Éomer stopped his horse on top of the hill to watch the panorama of the White City that opened up in front of them a few short moments ago. There he was again, after months, to carry his uncles remains back to his homeland and lay him to rest next to his forefathers. The memories of the battle fought on the plains that stretched out before the Rohirric party came flooding back, and yet it seemed to him as if it all happened decades ago, his life now so different from what it was before.
The place was almost unrecognizable to him – the plains had overgrown with grass and flowers again during the warm spring and summer days, and it seemed hard to believe that a few short months ago a historic battle had been fought on that very ground. He felt a strange mix of emotions as he looked at the sight in front of him; sadness for those he had lost during the war, but also happiness for the new friendships that he had formed. Whatever hardships he was facing now, whatever may come in the future – looking at the Pelennor fields, he knew the worst was already behind them, the ever-watchful evil no longer lingering over their lives.
With these thoughts in mind, he made his way towards the walls of the White City, through the gate and then upwards, navigating the narrow winding streets, with the rest of the Rohirric party following close behind him. At last, they reached the upper level of the city, dismounted their horses and were led to the wide square in the middle of the Citadel, where King Elessar had already been waiting for them with his wife and many Gondorian nobles Éomer recognized from the last time he was in the city.
As soon as Elessar saw them coming, he approached Éomer with a warm smile on his face and embraced him tightly.
"Éomer-King, my friend! Welcome back to Minas Tirith," he greeted him warmly.
"It's good to see you again, Elessar," Éomer replied, genuinely happy to see so many of the men he fought beside in battle.
"You must be terribly exhausted after the journey," Elessar said and motioned some servants that were standing nearby to come closer. "These men will show you to your quarters. Get a good rest, my friend – we will feast together again tonight!"
Elessar wasn't exaggerating in the least – that night, Merethrond was full to the brim with people dancing, chatting, singing and eating in all corners of the great hall. Ale flowed freely from huge casks scattered here and there, the tables seemingly at breaking point from the weight of the food laid on them. Elessar certainly spared no expense to honor his guests, Éomer thought with an amused smile on his face. They didn't have much time to catch up before the feast started, and now, in the middle of all these people, it was almost impossible to discuss anything other than frivolities. That might actually not be such a bad thing, Éomer realized – he had spent the past few months in the Mark dealing with nothing but serious matters, rarely having the time to simply relax and enjoy himself. Now was as good a time as any to finally do just that and forget matters of state for a brief moment.
However, his simple wish to drink, laugh and chat with old friends was not meant to be – he found out very soon that word had spread throughout the Gondorian court about him being an eligible King who had yet to find a queen for his country. Noble ladies seemed to circle around him like a swarm of leeches, a new one latching onto him as soon as he had managed to get rid of the last. But no matter how pretty the ladies might have been, there was only one Gondorian woman currently occupying his thoughts.
During their journey south, Éomer had had plenty of time to ponder the last moments he had spent with Méav before he had to depart for Gondor. He felt heat rise up in his body whenever he remembered her sweet lips on his; whenever he remembered the desire they both gave into that night. Up until that point, he was unsure whether his advances were wanted, or whether she just felt compelled to submit to his whims due to his position as king. She had always been so secretive and reserved before, he was taken by surprise at the straightforward way she spoke to him in that hallway. Éomer had finally been able to break through her shell; to see the real her, or so it felt to him, and it made him want her even more. For a moment, after what felt like ages, he allowed himself to forget he was a king; to do what made him happy.
It made you happy, but what of her? Éomer heard the incessant voice of his conscience resonate in his mind yet again. You should have let her leave like she was about to do, it would have been better that way. He had come to that conclusion soon after they had departed on their journey and he had had hours and hours to ruminate over everything while Firefoot carried him forward. The realization was coming back to him repeatedly to sour his mood, despite his best efforts to ignore it; he hated to be constantly reminded of his weakness. An involuntary groan of frustration escaped his throat.
"Is everything alright, your grace?"
He was pulled back to reality suddenly and looked at the woman in front of him. He realized she must have been chatting away all this time, with him barely registering one word of what she was saying.
He cleared his throat and quickly said: "My apologies, Lady-" Aeneth? Caranwen? He tried really hard, but couldn't recall her name, after what seemed like the hundredth time he had been introduced to someone that day.
"Lady Erthil," she finished for him, irritation audible in her voice.
"My apologies, Lady Erthil," he repeated, embarrassed.
"I was asking whether you enjoyed your journey to Minas Tirith, your grace," she said sweetly, all irritation suddenly disappearing from her voice.
She seemed an identical copy of all the other ladies Éomer had met that day – all sweet, pretty and seemingly shy, pretending to be interested in how his journey went, whether he was enjoying the summertime, a number of things about the Mark and its culture, or a combination of all of the above. Éomer felt as if he was part of a theater play, the lines perfectly rehearsed and delivered, smiles as lovely as smiles can be, and equally fake. His infatuation for Méav aside, an annoying feeling crept in his mind: there was more than one reason he couldn't imagine taking any of these women back to the Mark as his queen. He mentally cursed his advisors who were harassing him every single day of their trip to finally choose one of them, anyone, love and happiness be damned. And why can't I be happy? King Elessar married the woman he loves. But of course, King Elessar loved a highborn Elf, not quite a commoner, Éomer had to remind himself.
"The journey was quite pleasurable," he gave a reply repeated a thousand times in the course of the evening, and before Lady Erthil could continue the tedious conversation, he quickly added: "If you'll excuse me, my lady, I see King Elessar is calling me to him."
This of course wasn't true, but nevertheless it gave Éomer the opportunity to quickly bow in lieu of a goodbye and make his way towards his old friend before Lady Erthil could protest.
He slid down on the chair next to Elessar with a grunt and grabbed a mug full of ale that was offered to him by a servant. The Gondorian King looked at him with a gleeful expression on his face. "I take it you are not enjoying the attention of our lovely noble ladies?" he asked jokingly.
"I'm afraid I am not," Éomer replied with a sigh. "They all seem to be quite desperate to land the crown of the Riddermark on their heads."
"I'm sure they are," Elessar laughed. "Well, there is no rush to choose, my friend."
"Unfortunately, my advisors see it differently," Éomer said bitterly. "They insist I get a nice Gondorian wife to strengthen the bonds between our countries and to give me an heir, the sooner the better."
"And you are reluctant?"
"Well, don't get me wrong - I understand their standpoint, but…"
"You have already found someone close to your heart," King Elessar said, more a statement than a question.
Éomer looked up at his friend in surprise. He considered himself a good reader of people, yet this man far surpassed him. He pondered his words for a moment before he decided there was no use lying to him – he had already guessed the truth anyways. "I have."
"And I take it this woman doesn't fulfill your advisors' requirements?"
"No," he replied curtly and took a sip of his ale, not eager to continue a conversation that was bound to turn his bad humor even worse.
King Elessar looked at him understandingly. Before they could resume the subject, another man joined them at the main table – a man Éomer instantly recognized as his comrade-in-arms Amrothos, the youngest son of Prince Imrahil. "With such miserable faces, you two can only be talking about women, my lords," the young man proclaimed with a wide smile and bowed his head. "It's good to see you again, Éomer-King."
"The pleasure is all mine, Amrothos," Éomer reiterated with a smile and raised his mug towards him.
"You have guessed right, Amrothos," Elessar jumped in. "We were just talking about how Éomer is growing tired of the attentions of our Gondorian ladies."
"They seem to me a more formidable foe than any orc or warg I have ever fought," Éomer added jokingly.
"The reason you're growing tired, my friend, is only because you haven't met any women from Dol Amroth yet," Amrothos proclaimed with a confident smirk. "I am quite sure they are the most stunning women in all of Gondor."
"Actually, as a matter of fact I have – we have borrowed a healer from King Elessar to teach us of your healing arts. She hails from Dol Amroth," Éomer said.
"Did you now?" Amrothos raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And? Is she as stunning as I said?" he added with a smirk. You have no idea, my friend, Éomer thought bitterly. Instead of replying he only awarded the young Prince with a knowing smile.
"Unlike you, Éomer-King, tonight I will certainly enjoy some more of our lovely southern ladies, before I sadly have to part from them," Amrothos feigned a sad sigh which was immediately replaced by a wide grin. He had been invited to the Mark along with many other nobles to attend King Théoden's upcoming funeral, and would be absent from the city for several weeks.
"I hope you won't be too miserable in the Mark," Éomer laughed.
"Oh, I'm sure the Rohirric ladies will be more than a worthy substitute. And if not, you still have that healer from Dol Amroth you mentioned, right?" he winked at Éomer jokingly.
Even though Éomer knew the young Prince was in a joking mood, he had also heard of his reputation with the ladies and couldn't help but feel a subconscious pang of jealousy at the thought of him being even mildly interested in Méav. You don't have a right to be jealous, you fool.
Once again, he found himself longing for the days when he was still Third Marshal of the Mark, before the war, or even before Saruman began to take control of his uncle through the influence of Gríma Wormtongue. His position had still been a high one in the hierarchy of the Mark, but looking back now, he remembered how free he used to be, knowing he would never have to bear the burden of reigning a country, unlike his cousin Théodred. How foolish I was, Éomer thought bitterly.
He let his gaze wander around the large room, watching the faces of the people that passed by the large table he occupied together with King Elessar. As soon as he looked up, he noticed at least a dozen ladies try and capture his gaze, smiling politely whenever they did, but he detected no genuineness in any of the faces he saw – their sweet smiles weren't aimed at him, but rather at his crown, which seemed to cast a lingering shadow over his head even though he wasn't actually wearing it.
ooOOoo
Éomer's time spent in Minas Tirith had been flying by at an alarming rate, as if the universe held a grudge against him and wanted to punish him by making the pleasurable days feel like mere hours, where his long, paperwork-filled days back home trudged on and seemed to never end. The reason for his visit was a somber one, to be sure, yet he still enjoyed his time spent with his friends of old, barely having time to stop and rest between meetings, spear-hunting wild boar in the nearby woods, and all the various invitations for breakfast, lunch and supper to all manner of noble houses in the city.
For all the enjoyment of his trip, however, it did lack one thing; he wished Méav could have been there with him. Éomer had never been prone to daydreaming, but he had caught himself many times since his arrival to the White City fantasizing about what it would be like if she was there; dancing and drinking wine with him, cheering him on as he rode through the gates after a successful hunt, tangled up in his bed sheets to finish off yet another carefree summer day.
Well, that fantasy is definitely over now, Éomer thought bitterly and rubbed the crease between his eyebrows to make himself return back to reality, no matter how much he wished he could lose himself in his daydream forever. The deed he had been dreading for weeks was finally done; he was a man betrothed now, to his councilor's unending joy. The affair happened fairly quickly – it had of course been all arranged in advance, so there was no need for much talking and a romantic confession was out of the question. Lady Erthil had been given his late mother's emerald ring, a large parchment outlining the details of the betrothal and her dowry was signed and sealed, followed by an awkward dinner at his soon-to-be in-laws. His newly betrothed seemed ecstatic, which mightily irritated him, so much so he had half a mind to tell her to drop the charade. Instead, he just smiled politely and counted every minute of the uncomfortable affair until it was finally over. Éomer couldn't shake a bitter feeling permeating his body whenever Lady Erthil touched his arm or gave him a peck on the cheek, as if he was an unfaithful cheater, betraying the only woman he actually cared for.
You are doing it for the Riddermark, he had to remind himself yet again, noting that the voice in his head sounded even less convincing than before. Lady Erthil's dowry did include a surprising amount of money and gold, things his ravaged homeland desperately needed to recover and survive the coming winter. At least this way, you can calculate the exact price of your happiness, Éomer.
And so, he had spent his last remaining days in Minas Tirith with such gloomy thoughts following his every step. At last, their final evening arrived, and this time, Éomer was grateful to find out that no grandiose feast was planned for the occasion. He was in no mood for music, dancing, and forced polite conversations. This time, the farewell dinner was attended by no more than forty guests, and dancing was thankfully not required – a small band played soft melodies to accompany their meal, and although he could swear he detected loaded glances from Lady Erthil motioning him towards the music, he chose to ignore her.
As soon as the meal was finished, he decided to excuse himself to catch some air outside on the wide terrace, Amrothos tagging along with their unfinished jugs of ale in his hands. The air was actually so much fresher out there, and Éomer enjoyed the breeze as a welcome respite from the unforgiving August heat.
"I must congratulate you on your betrothal, your grace," he proclaimed grandiosely. "Lady Erthil is… truly something."
"Are those the best words you could find to describe her?" Éomer chuckled; he had become quite fond of the silly banter the young prince of Dol Amroth seemed to have mastered.
"I have been raised to heed diplomacy when speaking with a king," Amrothos replied, grinning from ear to ear. "I mean… at least she is pretty," he shrugged.
"I prefer the healer from Dol Amroth," Eomer winked at him, taking a sip from the remainder of his ale. He felt a strange thrill at the fact that he had just revealed the unspeakable truth out loud, albeit masquerading as a jape alluding to one of their previous lighthearted conversations.
"So, you do agree women from Dol Amroth are the most stunning after all?" the young prince raised his eyebrows in pretend surprise.
"It's a pity Dol Amroth doesn't have a princess or a lady I could have chosen."
Amrothos, who was previously in very jovial spirits, suddenly looked visibly uncomfortable. At first, Éomer couldn't quite place a finger on it, but in a second the dots connected in his mind as he recalled the story he had heard who knows where, of a princess who had disappeared. "A pity, indeed," Amrothos replied warily.
"I could swear I have heard someone mention a princess from Dol Amroth before," Éomer wondered out loud, his interest piqued.
"My father would throw me off the terrace if he heard me discuss this out in the open," Amrothos almost whispered, nervously looking around for signs of his father.
Imrahil was nowhere to be seen though, probably still comfortably seated at the large table inside the hall. To Éomer's surprise, he found himself wondering what had happened to the mysterious princess with great interest. Normally he wasn't prone to gossip, far from it, but he couldn't suppress a strange gut feeling that had settled deep in his stomach. "So what happened?"
"You will not let me off the hook so easily, huh?"
"Nope," Éomer smirked.
"I never knew you were such a gossip," Amrothos sighed and took a gulp of his ale. "There isn't much to tell, really. Why are you even interested?"
Éomer pondered the question. As a warrior and leader, he had learned to trust his gut feeling no matter what. He still clearly remembered the instances when he had tried to suppress it, ignore it, and it never bode well for him in the end. Méav was always so reluctant to talk of her home, he felt as though there must be something there that he should know about. Dol Amroth and its leader, Prince Imrahil, had become an invaluable ally to the Mark not only during the battles themselves, but also in his post-war efforts to rebuild his burnt and plundered homeland. Imrahil has spared no expense in supplying the Mark with all manner of materials, grain, and manpower, to the point that Éomer was sure the Prince was aiming to strengthen his position by supplying him with a queen to boot. But no proposal ever came, and he only ever heard his friend talk of his three sons, and so he figured Imrahil had no daughters. However, ally or no, Éomer didn't like not being told the truth, and he figured the youngest of Imrahil's sons was the ideal target to do a little investigating.
"Well, I do find it interesting that your father never mentions any daughters, and yet a lot of people seem to remember there was a princess. Although, as per Gondorian tradition, everyone politely ignores that fact," he explained.
"Yes, it would be the polite thing to do, Éomer-King," Amrothos groaned and finished his jug of ale in one big gulp. "Where are all the serving maids? I need another drink."
"Just tell me the truth, Amrothos. You know it will stay with me," he looked at him expectantly.
"Fine, fine!" Amrothos threw his hands in the air frustratedly but immediately lowered his voice again. "Princess Lothíriel is her name. Or was, I don't know if she's still alive or not. Without divulging too many inappropriate details, we had very complicated relationships in our household. Lothíriel never saw eye to eye with father and from what I understand, she wasn't particularly happy with her life in our castle." Éomer could tell Amrothos was choosing his words very carefully. Not wanting to disrupt his forthcoming mood, he let him continue without interrupting, although he already had a hundred questions. "So one day she was just gone, and we haven't heard from her since. It's been over three years now I think. Boring end to an even more boring story," Amrothos finished by rolling his eyes theatrically. He was trying to downplay the severity of the events, Éomer knew.
"So she left of her own volition? Couldn't she have been abducted?"
"There was never any ransom demanded, and we looked far and wide, even offered rewards, with no success," he shrugged.
"How could she have just disappeared without anyone noticing?"
"There are ways to leave our castle unnoticed, if you know how," Amrothos admitted. "I remember Lothíriel liked to sneak all the way down to the hidden lagoons below our castle. It wouldn't be a difficult feat to make her escape from there. But who knows," she shrugged.
"So she was just bored with her life as a princess and decided to leave? That's… quite incredible," Éomer shook his head in disbelief.
"Well, it wasn't just that. She was about to be betrothed to a… rather disagreeable man. I think that was the straw that broke the camel's back," Amrothos admitted.
"What a strange expression."
"It's Haradric. I suppose you'd say 'the last blade of grass that broke the horse's back'?"
Éomer chuckled at the silly notion. Seeing a serving maid approaching with several full jugs in her hands, he left Amrothos a little breathing room to exchange his empty cup for a new one and waited for her to retreat a distance from them. While waiting, he turned his eyes towards the White City spread out below him, gleaming in the moonlight as if it was covered by fresh snow, in spite of the season. He was reminded of his moonlit encounter with Méav on one of the terraces, back when he still despised her guts, and then a very sudden and unexpected memory flashed before his mind's eye, like a bolt of lightning piercing the dark sky moments before a storm.
Méav, sitting in his study by the fireplace, with the sweet wine of Dol Amroth in her hands. I also had more personal reasons, involving a rather disagreeable marriage proposal back home. Is that what she said back then? He was surprised he even remembered that conversation. Now he recalled why; he had had a sneaking suspicion she had been hiding something, she looked so uncomfortable. Just a weird coincidence, he quickly dismissed the thought. Disagreeable marriage proposals were a dime a dozen, although he imagined most maidens stayed and suffered rather than upend their lives to get away.
Amrothos interrupted his thoughts when he handed him a new jug of ale, overfilled to the point that some of the extra foam spilled out over his fingers when he grabbed it.
"Tell me more about her."
"There's not much more than that," the prince shrugged.
"Oh come on, Amrothos!" Éomer grunted and slapped his companion on the shoulder. Getting a Gondorian to open up about anything seemed a feat more difficult than taming a wild stallion. "I have a sister. And I am sad enough letting her go to marry a man she loves, however happy the occasion is. I cannot imagine she would just disappear from my life like that, not knowing whether she's alive or dead this whole time."
The young prince's ever present daring smirk slowly morphed into a sad smile, and he appeared to be lost in thought as he gazed down into the dark valley beyond the city gates. He sighed before he spoke, not meeting Éomer's eyes. "I loved Lothíriel, don't get me wrong. I think I still do. I like to think she is a lot happier now, maybe married to some handsome sailor with a little toddler trailing behind her at the beach, who knows," he chuckled. "Or maybe she took to healing people again, I remember that used to be a great passion of hers."
"Healing people?"
"Yes, it was her little act of rebellion against father I suppose. I actually almost forgot about it, but now I remember - years ago we took in a Haradrim healer woman rescued from a sunken ship in the bay. Lothíriel used to sneak into our healing houses and spent hours observing her, whenever she could get away with it." Suddenly, Amrothos burst out in laughter. "Father once caught her practicing some Haradric words in front of a mirror. He almost had a stroke," he chuckled.
Another memory like a lightning strike deep in Éomer's mind. This time it was accompanied by a powerful fist that enveloped its fingers around his stomach, squeezing it like a ripe orange.
Méav, sitting with him and Éowyn in Meduseld, pretty in a blue gown, her face glowing in the firelight. A lot of Dol Amroth's healing knowledge comes from a Haradrim healer that has been taken prisoner …. I had a chance to learn the Haradrim healing arts from her and tried to pick up a little of the language. Éomer was stunned at the distinctness of the memory, stored deep within the corners of his mind, yet now so vivid as though he was sitting back in Meduseld again, listening to her talking of her homeland.
It can't be, I must be reading too much into it, Éomer thought in horror. The fingers around his stomach dug even deeper, reminding him to trust his gut feeling as he knew he should, despite his mind's protests that this was too ridiculous a notion to even ponder. Yet the floodgates in his memory had been opened and he started remembering things locked deep inside. Things he recalled he was sure bore some sort of significance, but he could never quite figure out why at that moment. Now they fell into place like the pieces of a mosaic, forming a picture he couldn't see before.
Méav in Meduseld on her first night in the Mark, interrogated by Lord Léofstan, the look of horror on her face when he suggested she wasn't a mere commoner.
Méav, clutching the grass beneath her fingers on that warm day out by the pond, looking around nervously when the conversation shifted to the runaway Princess of Dol Amroth.
Méav, beautiful on the warm night of Midsummer's Eve, resisting his clumsy drunken attempts to lure the truth, any truth, out of her. It is mostly just the sea and the wine that I think fondly of, your grace.
No, not Méav. Lothíriel.
Éomer could feel heat rising in his cheeks and he had to grip the railing in front of him for support; the feeling of astonishment slowly being replaced by another, familiar emotion. His anger spread through his veins like poison; he was overwhelmed by an urge to punch or kick something, to scream his lungs out into the dark void below. Instead, he just gripped the metal railing even tighter and imagined crushing it beneath his fingers.
"Is everything alright, my friend?" Amrothos eyed him with concern. "Maybe you should take a break from the ale," he suggested, motioning to the unfinished jug Éomer had dropped on the ground without even realizing it. There were droplets of foam strewn all over his boots, but he didn't give a single shit. Instead, he grabbed Amrothos by the shoulders and asked, more harshly than he intended:
"What did your sister look like?"
"Ehm, as I said, she really is not available for marriage, so why…"
"Just answer the damn question!"
The young prince eyed him in shock for a moment before he reluctantly replied: "I don't know; long dark hair, light green eyes, slender and young, she would have turned twenty this March. Do you need any more specifics?" he asked with annoyance. "Just don't punch me, please."
Éomer let go of him instantly, a little embarrassed to have intimidated him so. He was letting his anger out on the wrong person.
"I'm sorry, my friend. You're right, I think I've had enough to drink tonight," he tried to smile apologetically.
In reality, his mind couldn't be any clearer, and the finished mosaic of the young woman he saw in his mind's eye was looming over him like a bad omen. Dark of hair, with light green eyes, slender, with soft hands. The healer. The princess. Méav. Lothíriel.
Fuck.