsteps coming from the farther end of the hallway. She stuck her head out from the corner she had been hiding in, and sure enough, the King was making his way toward her, his head buried in an unrolled parchment he was holding. Alright, Lothíriel, time to go.

"Your grace!" she shot out of her hiding place and blurted a little more loudly than she had intended.

The King flinched and let go of the parchment, the paper floating to the floor and rolling back into it's original form. "What in the world…?!"

"I-I'm sorry," Lothíriel stuttered, quickly bending down to pick up the roll and handing it back to him. "May I speak with you, your grace?"

He eyed her up and down suspiciously, but then simply nodded and pointed toward his study. Once they reached the door, Lothíriel noted with relief that the two guards on duty were utterly unknown to her. They entered the firelit room and as soon as the door was closed, Lothíriel felt her palms starting to sweat.

"Well? You have something to say?" he asked coolly.

"I want to apologize for my behavior the other day," she began, trying to hold his gaze. "I had no right to speak to you in such a disrespectful manner and I realize now that my problems are nothing compared to the responsibility you bear for your country, your grace."

She had chiseled and rehearsed the apology in her mind maybe a thousand times, only to hear it come out sounding totally insincere. "I…I truly mean it, your grace," she quickly added. The humiliation tasted bitter in her mouth. He kept eyeing her silently until she had to avert her eyes and desperately wished she could be sucked into the ground and disappear off the face of the earth forever.

"So, you do know how to apologize," the King finally broke the silence. "Back on the road I thought maybe that was a thing Gondorians don't teach their children."

Oh dear. So he still remembered the awkward way she thanked him for his apology while exiting his tent that night, yet didn't reciprocate it with her own.

"Well, they do, your grace, including me. It would just appear I have temporarily forgotten my manners," she admitted quietly.

Now he eyed her some more, but to Lothíriel's surprise, his features softened and she could have sworn she detected a faint hint of a grin on his features.

"Well, let's say we're even now," he motioned to an empty armchair next to his fireplace. "Take a seat."

Lothíriel hesitated for a while, slightly confused. Was this really it? This wasn't the reaction she had expected, coming from the man she had had her share of disagreements with.

"Don't look so worried, I won't bite you."

Lothíriel nodded and sat down, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt as she did so. The flames dancing happily in the hearth next to her made her notice how stuffy and warm the study was.

"Anyway, I suppose I haven't been acting like the most gracious host so far," the King admitted once she seated herself. "My sister gave me quite a piece of her mind when she returned and heard no one has taken care of you those first few days in the Mark."

"It was not at all my intention to imply that you or your lady sister should feel obliged to take care of me, your grace," Lothíriel protested. "It only worries me that I can't perform the duties I came here to perform effectively if I don't find a way to communicate with your healers. The only thing I would really need is if you could point me to some… more common person here in Edoras who could help me with translations."

"I'm afraid you won't find many common people here in the Mark who are fluent in Westron," he said matter-of-factly before he crouched in front of a polished wooden cabinet and fumbled for something inside. "Though I can assure you my sister doesn't mind helping you at all. She seems to have taken quite a liking to the healing arts during her stay in Minas Tirith."

"Is that so?" Lothíriel mused. She always thought Lady Éowyn's 'interest' was rooted more in her own boredom and a sort of protest against the overly careful Warden. "I'm glad to hear that, your grace."

The King finally seemed to find what he was looking for, and stood up with a dark bottle in his hand. "Would you indulge me in sharing a cup of wine?"

"Oh, uhm, yes, thank you."

He poured two cups and handed one to her. "Let's call it a drink of truce," he added as he clinked his own cup with hers.

Lothíriel took a sip of the aromatic burgundy liquor and suddenly a well-known taste spread on her tongue.

"Taste familiar?" the King asked.

"It's wine from Dol Amroth," she said excitedly. "The best wine in all of Gondor."

"How humble of you to say," he said with a smirk.

"Well, I am just stating a widely known fact, your grace," Lothíriel said proudly. She couldn't help allowing a smile form on her lips as nostalgic memories flooded back at the taste of her favorite summertime drink.

"I received a few bottles as a gift from my good friend, Prince Imrahil, before we left the White City," the King explained.

Lothíriel almost choked on the wine at the mention of her father's name. Of course, it was probably only natural for him to have befriended the young Rohirric monarch during their shared experiences in the most important historic battle of this era. However, she never realized their friendship was quite so strong – she had to be careful how much she let on in front of him.

"What a wonderful gift, indeed," she said, switching back to the practiced formality she knew so well.

The King seemed to notice the change in her demeanor and was watching her intently. Lothíriel felt as if he could read her very thoughts at that moment. Suddenly his dark brown eyes seemed very deep, hypnotizing. Lothíriel found herself unable to look away.

"Do you miss your home?" The seriousness of his gaze did not quite match the simplicity of the question.

"Some parts of it I do, your grace."

"So why did you move to Minas Tirith?"

His gaze was strangely intense, as if he could look into her very soul. Lothíriel felt as though she was in a weird trance – the combination of heat from the fireplace, the wine she had drunk (when did she manage to finish the whole cup?) and the intimacy of the moment made her almost dizzy.

"I, ehm… I moved there to improve as a healer. The Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith are one of the most renowned in the country."

"Is that so?" the King asked with raised eyebrows.

He can tell I'm lying. These damn Rohirrim and their honesty! She always considered herself a well-practiced liar, and in a culture where lies and pretense were the norm, she felt like a fish in the ocean. But lying in the face of people who regularly carried their hearts on their sleeves felt more like a sea creature washed up on shore, struggling and out of place. Maybe just a little bit of truth couldn't hurt, she thought. "I also had more personal reasons, involving a rather disagreeable marriage proposal back home," she said bitterly.

Oh no. It must have been the wine. What else would make her spill it so easily? Or was it his closeness in the heated room, his look lingering on her face?

Lothíriel felt a sudden urge to slap herself back to reality. She realized she was playing with fire; King Éomer was a close friend of her father and brothers and if she gave away any more than that, she was running the risk of him putting two and two together. She wasn't sure whether her father ever mentioned her to anyone – he was a proud man to the extreme and she couldn't imagine him admitting to strangers a runaway daughter that so selfishly disgraced his family. But she could never be too careful; she already let on too much.

"I apologize, your grace, but if you will excuse me I have a lot to prepare for tomorrow," she said hastily before he had a chance to continue the discussion. She laid the empty wine cup on the table and stood up to leave, turning to him once again to curtsy but finding herself unable to meet his eyes. "Thank you for the wine."

"Of course," he said as he stood up after her and walked to the door to let her out. "I do hope we have a chance to talk again, Méav," he added as she was passing by him on her way out.

Lothíriel simply gave him one last quick look and nodded before she turned and walked away.

As she was walking downstairs to her room, she noticed the heat refused to leave her body even in the cold hallways, away from the fireplace.

ooOOoo

Éomer was sitting at the table on the elevated dais in the common hall and observed the people before him. It had been a long time since he had taken his supper outside of his study, where he often either left it uneaten or ate it so quickly he barely noticed what just went down his throat. The pace with which his days had been going by since he became King of the Mark wasn't showing any signs of slowing down, to the point that he felt he was losing control over his own life. Éowyn was right – unless he set some boundaries for himself, there would always be urgent business to tend to, at every hour of every day. He felt a vast responsibility towards his people as well as towards his late uncle and cousin, a responsibility he never had time to prepare for. Don't be so cross, Éomer, his sister's voice resonated in his head; you simply have to accept that you cannot do everything yourself and have to entrust some issues to others.

She was right, of course. That is what he had actually been trying to do this evening – he decided that no matter how hard he found it, he would go to the common hall, eat and drink with his people and focus his mind on other, more pleasurable things for a change. The others certainly seemed to be able to do so – as he was watching his people chattering away, drowning one mug of ale after another and bursting out laughing here and there, he couldn't help but smile. The Mark will probably be alright, after all.

As he was looking around, he noticed his sister approaching the dais together with Méav. They stepped up to the long table and Éowyn greeted him with a smile on her face: "Good evening, brother. I have invited Méav to eat supper with us tonight, if you don't mind."

"No, of course not. It will be a pleasure," Éomer said as he stood up to welcome the two women.

He watched Méav as she spoke a silent your grace in lieu of a greeting and curtsied. She looked quite different from the woman he usually saw, covered from head to toe in healer's garb with a focused look on her face, the embodiment of professionalism and detachment. Éomer suddenly remembered that evening in his study, her long silky dark hair illuminated by the fire, her flushed cheeks… Looking at her now, she reminded him a lot of that night, standing in the firelit hall dressed in a simple yet very appealing blue gown.

She is quite pretty.

The persistent thought popped up in his mind, catching him off-guard yet again. Of course, he had noticed it from the start, he wasn't blind. However, their initial rocky interactions made him subconsciously push the thought somewhere to the back of his mind, overshadowed by his resentment and frustration. Now that things had calmed down, however, he found his mind wandering in her direction more often than he liked to admit. He considered himself a good judge of people, and yet Méav continued to puzzle him. He didn't feel quite comfortable not knowing what that formal exterior of hers was hiding. His trust of strangers had been all but eviscerated during the years his country had been ravaged and betrayed by their enemies; he had learned to be extremely weary of anyone that seemed to be hiding something, and with her, he could smell it from miles away. The war is over, Éomer, he had to remind himself yet again. She's not one of Saruman's spies.

Méav suddenly looked away and shifted uncomfortably, and Éomer realized he must have been staring at her while lost in his thoughts. He immediately dropped his gaze and motioned them both to sit down.

"So, I heard you're spending a lot of time in the healing quarters, sister," he said, trying to focus his mind on something other than the dark-haired healer opposite him.

"Yes, it's quite fascinating really," Éowyn replied enthusiastically. "I never knew how much there is inside our bodies. Méav even started documenting everything in Rohirric for our healers."

"Did you?" Éomer looked at Méav with honest interest.

"Yes, your grace," she replied. "All the materials I have brought with me are unfortunately in Westron and I don't want to impose on Lady Éowyn to spend all her days with us in the healing quarters, so I figured it would be easier for your healers if they had some notes and drawings in their own language to study," she explained.

"So you have come to accept that almost nobody here speaks Westron then?" he asked with a bemused smile and watched for her reaction.

To his surprise, he detected none of the anticipated embarrassment in it as Méav reiterated with an equally whimsical expression in her own eyes: "Indeed I have, your grace. On the contrary, I don't believe that any of your healers – Torhild especially – have ever come to accept that I speak nothing but Westron. They just keep chatting away at me and if it wasn't for your lady sister's kind translations, they might as well be saying the most awful things right in my face and I would just nod and smile back," she said with a chuckle.

"Yes, Torhild is a piece of work," Éowyn laughed.

"But she is a very kind soul, nevertheless," Méav added. "She has been teaching me the correct pronunciation of some Rohirric words."

"You started to learn our language?" Éomer raised his eyebrows.

"I'm afraid learn is a strong word – so far I can only name all the herbs in your storage cabinets," Méav replied. "But I would like to learn more, although I have to say I've never been very good at picking up foreign languages."

Éomer watched her silently for a while. His gut told him again she had just let on more than she wanted without even realizing it – he hadn't heard about many common people that would have the time to learn a foreign language. Then again, maybe life in Gondor was different, but still he was determined to find out what it was about this woman that he found so curious.

"Is it common for the people of Gondor to learn many foreign languages?" he asked innocently and watched as she froze for a split second, the amusement draining from her face. He felt a little sorry at disturbing her good mood, but didn't want to pass up a good opportunity to investigate.

"Well, not very common, I would say," she replied with hesitation in her voice. "However, a lot of Dol Amroth's healing knowledge comes from a Haradrim healer that has been taken prisoner after an unsuccessful raid on our shores. I had a chance to learn the Haradrim healing arts from her and tried to pick up a little of the language, but I'm afraid I failed miserably," she laughed light-heartedly, but her eyes were not smiling.

"I see," Éomer nodded, not breaking eye contact. Méav sipped at her wine nervously.

Éowyn seemed to sense the change in the mood and jumped in: "Méav, now that summer is here we could take the horses out for a ride, what do you think? We could show you a little bit of the surroundings of Edoras – the grass plains are truly beautiful this time of year."

Méav seemed relieved at the distraction. "That's very kind of you, my lady, but I'm afraid I don't know how to ride a horse," she replied, looking a little embarrassed.

Éomer remembered his promise from when they were on their way back to the Mark a few weeks back – he wanted to get her someone to teach her horse-riding, but in the general chaos that ensued after his return, it completely slipped his mind.

"Well, then it's time somebody taught you. You are, after all, in the land of the horselords." Éowyn said and turned to him. "Don't you agree, brother?"

"Yes, naturally," he replied. "We will get somebody to teach you."

Éomer decided then that he would allow himself one thing he felt he was slowly losing, namely to do something not because he had to, but simply because he wanted to – find out what exactly it was about this woman that piqued his interest.