A/N: First of all, thank you so much to all who have read this far and for all the kudos and comments, it means so much to me and I really appreciate every single one of you. This is a little passion project of mine, 8 years or so in the making, and although two small kids later, it's not as easy now to find the time for it, you guys motivate me a lot and help me shape this story in ways even I haven't anticipated!

The song I have used and slightly adapted in this chapter is a Swedish folk ballad called Herr Mannelig. I urge you to listen to the version by Garmarna to get a feeling of it; it's truly beautiful and has inspired me a lot while writing this story.

ooOOoo

"Come on, Lothíriel. It won't be that bad."

Amrothos had been standing outside her door for a good ten minutes, determined to lure her out of her chambers. He had been talking incessantly the entire time, unfazed by her efforts to ignore him. "I can keep going. You know I like hearing myself talk."

Lothíriel grunted and got up from her bed. She opened the door to find her brother leaning on the frame casually. "Fine. Come in."

He looked her up and down as he closed the door behind him. "You're ready," he observed, eyebrows raised.

"So?"

"You insisted that you didn't intend to go."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. "Of course I'll go. I know I have to. I just wish I didn't."

In fact, she had been ready for at least half an hour, but she tried to delay the inevitable for as long as she could. She threw a quick glance at herself in the mirror by the door; the elaborate funeral gown she was wearing was pitch black, with complicated embroidery and a long skirt that trailed behind her on the floor when she walked. It had been lent to her by Lady Erthil for the occasion, as her father insisted she dressed in Gondorian fashion, and while the gown itself was objectively beautiful and more than worthy of her newly found station, Lothíriel hated it with every fiber of her being. It took all of her willpower not to rip it off of her body in a fit of rage and fling it into the fireplace. The only part of her ensemble that she liked was the traditional long black lace veil that covered her head and torso, all the way down to her waist. If she had to face the world outside for the first time as her true self, she was glad to at least have this thin barrier between herself and whatever awaited her outside that door.

"We do have a few more minutes before we have to go," Amrothos said with a strange grin, which Lothíriel understood as soon as he had produced a small glass bottle from behind his back. "I thought you might need a little something for courage today."

"Where did you get this?" Lothíriel chuckled as she took it from Amrothos' hands and took a whiff of the familiar liquor. She wasn't sure whether it would be of any help, but she didn't hesitate and gulped down a mouthful larger than she had intended, prompting a coughing fit that almost made her spill the rest of the bottle on the floor. They called it 'fire-wine' up in the mountains of Dor-en-Ernil where it originated from, and it really couldn't have a more fitting name, Lothíriel had to admit with her entire throat burning as if it had been set ablaze.

"Careful," Amrothos took the bottle from her hands. He then took a big gulp himself, much more gracefully than his sister. "King Éomer has quite enjoyed fire-wine during our stay in Cormallen, so Erchirion decided to send a crateful of these to him as an apology for not making it to the funeral. I figured no one would notice if one small bottle went missing," he winked at her.

"And why didn't he come?" Lothíriel inquired. Elphir had been left behind in charge of Dol Amroth in Imrahil's absence, she knew, but she did wonder why father had brought only Amrothos with him to Rohan.

"His wife gave birth to a son on the morning we were about to depart," Amrothos said with a genuine happy smile. "He insisted he would not part from them for any reason."

"I didn't know he had a wife," Lothíriel said quietly, wondering with a small pang of regret what else she had missed while she had been estranged from her family.

"He married last year," Amrothos explained. "A love match, believe it or not."

"I'm happy to hear that," Lothíriel smiled a little too widely, in an attempt to quench the bitter taste of envy in her mouth. Amrothos detected her disingenuousness at once and raised his eyebrows skeptically, so she quickly added: "Truly, I am. I just wish father were so forthcoming with all his children."

"I would wish the same for you, Lothíriel, believe me," he placed a hand on her shoulder and looked deep into her eyes. Lothíriel was suddenly overcome by an unexpected gratitude amongst all the gloom of the past days; she had allowed herself to get lost in her misery and was blinded to the fact that along with everything she had lost, she had also regained something important – a brother who seemed to still bear love for her despite her transgressions.

She felt a lump in her throat that made speaking temporarily impossible, but Amrothos wasn't finished and continued: "If we lived in a perfect world, I would have wanted nothing more than to find you a handsome young man that you would love, but that's just not how things work sometimes," he shrugged apologetically. "Do you think father married mother out of love? Or Elphir? His wife is twice as big as him and has buck teeth like a donkey, for Valar's sake."

Lothíriel let out a chuckle in spite of herself. "Lady Éowyn loves Faramir," she reminded him.

"Then she's one of the lucky few. You should have seen her own brother's sour face when he was being courted by every single eligible lady in Minas Tirith," he grinned at the memory.

Lothíriel didn't acknowledge his last remark and looked away, off into the distance. Being reminded of the King's betrothal was the last thing she wanted to hear.

"You were a sullen sixteen-year-old then, Lothíriel. Do you still think father chose that man for you because he hates you? Even now?"

The question came out of nowhere; she had to ponder how to answer for a moment. In fact, she did think father had arranged the worst possible match for her simply to spite her. Or at least she used to think so. But now, Amrothos' words resonated inside her mind and made her question herself against her will. Yes, he did it because he hates me. It sounded silly when she imagined her response spoken out loud; weren't those really the words of a sulky sixteen-year-old always in opposition to her father?

As if sensing her doubts, Amrothos continued: "I will tell you why he did it. The Lord of Pelargir had one of the biggest armies in Gondor at that time, which father desperately needed to help him ward off the increasing number of Haradrim and corsair raids on our shores. He was so scorned after you have disappeared that he refused father any support. Our people have suffered a lot as a consequence, Lothíriel."

His words felt like a bucket of freezing cold water poured over her head. She looked up at him in shock, hoping to spot some sign that he might be jesting, but his kind eyes were as serious as she had ever seen them. Could she really have been so blind? She had been so miserable, so desperate to escape her gilded cage, she never even stopped to think that her actions could be so far-reaching. Lothíriel clutched Amrothos' arm and buried her fingers into the soft muscle, trying to regain balance after she just felt her entire world plunge into confusion.

Is this how King Éomer sees me now? A stupid child that has no regard for her people? The thought made her want to exit her chambers and face him again even less than before, if that was even possible.

"I had no idea," she forced the words out of her mouth at barely a whisper.

"I know, Lothíriel. Maybe we wouldn't have to be here if father had had enough respect for you to tell you the truth," Amrothos leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "Anyways, I didn't mean to ruin your mood more than it already is. I just want you to think on it, alright?"

She could only bring herself to nod dejectedly.

Knock knock.

"My lady, it is time to go," a man's voice called from behind her door.

"We're coming," Amrothos shouted back. "Come on, Lothíriel. A big gulp, and off we go."

Outside, the sky seemed to mourn the late King Théoden as much as his people, overcast and gloomy, with a light drizzle threatening heavier rain later in the day. Lothíriel and Amrothos were led through the crowd of common people already assembled around the late king's ornate coffin, perched up on a tall bier in the middle of the square, waiting to be carried down the hill and out of the gate to his final resting place. The guards almost had to push their way through the crowd, one in front of them, the other trailing close behind, as if they were leading a criminal to the gallows. Is this what people feel like moments before their head gets chopped off? Lothíriel wondered, wishing she could just disappear in the crowd before she had to face every single noble that had arrived to Edoras – and there were quite a few – as her new, disgraced, self.

Inevitably, they pushed their way towards the front, where the common people had left a respectful distance between themselves and the royal guests that would lead the funeral procession. Lothíriel almost didn't notice her father at first; her glance immediately searched the assembled group for one man, and one man only. She hadn't spoken to King Éomer anymore since their ill-fated meeting at the roadside inn. He had ridden ahead with a handful of others on the last stretch of their journey the morning after, presumably to oversee that all had been prepared for the large host soon to arrive to Edoras, or possibly to clear his head and avoid her; she couldn't quite tell. Lothíriel had spent the remainder of the day after their arrival holed up in the room she had been given, unwilling to show her face out in public unless strictly necessary, refusing to see even Amrothos, who had tried several times to knock on her door to console her. Lucky for her, her father had made no such attempts.

Lothíriel had expected anger, fury and coldness upon finally seeing the King again, but what she didn't expect was… indifference. There he was, towering above the noble group gathered solemnly in the drizzling rain, so tall he must have seen her approaching from far away, yet he didn't even cast her a passing glance. Lady Erthil was standing by his side, clutching his arm, which caused Lothíriel almost physical pain to behold. Even though it had been a few days since Lady Éowyn broke the news to her, the thought of the King marrying Lady Erthil of all people still made her want to cry like a baby. What in the world was he thinking? The pretentious and condescending Lady Erthil, who never missed a chance to harass the poor healers that were assigned to treat her, who always forbade them to look her directly in the eye and made them curtsy as deep as if she had already been a queen, he chose that woman?

Lothíriel appreciated the cover her dark veil provided even more now; she allowed a few persistent tears to drip down her cheeks freely. After all, this was a funeral, wasn't it? There was no other occasion where tears would be more appropriate. Although she didn't mourn the late king she had never met, she felt as though they were burying more than him today; Méav the healer, the life she had grown to love, and her happiness, would all be entombed together with King Théoden in his grave.

ooOOoo

Éomer grabbed the wine cup from the serving maid's hand and immediately took a big gulp, purposely ignoring the formality of waiting for everyone else to take their seats and drink together. He needed to calm his exhausted mind at once; he wished for nothing more than to close the door to his chambers behind him and recalibrate; however, he had no choice but to suffer through the wake first. There had been way too much going on around the long-awaited funeral of his uncle; too many people, too much to take care of; too many conflicting emotions tugging at his brain incessantly. While he was extremely grateful and touched by all the friends and allies he had found, many of whom gave him the great honor of accompanying Théoden-King to his final resting place, deep down in a corner of his heart, he wished they could have laid him to rest on their own; just him and Éowyn, the only two people left that the old King had been closest to in life. With all the turmoil around him, Éomer had barely managed to truly feel through the loss of his uncle. He had loved and respected him dearly, there was no doubt about that; but Théoden had been dead for close on five months now, and with everything that had happened in the meantime, it felt even longer. The memories of his beloved uncle had begun to grow dimmer, and Éomer struggled to recall exactly what his laughter had sounded like; his voice in his head had been intermingled with all the other voices he knew. The image of Théoden-King that he still carried in his mind's eye would inevitably become a blur soon enough, and that thought filled Éomer with more sadness than anything else.

And then, of course, there was the Princess.

Lothíriel. He chided himself yet again for even thinking of her real name. It fit her so well, much better than Méav. Its sound was sweet in his mind, so sweet it threatened to vanquish his anger every time he repeated it to himself, too many times to count by now. Éomer had been angry, to be sure; for the first few days of his journey back home, he had been infuriated beyond belief, snapping at his companions for no reason and waking up from disquieting dreams sweaty and with a persistent frown on his face. If he had been faced with her then, he was certain he would have done or said something he would have regretted forever. By the time they had run into each other for real, his anger had been reduced only to a fragment of its previous magnitude; it still pervaded his entire being, but it was slowly replaced by a feeling of betrayal and disappointment that felt almost worse.

Éomer, there are some things you may never understand about women in our position, his sister's words from the day before resonated in his mind. Éowyn had sought him out in his chambers shortly after their return to plead on Lothíriel's behalf, as soon as she had found out what had happened. He was eager to take a bath and bury his face in his pillows, but she was as steadfast as ever. She wanted agency over her own life, and she has probably never known a man that would give her that kind of freedom. Is it really so hard to imagine why she would be reluctant to share her secret with you so easily?

Éomer groaned silently and took another gulp of his wine. Éowyn's words made his resolve waver in spite of his better judgment; they were hacking away at the mental shield his anger provided him until he was left with only a small piece he kept desperately clutching onto. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her out there in public for fear of his resentment being rekindled and taking over him as it so often did.

You're lying, though, he heard his inner voice interject. You were afraid of the exact opposite.

Éomer let his eyes wander in her direction now, as she took up her seat next to her father and brother, ignoring the voice of his conscience and just letting his mind brood in the general gloom of the occasion. Chairs were added to both sides of the long table on the dais, to fit as many guests in the place of honor by his side as possible. The wake that followed Théoden-King's funeral inside the Golden Hall was much more glum than the usual Rohirric fashion; instead of the hall bursting with people, now only the noble guests were invited, tables laid out in a way that betrayed no intention of music or dancing.

As soon as all the guests had taken up their seats, the feast started with the usual round of formalities – a speech Éomer had deliberately kept to the bare minimum, and a toast hailing the beloved Théoden-King, after which a silent hubbub of conversation slowly started filling the air while the guests were waiting for the first course to be served. Éomer was not in the mood to strike up a conversation with anyone in particular, so he only sat observing his guests, when his attention was caught by Queen Arwen's words addressed to the princess seated opposite her.

"I understand that you have come to join us on the road out of Edoras, Princess Lothíriel. Have you been here long?"

Lothíriel opened her mouth to answer, but before she could make any sound, Imrahil jumped in and replied hastily: "She has been in Edoras for a few months, helping out the local healers, your grace."

"The healers?" the Queen raised her eyebrows.

"Yes, my daughter has always been interested in helping the wounded and the sick, your grace."

"How commendable," the Queen smiled.

"Indeed," Imrahil nodded, yet Éomer wondered whether he really shared the Queen's favorable opinion. His face was a stone bust, not betraying any particular emotion.

"So, how did you end up so far from Dol Amroth, my lady?" the Queen pressed on, obviously unaware of the scandals at the court of Gondor years in the past.

From the corner of his eye, Éomer saw Amrothos shift uncomfortably in his seat. Some other guests were watching the scene as intently as he was, their ears pricked up for the freshest court gossip heard firsthand; Lady Erthil was so fixated on Lothíriel that even Éomer felt a sudden urge to ask her to mind her own business.

"I was-"

"My daughter has been asked to come here by Lady Éowyn after the war," Imrahil cut her off, not quite answering the question.

Lothíriel looked about ready to explode. Éomer tried to convince himself he should be enjoying her discomfort, petty as it was, after all the lies she had fed him. Yet he couldn't help but feel her frustration; she was like a ventriloquist's puppet, her father's hand keeping her upright and mouth moving, allowing only his words to come out.

"Actually, I ran away from our castle years ago and found refuge in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith under a fake identity, and that's where I met Lady Éowyn," Lothíriel suddenly blurted out.

Total silence descended on the table. Someone choked on their wine and began coughing loudly. All the faces around them were a mixture of shock and discomfort, all but one; Imrahil was clutching his wine cup so tightly Éomer thought it would crumble under his fingers; his nostrils flaring.

"Please, do accept my apology for such bluntness, your grace," she spoke to Queen Arwen with a polite smile. "I was told I lie too much, so I'm trying to embrace my more honest side."

She shot Éomer a quick glance before she dropped her gaze on the table in front of her. Maybe you should have embraced your more honest side before all this mess, Éomer thought bitterly.

"Lothíriel!" Her father hissed by her side and eyed her with an expression so sharp it could kill.

"Honesty is a great virtue in the Riddermark, father. Don't you think we should pay tribute to our honored hosts and the memory of the great Théoden-King by following their tradition?"

Éomer had to suppress a sudden urge to laugh at her words. It was rich hearing her talk of honesty. Instead, he decided to interject to reduce the uncomfortable tension that hung in the air. "I'm glad to hear you have grown so fond of the values of the Rohirrim, my lady."

He had expected her to take offence at his words, but the look she gave him was so full of melancholy and dejectedness, it took him by surprise. He felt regret permeating his conscience at the snarky jape. You're supposed to be rightfully angry, remember? he had to remind himself, but his inner voice sounded unconvincing.

The great wooden doors of the hall sprung open and servants carrying platefuls of food trickled in one by one, filling the large tables to the brim with various types of meat, elaborately decorated side dishes and, of course, copious amounts of wine and ale. Once all the food was laid out, conversation slowly resumed around the long tables, the guests naturally splitting into smaller groups with those seated closest to them. Éomer flinched instinctively when Lady Erthil touched his arm and raised her cup to him.

"Cheers, my king," she said with a smile so sweet she could almost convince him it was genuine, but Éomer wasn't so easily fooled.

He clinked her cup and only nodded in response. His reluctance to interact with this woman had only increased in intensity ever since the unexpected revelation on his last evening in Minas Tirith; the frustration he had been feeling about his circumstances was becoming unbearable. Every time he saw her face, he was reminded yet again that this was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with; that if he had known the truth earlier, he would never have even given her a second thought. Éomer felt his anger wrap it's tight fingers around his stomach again, an emotion he had grown too familiar with. No, he wasn't mad that Lothíriel had lied to him about being Imrahil's daughter anymore. That wasn't really it. He was furious because she had had a chance to give him a future in which he could have been happy – they both could have been happy – but instead, she just left him wondering whether the feelings she confessed to bearing for him were all just a lie, too.

I fail to see how her lack of eagerness to become the Queen of the Mark is such a bad thing, Éowyn's earlier rebuttal of his arguments resounded in his mind. You may have found a rare woman that would marry you for you, not for your crown. Unlike your current betrothed.

"Princess Lothíriel," Lady Erthil spoke sweetly, pulling Éomer back to reality. "What was your impression of Rohan when you first came here? I am sure you have many insights I could benefit from."

Lothíriel seemed no happier to have to speak to her than he was. She reluctantly opened her mouth and said: "I was very disappointed that the famed Golden Hall wasn't made of gold at all, and I found the streets smelled a little too much like horse manure."

He heard Éowyn chuckle quietly on the other side of the table. Lady Erthil's mouth was slightly agape, her mind undoubtedly racing to formulate a reply that would bring the conversation back to its lighthearted formality. Éomer himself felt the corners of his mouth curve up in an involuntary grin; it crossed his mind that Lord Léofstan would be impressed to hear her honest words, had she uttered them on her first night in the Mark at that very table.

"You are confusing honesty and rudeness, daughter," Imrahil scolded her through clenched teeth, eyes cold with fury. Lothíriel's cheeks turned as red as if they were burning up and she shot an uncertain look at her father. Éomer started feeling irritation bubbling up in his belly; Imrahil had a right to be furious, to be sure, but he didn't like the stern way he spoke to her.

"I apologize if my words have come across as rude, Lady Erthil. What I meant to say is that if you allow yourself to look beyond the hasty first impressions, you will easily fall in love with this country. I know I did," she finished with a sad smile.

"Oh, I feel like I'm already in love with it," Lady Erthil exclaimed excitedly, turning her doe-eyed gaze at Éomer and grabbing him by the hand. He refused to close his own fingers around hers and made no movement, fighting the urge to pull back his hand entirely.

"Please excuse me," Lothíriel suddenly mumbled under her breath and stood up quickly, almost knocking over her chair. Before she managed to get any further, her father grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her. "Sit back down. Right now."

She stared at him in disbelief. "I only need to get some fresh air. Please," she almost begged.

"You can go get fresh air when the feast is over." Imrahil's tone betrayed no hint of backing down, and so she took up her seat again, all eyes pinned on her as if she were some freaky circus act.

Éomer's irritation increased in intensity when he saw the crude way the Prince of Dol Amroth had grabbed his daughter's hand. You have no right to touch her like that, he almost shouted out, his heart racing inside his chest.

The bard who had seated herself quietly in the corner of the room in the meantime and began to strike the strings of her lute came like a salvation from the heavens, diverting the attention of all the guests to the beautiful melodies that served as a small respite from the general gloominess of the occasion. Éomer was familiar with the ballad she had begun to sing, and wondered whether it was some strange stroke of fate that made her choose that song in particular.

"Early one morning before the sun did rise

And the birds sang their sweet song

The mountain troll proposed to the fair squire

She had a false deceitful tongue

My lord, my lord won't you marry me

For that I'll gladly give you all

You may answer only yes or no

Will you do so or not?

To you I will give the twelve great steeds

That graze in a shady grove

Never has a saddle been mounted on their backs

Nor had a bit been placed in their mouths…"

As the bard continued to sing of the gilded swords, fine castles and other gifts the troll wanted to offer the young squire, Éomer was suddenly overcome by a strong feeling that the song must have been written about them; its unknown author, long gone by now, must have been struck by a vision of Lothíriel and Éomer in the distant future when he put together the sweet melody.

"Gifts such as these I would gladly receive

If you were a true young maiden

But I know you are the worst mountain troll

with a false heart and a lying tongue

The mountain troll ran out the door

She wailed and she shrieked so loudly

'Had I gotten that handsome squire

From my torment I would be free now'

My lord, my lord won't you marry me

For that I'll gladly give you all

You may answer only yes or no

Will you do so or not?"

Soft clapping echoed around the table. Éomer noticed the tears that streamed down Lothíriel's cheeks for the first time then; they had washed away the last remnants of his anger and made his heart ache for the princess. He wondered whether the song had resonated with her as much as it did with him. She had been perceived as a liar and deceiver by many, just like that mountain troll; he himself had been guilty of such thoughts. But now he saw her true self – a young woman desperately trying to escape her torment, plunged back into a life she had despised, and rejected by the fair squire that could have saved her all along.

It all boils down to one thing, Éomer. Do you love her or not? Nothing else matters, not really. Éowyn's words echoed in his mind one final time, and though he had been unable to answer her then, now, his mind was finally clear.

I do. I love her.

"That was beautiful," Lady Erthil proclaimed empathetically with a hand over her heart as if she was deeply moved by the song, interrupting Éomer's thoughts yet again, much to his chagrin. "Is everything alright, Princess Lothíriel?"

"I just got a little carried away. I apologize," Lothíriel mumbled, wiping her cheeks, eyes fixated on the table in front of her.

"It seems to be a very sad song. What is it about?"

She seemed to ponder for a second to find the right words. "Unrequited love, I think."

The loaded glance she shot him in that exact moment confirmed all of his previous musings. Éomer was overcome by a strong yearning to jump up and blurt out everything that was weighing on his heart. Instead, he tried to at least convey the turmoil of emotions he was feeling in his eyes as he stared back at her, but he was doubtful whether his intentions were understood.

"I would like to take my leave now," she spoke up again, dropping his gaze and moving her eyes in the direction of her father.

"Absolutely not."

"Father-" Prince Amrothos started to protest, but Imrahil cast him an icy stare and cut him off: "She will stay."

"I will not!" Lothíriel blurted out loudly, cheeks burning up again.

"Alright, that's enough," Éomer stood up before Imrahil had a chance to respond, his voice resonating in the quiet hall like thunder. "The Princess may take her leave if she so wishes. We are not in the habit of keeping guests here against their will."

Imrahil stared at him warily, surprise evident on his features. Éomer realized he must have come off as quite intimidating, towering over the table like that, but he was too riled up to care. Éowyn stood up from her seat and walked over to Lothíriel's side. "My lord, it has been a hard day for us all. I'm sure the princess only needs a bit of rest to feel better. Please allow me to accompany her to her chambers."

Imrahil eyed them suspiciously for a moment, undoubtedly aware that the tension at the table had reached its peak. Many guests tried to look away to maintain some remnants of court decorum, while others stared at the scene that was unfolding intently, eager to see what would happen next.

"Fine," he relented at last.

"Thank you, my lord," Éowyn smiled politely and shot a loaded glance at Éomer that told him to get a hold of himself and sit down, which he reluctantly did.

He watched as Lothíriel grabbed Éowyn's arm and they both shuffled out of the hall in silence. He wished in that moment that the author of the ballad had still been around; he would have told him that he needs to rewrite it, that the fair squire needs to save the poor mountain troll. Even if the odds were against him, he had to find a way to do it. Maybe someone would write that kind of song about Éomer of Rohan and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth someday, he thought.