Lord of the Rings 1. The Fruits of Victory

Important Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any works by J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema.

I just admire them and try to live by their values. (The good values. Not the covetous weird values, gollum! Gollum, sez I!))

This story is about the courtship and marriage of Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, Lord of Dol Amroth. She marries Éomer in the last year of the Third Age, two years after the events described in Return of the King.

My sincere thanks to those of you who have read or indeed reviewed my other story 'Memories of Lorien'.

Also thanks to 'Blue Iris' for giving me some much needed background info on Eomer's grandparents…

Chapter 1 – The Fruits of Victory

It was the day of the King's wedding.

The graceful presence of Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of her people, had filled the hearts of all present with a serenity most welcome after the darkness and fear wrought by the Dark Lord and his war. To them she was the embodiment of the grace and beauty they had been fighting to preserve. Aragorn, the new King of Gondor, took his bride's hand with undisguised joy.

'My people,' he intoned, ' I present to you my beloved bride, your Queen, Arwen Undómiel daughter of Elrond!'

The crowd erupted into applause, the calm beauty of Arwen had won everyone over days ago. Only the Lord Elrond Halfelven allowed any sign of sorrow to cross his features. But everyone knew that his joy was marred with foreknowledge of a parting that would endure beyond the ending of time. For Arwen, his most beloved daughter, had forsaken the immortal life of her kind to join with Aragorn and unite again a bloodline that had been sundered since Elrond's brother, Elros, had made the choice to be of the race of Men and so became the first King of Númenor. Aragorn, as a descendant of that noble line in which ran the blood of Lúthien Tinúviel, was indeed a worthy husband for Arwen. And all knew it that saw them thus together. Indeed it seemed that in their union there was a light of such belonging and blessedness that could never be equalled elsewhere.

Almost everyone thought so.

_Almost_ everyone.

* * *

Lothíriel fidgeted furiously. She wanted to look away from the happy couple, but against her will her gaze was drawn inexorably back to the King. How handsome he looked! Such a portrait of nobility as was told of in the Elder Days. Days long gone, but not forgotten by those who lived in the shadow of the memories of the West and all it had once meant.

_He should have been mine!_ she thought heatedly, plucking at the lace shawl around her slim shoulders. She tore her gaze away yet again only to have in dragged back as Aragorn held aloft his bride's slender white hand. The crowd applauded once more.

_Could she not have found a husband amongst her own haughty people?_ thought Lothíriel resentfully.

She pushed to the back of her mind the truth that her own family claimed descent from the Eldar of the distant past. It was a fact borne out in the physical characteristics of many people now living in Belfalas, uncommonly tall as they were with sea-grey eyes and the men were generally beardless, a true sign of elven heritage. It was a fact her father never let her forget and now she bitterly resented him for it. 'You must remember that your lineage is that of the Eldar and the Edain,' he never tired of telling her, 'and you will make a marriage that will reflect and honour that fact.'

When Prince Imrahil returned victorious from the Pelennor Fields, Lothíriel had been relieved beyond measure. The growing darkness had terrified the stoutest of hearts and many thought the end of their world was nigh. The way her father had held her and kissed her forehead before he left had frightened Lothíriel and the tales filtering back from the Last Battle had done nothing to alleviate that fear. When he told her of the miraculous return, unlooked and un-hoped for, of Isildur's Heir, Lothíriel's heart had leaped. Surely this was the man foretold to be her own. Surely he was the only one it was fitting for her to wed!

Prince Imrahil spoke on telling her of the final victory and the ending of the power of the Dark Lord but Lothíriel was impatient for details of her future husband. When they came, she had run to her chamber to be alone and quell the fury that rose within her. Aragorn was already betrothed! He would marry as soon as his bride arrived from Imladris. She would not even have the chance of charming him!

Her future lay in ruins…unless…unless she wed her cousin the Steward of Gondor! It had not been a thought she had entertained previously, but needs must! Faramir, the younger son of Denethor, the thought of him had kept her afloat during the ghastly visit to Minas Tirith for the royal wedding. Denethor's line was noble and the vigour of Númenor ran strongly in his family. It would be an honourable match if not the glorious one she had hoped for and Lothíriel breathed easier when she thought of it.

Grateful for the idea of Faramir, Lothíriel cast her gaze about, searching for him in the crowd. At last she spied him, not far off, he was talking to someone and smiling.

'Who is _that_?' Lothíriel asked sharply of her father.

'Who is who, my dear?'

'That long-haired savage-looking woman fawning over the Steward,' answered Lothíriel impatiently, smoothing back her own sleek dark hair, which today she wore in a modest knot at the nape of her neck.

She did not see her father turn white or notice the expression of horror on his face.

A tall armoured man in front of them stirred at her words and turned a curious eye on her but Lothíriel ignored him. Come to think of it, _he_ looked rather savage too with his red gold hair and darker beard. His armour was all of red and copper and bore the device of a white horse. She started as he opened his mouth and addressed her. She turned to her father for aid, but his face was in his hands in an agony of embarrassment.

'Allow me to enlighten you,' said the stranger, courteously enough, 'that is Éowyn, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. She stood alone against the mighty Witch King of Angmar and defeated him. She is a lady of great courage and I am proud to call her my sister! Oh, and she does _not_ fawn…'

Lothíriel felt the blood rush to her face as the stranger stopped speaking and turned back to the spectacle.

Her father spoke up with a hint of wry amusement in his eyes, 'Éomer! Heed not the words of a young and foolish girl. Let them not make enemies where once there were the fastest of friends!' he cried in mock dramatic tones.

Éomer, for he it was that had spoken, turned then and took Imrahil's outstretched hand, grinning widely.

'Well met, Prince Imrahil! I had heard the tales of the ladies of Belfalas that my grandmother, the Lady Morwen, had to tell,' Éomer said genially, casting a mischievous look at the stricken Lothíriel 'but in truth the sweetness of their words was esteemed too highly!' He smiled at Lothíriel and she felt a surge of angry shame that choked her voice. In fact she was silently vowing never to open her lips again. Those disconcerting green eyes bored into hers and Lothíriel wished she had the power of invisibility.

As a result of her shock she was slow to realise the meaning of what Éomer had just said. Lothíriel winced anew as his words sank in through the fog of embarrassment. Morwen…a lady of Belfalas…could he mean Morwen of _Lossernach_?

Lothíriel quailed internally. She knew now she had erred even more terribly than she had first thought. To insult a man's sister was bad enough, but now made even worse when they were distant cousins of hers!

Lothíriel's attention was momentarily diverted from her shocked realisation by Faramir's laugh as he took Éowyn's hand in a loving clasp. He bent down to say something to her and Lothíriel could see a smile soften her face.

'I'm sorry, Father,' murmured Lothíriel faintly, 'I should not have spoken so disrespectfully. Forgive me…' Her voice trailed uncertainly as Éomer continued to regard her curiously. 'And you , my Lord Éomer,' she continued though her voice was fading, 'please accept my apologies for slighting your noble sister.' Lothíriel sighed and bit her lip, drowning in an unpleasant mix of bitterness and mortification. Why did Éomer keep staring at her?

Suddenly unable to endure any more, Lothíriel closed her eyes against Éomer's gaze and the far more cruel sight of her dashed hopes. Aragorn and Faramir were both beyond her now. And not even a chance had she ever had at either of them! Imrahil took her arm, concerned as she slumped slightly against him.

Sight receded from her eyes and Lothíriel sank downwards. All the sounds of the joyous city coalesced into a faint hum as her head fell back. The last thing she remembered were those green eyes looking concerned.

'But Father's eyes are grey,' she thought abstractedly before darkness claimed her fully.


	2. Time to Reflect

Many thanks to all those who reviewed, I hope you continue to enjoy…

Chapter 2 – Time to Reflect

The day was a fine one and Lothíriel was grateful that it saw her back in Belfalas. The embarrassment of the Minas Tirith visit could now be consigned to memory (at least temporarily) and she could safely bury herself in her father's realm. They had arrived home late last night and upon awakening that morning Lothíriel had eaten a hasty breakfast standing up in the kitchens whilst waiting for her mare to be saddled.

The groom smiled at her and said, 'She's missed you, my Lady,' before handing her the reins.

'No more than I've missed her, Halbarn,' she'd replied.

In a few minutes, Nimrodel (named partly to annoy her father with his endless carryings on about their Elven heritage) took her beyond the confines of the fortress and into the wide plains surrounding them. Lothíriel set off at random, giving the black mare her head. After half an hour of frantic galloping, they found themselves adrift on a sea of grass. Nimrodel slowed to a gentle walk and then stopped when she spied some tender green blades to crop. Lothíriel looked around carefully, there was not a soul to be seen. Good.

Slipping from the saddle, Lothíriel quickly hobbled the mare and finally took a deep breath of her native air. It was good to be home! A knot of tension loosened in her belly. The freedom of the open plains and the peaceful sighing of the wind through the plain soothed her more than anything else could have. Opening her mouth, Lothíriel gave voice to the frustration she had carried within her since Minas Tirith. Arms wide and head thrown to the sky, she screamed herself hoarse, with no audience but Nimrodel who had seen her mistress indulge in this strange pastime before and wasn't unduly concerned by it.

Once spent, Lothíriel exhaled gustily and sank down to lie on the soft grass. Now that she had rid herself of the worst of it, she could be at peace and think awhile. In truth she had much to think on.

Lothíriel could not stop herself cringing when she remembered the Faint. Thinking back, she was at a loss as to why she should have collapsed as she did. It wasn't as though she made a habit of it. By nature, Lothíriel had a straightforward character with no affectations of womanly weakness. In Belfalas, she was known for her directness and total lack of dissembling. The news of her swooning like a fool of a girl would not easily be believed by any who knew her well.

Her father had caught her as she fell but it was Éomer's green eyes she remembered hovering over hers as she drifted down into blackness.

Éomer and Imrahil had carried her indoors and revived her in the cool of the stone chambers. Her weakness had lasted only a few moments, but the shame would last forever. Because she had never fainted before, her father had been seriously worried for a while. Once he was sure it had just been a momentary weakness and nothing more, he had let Éomer depart to enjoy the rest of the pageantry. The King of Rohan had seemed reluctant to leave them but Imrahil assured him they would be all right. Lothíriel could barely bring herself to murmur her thanks to him for his assistance and had been most grateful to see him leave. Once he was safely out of sight, Lothíriel had buried her face in her hands and begged her father to let her sit out the rest of the wedding celebrations in their chambers.

'Oh no, my dear,' Imrahil had answered, 'you won't be getting out of your duties that easily!'

'Oh Father!' she had cried in near desperation, 'you can't mean it! Have I not done enough? Insulting the King of Rohan and his sister wasn't sufficient? Perhaps I could spill wine on the Queen's wedding dress? Or start a war with the Dwarves?'

A rebellious tone had risen in her voice and Imrahil held his hands up placatingly.

'It's not so bad as all that,' he said, 'so calm yourself.'

Lothíriel subsided into mutinous despair.

'Now, my dear, there is something I would like to you to think on,' said her father carefully.

She looked at him ominously, storm clouds gathering in her grey eyes, 'Father, I am in no fit state for thinking!'

Imhrahil ignored her.

'I know you have been giving much thought to your eventual marriage and it is something that I too, naturally, have considered,' he said, 'and I believe I have found a suitable match for you at last.'

Lothíriel watched her father like a cat. His face had always been an open one and she could read his mind quite clearly…

'No,' she said firmly.

'Yes,' he said just as firmly.

Lothíriel sat bolt upright in the grass as futile regret rippled through her at the memory.

And there in the stone chamber, it had all come out. Imrahil and Éomer had found themselves fighting side by side in the last desperate campaign to defeat the Dark Lord and they had found much to admire in one another. Whilst Imrahil had come away thinking he had found a husband worthy of Lothíriel, Éomer simply thought he had found a new ally for Rohan. Imrahil had not mentioned Lothíriel to his new friend, but unbeknownst to Lothíriel, he had arranged that Éomer stand close by her during the royal wedding. Imrahil had no intention of forcing an awkward introduction upon his daughter or Éomer so he contrived that they should meet under as natural a circumstance as possible. After all, weddings were well known to beget more weddings…

'And sure enough, daughter,' he concluded, 'a more memorable introduction would have been impossible to plan! Éomer shall not forget Lothíriel of Dol Amroth in a hurry!' He'd laughed then, to her fury.

'In fact, I think Éomer is more than a bit taken with you. I knew he would be,' he added, thoughtfully, ignoring her outrage.

'It matters not, father,' Lothíriel had replied, icily, 'for I am not taken with him in the slightest! He's gigantic! It hurts my neck to look up at him!'

'Oh, and the King? He would have been too tall for you too, I expect?' said her father wryly. For all knew that the Kings of Gondor and Rohan were nearly of equal height.

'Well, one could learn to put up with a lot, if one were married to a King!'

'Éomer _is_ a King, my dear,' her father pointed out mildly.

'A King of a far away land, that I do not know!' she had retorted. Lothíriel had subsided then for a moment when suddenly the thought occurred to her…

'Éomer!' she said urgently, 'does _he_ know of your intentions?'

Imrahil gazed back at her, 'No, my dear, he does not. My hope was that you and he would meet here at Minas Tirith and come up with the idea yourselves.'

'Well, there is little chance of that now,' said Lothíriel, blushing anew at the memory of her encounter with the King of Rohan.

'Oh, I don't know about that. But this little discussion has certainly put the colour back in your cheeks,' her father had said approvingly, 'come! It is time we entered the Great Hall for the feasting. Come! I will allow no delay!'

So Lothíriel had found herself making a re-appearance at the royal wedding. She kept her composure admirably and even managed to make tolerably courteous conversation with the new King and his bride. Arwen was quite gracious in her way and Lothíriel found herself put quite at ease in the Queen's company.

The worst moment by far was being introduced to Éowyn. With her father at her elbow and Éomer making the actual introduction, Lothíriel had been quite sure she would expire from the awkwardness of it all. But Éomer had been gallant enough not to mention Lothíriel's earlier rudeness to anyone. To her pleasure, she found much to admire in Éowyn's character though it was bitterly obvious that the Steward of Gondor was blind to all others but her.

The rest of the night had passed in an agonisingly slow blur of song, wine and merriment. Lothíriel had been longing for bed for hours before she was allowed to retire. Once locked alone inside she had no trouble falling deeply asleep. They had only another week at Minas Tirith before they returned home and Lothíriel hoped the days would pass quietly without incident. A vain hope as it turned out.

The next day, Imrahil had called upon her after she had risen and breakfasted.

'Ah, my dear,' he had said brightly, 'good news! We are invited to dine with the Kings of Gondor and Rohan this evening. Your cousin, the Steward, will be in attendance also. I understand he will have a personal announcement to make.'

Lothíriel stiffened and glared at her father. 'Please convey my regrets, Father, I am unwell and cannot attend.'

'Nonsense!' answered her father, 'you look fine to me and I know that Éomer would relish your society again. He cannot stop talking about you!'

Lothíriel threw her eyes to heaven and made a rude noise.

'Father, stop pretending. Your design is revealed,' she said, flatly, 'you wish me to make a match with the King of Rohan, but I know you! You would never force me to a marriage not to my liking. You know this as well as I, so why keep forcing the question? It is fruitless, I tell you! What chance, if any, I had with him was ruined with my ill-chosen remarks about his sister. All I feel when in his company is the desire to burn speedily to death and have the ashes honourably dispersed!'

Imrahil cast his eyes to the heavens at this and Lothíriel threw her up hands in a gesture of helplessness, 'Please do not prolong this torture, Father, please just let this inspiration of yours drop! I cannot stand being in the man's company, his very presence fills me with shame. I beg you, abandon this matter!'

Imrahil remained silent during her heartfelt plea and remained quiet a few moments longer. Lothíriel watched him as he paced the room.

At length he paused and looked at her long and hard.

'Lothíriel,' he began, 'you must know that every father wants to do right by his children and wants only the best for them. And so all I have done is for the sake of your happiness. Think back, my dear. Have I ever pushed even one suitor upon you?'

Lothíriel shook her head. It was true, Imrahil had never suggested that she favour one lord over another. There had never been even the slightest hint of paternal pressure on her in that respect.

'Part of the reason that I never did so is selfishness, my dear,' Imrahil continued, 'since your mother's death you have been the light of my home and I have put off the day of your leaving. But even laying that aside, there is another reason. I had not found a man suitable to be your husband until now, Lothíriel. Éomer is not just a good man and a King, my child, he is also the only man to whom I would surrender you.'

Lothíriel listened with head bowed and then she asked, 'Why, Father? Why him? Why do you set your heart on Éomer for me?'

To this Imrahil had smiled and said, 'That is a difficult one to answer, my dear and I will not try. Suffice it to say that I leave you the pleasure of resolving that question for yourself.'

'Cryptic talk and confusion! That is all you offer me,' Lothíriel cried in exasperation, 'am I to have no more guidance than that?'

'I would think, Lothíriel, that my selection of a suitable husband would have been guidance enough!' he'd answered tartly, 'will you not trust your own father in this? Give Éomer a chance to prove me right! Put aside your childish awkwardness with the man! You can be sure _he_ does not dwell upon a few "ill-chosen remarks". If anything, the incident afforded him a few moments amusement and nothing more. Just give him a chance, Lothíriel, you won't regret it.'

With that he left the chamber pausing only once at the door to bid her be ready to dine at the appointed hour. Lothíriel thought long and hard on what he her father had said, turning his words over in her head. Try as she might, she could find no flaw in his reasoning.

Her father was a true Prince, a man of royal blood and noble to the bone. She knew he would only ever have her best interests at heart and that was what finally made up her mind. With a huge mental effort she banished the memory of the previous day's events and decided to take her father's advice. She would give Éomer a chance.

Lying back on the soft grass now, watching the clouds scudding across the blue sky, Lothíriel thought back on all that had happened in the week since she made that decision and wondered how everything could have gone so terribly wrong.

It had started at the dinner that very night, she concluded. Despite her best intentions, the seeds of disaster had been well and truly sown…


	3. Seeds

Chapter 3 – Seeds

When Imrahil had called for her to accompany him to dinner, he found Lothíriel arrayed in a simple but flattering dress in a style favoured by the ladies of Belfalas. She had chosen the colour, a soft dove grey, to accent her sea-grey eyes and black hair. A short rope of creamy pearls, harvested from the Bay of Belfalas many years ago, glowed at her throat. Her hair had been coiled neatly at the nape of her neck with a few pearl-topped pins securing it into place. In short, Lothíriel was the picture of a noble and modest lady. Imrahil smiled approvingly as he took in the sight.

'You are the image of your mother, Lothíriel,' he said, 'come, take my arm.'

And with that, father and daughter proceeded to the private dining room of the King of Gondor. They were the last of the King's guests to arrive.

They entered a small annexe off the main hall and were greeted by a well-warmed room and a set table. The King stood by the fire talking with his Queen and when Imrahil and Lothíriel came into view, he came to welcome them. Éomer and his sister were already seated at the table, with Faramir by Éowyn's side. As Lothíriel stepped forward to accept the King's greeting the candlelight lit her face with its soft glow.

Éomer's hand stalled in the act of lifting a cup to his lips. Lothíriel looked otherworldly. The paleness of her skin was brought to life by the pearls she wore and the colour of her dress. The darkness of her hair, dressed close to her shapely head, brought out the intense grey of her eyes. Éomer became aware that he was staring when his sister jogged his arm, giving him a moon-faced look clearly meant to mirror his own. Éomer put the cup down quickly, clearing his throat.

'And now dinner can finally be served!' said Faramir genially, watching Éomer with a glint of amusement in his eyes. It seemed the King of Rohan was definitely smitten with the lady of Dol Amroth.

Aragorn himself handed Lothíriel to a seat next to Éomer. Once seated, she gave him a shy smile and made a polite inquiry as to how he enjoyed the festivities of the previous night.

'It was a merry night, my Lady,' he replied. Her eyes smiled back at him and Éomer couldn't help staring into them. They had an intriguing way of shifting shades, one moment, grey as slate and the next the colour of a cloudy sky. In truth, her eyes had captured him from the first. When he had turned yesterday to berate the woman for insulting Éowyn, he had not expected to be so instantly captivated. She had held his gaze boldly then, before he had made himself known to her and watched her haughtiness dissipate into blushes. But the blushing girl of yesterday was gone, replaced by a lady of impeccable manners and poise. The possibilities began to shine in his mind.

Of a sudden, he had a mental flash of Lothíriel at Edoras, seated in the Golden Hall by his side. The clarity of the vision took his breath away and he choked on the last mouthful of wine in his cup.

Lothíriel was immediately all concern for him. She pulled out her napkin and held it to his lips, blotting the wine and bidding him take deep breaths. Éomer smiled unseen into the napkin and inhaled obediently until she seemed satisfied with his progress.

Oh yes, this lady was one worthy of consideration. He wondered what Imrahil would think of formalising the friendship between Belfalas and Rohan with a betrothal and caught the Prince of Dol Amroth viewing the pair of them with an indulgent and unmistakably self-satisfied expression on his face.

Éomer smiled back at Imrahil and had the satisfaction of seeing the man colour slightly as though guilty of something. _Ah_, thought Éomer, _so that is the way of it_.

Turning to Lothíriel, Éomer returned her napkin, gently pressing it into her hands, holding them for a moment between his own. They felt surprisingly strong and slightly calloused to him and he spoke without thinking, 'You do not sit at needlework at your father's court, my Lady, your hands are not those of an idle lady's.'

Lothíriel's face flamed and Éomer knew immediately that he had erred. Lothíriel quickly removed her hands from his grip and folded them into her lap, hiding them.

They were her only failure as a lady. She refused to wear gloves when out riding and as a result her hands were those of a groom's, as her maids were constantly reminding her. But Lothíriel hated the leather gloves that the other ladies wore whenever they stepped outside the four walls of their dwellings. She found the thick leather limited her control of Nimrodel's reins. She looked away from Éomer and concentrated instead on what the King was saying about the re-building of the city, trying to ignore the feelings of shame and disappointment rising inside.

Éomer felt a sharp pain as his sister jabbed him unmercifully in the ribs. He grunted slightly at the impact and glared at Éowyn but she only snorted at him derisively and then kicked him under the table for good measure.

'Fool!' she whispered, 'in polite company, one is supposed to compliment a Lady not imply she has the hide of an Orc!'

Éomer winced for he knew his sister was quite correct. Even Gríma would have done better with Lothíriel than he had tonight.

Turing back to the lady on his other side he made a few inconsequential remarks about the meal hoping to draw her back into conversation.

The other dinner guests appeared not to notice the lady of Dol Amroth's growing coolness towards the King of Rohan or his attempts to recapture her attention.

Lothíriel seemed unmoved by his efforts and turned ever away from him. At last the evening was drawing to a close and the guests rose from the table, but Faramir called for their attention.

'I have an announcement to make,' he said cheerfully taking Éowyn's hand in his own, 'to my everlasting joy, the Lady of Rohan has consented to be my wife!' Éowyn smiled at her betrothed and the King and his wife both smiled secret smiles of their own.

The news was hardly unexpected but everyone joined enthusiastically in the clapping and cheering, including Lothíriel. 'Happiness to you both, cousin,' she said to Faramir and then she kissed Éowyn upon the cheek. The Lady of Rohan returned her embrace and then neatly spun Lothíriel into Éomer 's arms. 'Now embrace my brother, for we are all soon to be family!' she cried gaily, with a look of pure mischief on her face.

Éomer grasped Lothíriel by the shoulders and looked down into grey eyes, now the colour of shale.

For a moment, time was suspended and the two regarded each other while merriment and gaiety whirled around them in the wake of Faramir's announcement.

'My Lady, if I have said anything to offend you, then I'm truly sorry,' said Éomer sincerely.

'Think nothing of it, my Lord,' answered Lothíriel, 'now we are evenly matched for careless words, are we not?'

She shrugged herself free of his grasp and walked away. At least that was her plan. Éomer's grip was not lightly broken and Lothíriel found she was held firmly in place. She was not a weakling but movement was impossible without creating an obvious scene and Lothíriel had had quite enough of those for a while. Éomer gazed down upon her and she could not help but stare back at him.

It was then she had a sudden inkling of why her father recommended the King of Rohan so highly to her.

The eyes that regarded her so seriously were a clear blue-green, as changeable as her own and like unto the sea. His face was stern but there was a hint of humour around his mouth as he held her motionless. Suddenly she wanted simply to make him smile.

'Can we not be friends, my Lady?' he asked softly.

'It seems we cannot, my Lord King,' she replied, ruefully, 'we cannot even say two words to each other without offence being taken.'

'That is mostly my fault,' he said then, 'for I am not accustomed to the company of noble ladies such as yourself. My home is on horseback, riding about the Mark, hunting Orcs and fighting and having little time for the more frivolous things in life.'

'And I spend my time reading or in study,' she answered.

'What do you study, my Lady?' he asked.

'The frivolous things in life,' she said acerbically, 'history, the great poets, the movement of the stars, the cycles of the sea, the planting of crops, the raising of animals…'

A silence fell and Éomer realised that conversation in the chamber had ceased and they were the centre of all eyes. Stepping back he released his grip on Lothíriel's shoulders.

She sighed then and dropped her eyes from his.

'I see,' was all he could manage to say.

Lothíriel's face coloured and he thought he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

'It seems we are destined to cause each other nothing but discomfort, my Lord King,' she said quietly and drifted away from him. Soon she was in conversation with the Queen whilst Éomer watched, alone and defeated.

After that the mood of the evening sobered somewhat and the party broke up quickly, with everyone seeking their bed-chambers for the night.

* * *

Once safely back in her chamber, Lothíriel sat slowly down next to the dying fire. Tears rolled down her cheeks as a strange kind of hopelessness took hold of her. Its exact cause eluded her but the best understanding she could muster was that she was mourning the loss of something she had never known. She had not succumbed to such tears since the death of her mother.

Her father had been right! Éomer was the man for her. Though his appearance was not as the Lords of her homeland, he cut a striking figure. Her memory called up his face against her will, the reddish gold of his beard and the piercing sea-green of his eyes. His golden hair worn long and undressed, _like a barbarian_, she thought feverishly. But there was nothing of savagery in Éomer's clear gaze. Those eyes would haunt her forever. In them, she could see the history of a proud people and a King worthy to rule them.

Her father had told her of his great courage in the face of seemingly certain defeat. Éomer had _sang _as he rallied the last stand of Rohan!

He towered over every other man she knew bar the King of Gondor.

But, oh! those green eyes were kind and his beard had felt soft to her fingers when she held the napkin to his mouth tonight. Her hands trembled at the memory.

Curse those rough skinned palms! It was the first time she regretted not following her maid's advice about wearing riding gloves.

And curse her quick tongue! Once it had caused embarrassment but now it had wounded her more unbearably than she had thought possible.

* * *

Éomer walked with his sister and Faramir to their quarters. The King of Rohan walked in silence but for different reasons than the happy pair beside him. Looking at Éowyn, he felt deep joy that she had at last found contentment. The despair of Gríma's rule had almost consumed her spirit. Now she seemed more like the young girl he remembered from childhood, before their father had been killed and their mother had died. At least he had had the release of riding to battle whilst her, no less martial, spirit had remained trapped at Edoras, forced to witness their uncle's slow demise.

But he could not suppress a small stab of envy as he saw Éowyn and Faramir kiss goodnight, their eyes lingering on each other. Éomer longed to have a woman look at him they way they looked at each other.

For one moment, when he had held her still, he thought he had seen…something…a flash of realisation?…in Lothíriel's luminous grey eyes. Whatever it was, it had stopped his breath and made the outside world disappear completely.

Cursing under his breath, he bade a brief goodnight to his sister and sought his own chamber.

Why did he have to be so clumsy in conversation? His first mistake had been in drawing attention to her hands. In Rohan, the women, the ladies included, had all done hard work with their hands and his remark had been meant to compliment Lothíriel's obvious industriousness. His second mistake had been the using the word frivolous in an effort to mitigate his earlier error. He had seen her bridle at that instantly and her reply left him in no doubt as to her usefulness at Belfalas.

But it was the helpless sadness in her eyes that had touched him the most. As though she wanted to call back her words and speak with him in a place where their awkwardness would not be witnessed.

Éomer cheered himself with the thought that they would have more time together before Imrahil took his daughter back to Dol Amroth. He brightened further when he remembered the approving look the Prince had given them earlier. Her father would be an invaluable ally to have in the war to win her over.

His plans set, the King of Rohan retired to his chamber for a night of uneasy sleep haunted by eyes the colour of the sea.


	4. The Courtship Officially Begins

Sorry for the long delay with this, but real life seems to intrude far more often than I would like. Thanks to all who reviewed, you've all been very kind!

Chapter 4 – The Courtship Officially Begins

The morning after the dinner dawned without much to recommend it. The air was dim and hazy from the building work going on all over the city. Minas Tirith had suffered severe damage during the war and the citizens were eager to repair their beloved home and make it as it was before. Some had tears in their eyes as they washed blood from the stone blocks of their city remembering others who would never again see the white towers shine in the sun.

Lothíriel sat at her window surveying the city as her breakfast lay untouched behind her on a table. Her sight was oddly blurred, though she saw the Minas Tirith laid out before her, it was obscured by a faint image of Éomer's face as he had looked the previous night. The uneasy hours of darkness she had spent turning and twisting in her bed had exhausted her and she felt wearier than she could ever remember feeling before. She wished she were back home where she could run to the stables and have Nimrodel saddled and waiting for her to be taken racing in the grass. Sighing she turned away from her window only to be met by her father's concerned face. Prince Imrahil had entered the chamber some moments previously and had observed his daughter consumed in her reverie.

'Good morning, Father,' she said attempting a smile.

'Oh my dear,' he answered sympathetically. Within a minute Lothíriel found herself enveloped in her father's strong arms. 'Do not fret child,' he said into her hair, 'I know you were disappointed by how last night went, but do not worry! Éomer is not just a king, he is a warrior. One bad sortie will not discourage a man of his mettle. He will not be put off, unless I have misjudged him greatly.'

'Oh but you did not, Father,' said his daughter, 'it struck me like a blow as I was with him last night. He is a man of great worth and I admit that you were right about him. I think he is someone I could love…but things went so awry last night! I couldn't stop myself! Did you hear me? I sounded like a fishwife! Why didn't you stop my mouth with your napkin?'

Imrahil smiled unseen as he held his daughter again. Her tendency to sarcasm was well known in Belfalas, she could never resist a quip if there was one for the taking. It was a trait she had inherited from her mother and for that sake alone, Imrahil treasured it and encouraged her verbal dexterity whenever the opportunity arose. They often had each other and their court in fits of giggles as they jousted with jibes of a winter's evening.

Imrahil privately doubted that a docile lady would suit the King of Rohan, Lothíriel was the perfect consort for a man of Éomer's temperament.

'Do not worry,' he repeated firmly. His daughter smiled wanly back at him and Imrahil rolled his eyes, 'and do not smile like that! It makes you look ill!'

Lothíriel grimaced at her father and fetched him a light blow on the shoulder. Laughing, Imrahil left his cheered daughter to dress and went in search of his breakfast.

* * *

Éomer woke from a sound sleep and sat up with a grin on his face. Today was the day! Leaving the bed, he splashed about with the warm water left in his chamber until he felt suitably refreshed and cleansed. A quick dragging of an ivory comb through his hair and he was ready to dress. Surveying his limited wardrobe, he dressed in a comfortable but elegant tunic and breeches and eschewed his formal armour. He smoothed his hair down once more and then set off in search of breakfast. After last night's uncomfortable dining experience he was ravenous and prepared to be open minded about the bill of fare. The cooking in Minas Tirith was much more elaborate than that of Edoras. On more than a few occasions, he had been forced to close his eyes when swallowing some delicacy or other preferring not to know what he was consuming.

To his relief, the Great Hall was redolent with the simple smells of breakfast of oat porridge and bacon. The King of Rohan sat down to a full plate and commenced filling his stomach for the day's work ahead.

With his appetite sated, Éomer set off to find Imrahil. He didn't have to go far, the Prince of Dol Amroth entered the hall and sat down to his own breakfast.

'Ah! Éomer!' he called when he spotted the young King. 'Have you had breakfast yet?'

A memory of slithery eels in a spiced grainy sauce suddenly crossed Éomer's mind. The cursed things had been impossible to keep on the fork…

Shrugging internally he replied, 'No, not yet,' and took a seat opposite Imrahil. May as well fill up while he could…. no one could tell what would be produced for dinner that night.

He watched as Imrahil spooned up heaping mounds of porridge onto his plate and sighed inwardly.

Imrahil had just taken his first bite when Éomer spoke.

'Your daughter,' he started quickly, 'Lothíriel,' he clarified, 'I would know if she is betrothed yet?'

Imrhail swallowed his mouthful and feigned a pensive air. 'Lothíriel, Lothíriel,' he murmured, 'remind me friend, is she the one I brought with me for the wedding?'

Éomer dropped his spoon with a clang and just stared at Imrahil until the older man broke down into laughter.

'No, Éomer,' he answered finally, 'my daughter is not yet betrothed. You see, I have not found a man I think she would suit.'

'I think she would suit me, if you would consider the match a fitting one,' said Éomer baldly.

'I agree,' said Imrahil simply, 'now all you have to do is convince her.'

Éomer smiled ruefully. 'Easier said than done, my friend,' he said, 'but I take it that you will not object if I court her?'

'Oh, I will not object in the slightest,' said Imrahil, 'for who am I to deny the average citizen of Minas Tirith their amusement? This should improve morale no end! People need to have some merriment in their lives, especially at times like these. You seem to have a peculiar talent for saying the wrong thing around my daughter. I shall observe your endeavours with great interest. As will everyone else, I imagine.'

Éomer smiled again but Imrahil noticed there was a slightly strained air about him. Excusing himself from the breakfast table Éomer made his exit feeling not exactly himself. Whether it was an excess of porridge or the similar feeling that he had bitten off more than he could chew, he could not say.


	5. A Heady Encounter

I'm back….this real life thing is really cutting into my spare time….

Chapter 5 – A Heady Encounter.

Lothíriel walked the city listlessly. Her chamber had become too small for her thoughts and the need for space and air had overcome her desire to hide until the world ended and it was safe to come out. She had not seen Éomer since the disastrous dinner and despite her father's inexplicable good faith, Lothíriel could see no future for herself and the handsome King of Rohan.

She mused unhappily on the nature of love, a few days ago she would have liked nothing better than to never have to set eyes on the bloody man again and now she hoped for nothing so much as a glimpse of him. Sighing heavily, she leaned against a white wall and gave in to a moment of pure self-loathing. Is this what the princess of Dol Amroth had been reduced to? A pitiful maiden sick with love? Lothíriel shuddered inwardly and resumed her upward walk. Unwittingly, her feet had chosen the winding path that led to the top of the city. Perhaps she had hoped the view would give her some perspective. At least the climb was physically tiring, with luck, pure exhaustion would allow her a night's sleep tonight instead of restlessness and torment. How could her father be so sure of Éomer's intentions? The man had not approached her in over a week. Not a word, not a note, not so much as a glance. Lothíriel despaired anew but caught herself before it became overwhelming. No more, she admonished, no more blithering!

She was admitted past the highest gate and climbed to the courtyard at the top of Minas Tirith. The view was truly breathtaking. Lothíriel gazed longingly in the direction of home, it was hidden by the mountains but she fancied she could taste a faint tang of the sea from her vantage point. Closing her eyes, she threw her arms wide as was her habit on the fields of Belfalas, and breathed deep. She could feel her abraded nerves loosen and relax and she sighed with some semblance of contentment. The sun glowed redly through her eyelids and its warmth flowed into her, soothing her tensions. Reaching behind her, Lothíriel loosed the ties binding her hair and let it whip freely around her from the breezes below. Unfortunately, some of the dark strands whipped right into the eyes of the King of Rohan, delivering stinging blindness more effectively than a mace.

His sharp cry broke through her enjoyable reverie and she turned round to see the Pride of the Rohirrim clutching his eyes and cursing freely. Outrage quickly outstripped embarrassment at being caught acting like a child, how dare he creep up on her! Seeing him at a disadvantage and thinking of her own discomfiture at being caught, Lothíriel couldn't resist doing something rather unladylike. Hurriedly she drew one softly booted foot back and was just about to plant it squarely where it would do a nasty skulker the most good when Éomer suddenly straightened up and said 'Don't you dare!' in a stern voice. It was the sternness that brought her back to herself. Quickly replacing her foot on the ground she became the picture of maidenly acquiescence and less of a hoyden.

'Why shouldn't I dare?' she said primly, '_I'm_ not the creeping sneaker!' Fresh anger burst through her, 'And how dare _you_? Sneak up behind me, will you? I suppose you were going to hang me over the edge until I screamed?'

Éomer stared, insulted beyond measure that she would think him capable of such a thing but then a spark flared in his eyes and he replied, 'You know that's exactly what you deserve for thinking so ill of me…' Lothíriel goggled in disbelief as he covered the ground between them in a heartbeat, swung her up into his arms and before she could draw breath to scream she was upside down hanging by her heels from the walls of Minas Tirith. As the Fields of the Pellennor swung erratically before her eyes, she noticed dreamily that he had grabbed her skirts so they remained modestly plastered to her ankles. All the better to see the view, she thought distractedly. A giggle escaped her lips. The absurdity of her situation was suddenly inescapable and she began to shake with laughter and not a little terror. What if he dropped her?

After what seemed an age, but had in reality been about ten vertiginous seconds, Lothíriel found herself on her feet and right way up again. Looking into a pair of shocked green eyes, she grinned inanely before fainting dead away for the second time in her life.

Éomer stared disbelievingly at the supine figure at his feet. Had he really done that? Hung the princess of Dol Amroth upside down from the walls of Minas Tirith? He had spotted her from below with her arms outflung and hair streaming in the wind and thought her the most beautiful wild creature he had ever set eyes on. Approaching her quietly, he thought he was showing respect for her reverie. A capricious breeze had swept her hair into his eyes stinging them and well…the rest was just a terrible misunderstanding that had resulted in _him hanging her upside down from the walls of Minas Tirith_. Imrahil would kill him, he may as well fall upon his sword right away to save time. He'd behaved like a barbarian, how could he have lost control like that? Why oh why did every encounter with her go wrong? She could have been killed! He sank down beside Lothíriel and seized her hands in an attempt to rouse her. She sighed and his heart started beating again. Her grey eyes opened and a smile curved her soft mouth. 'I am not dead then?' she asked, he shook his head mutely, not trusting his voice. What, after all, could he say? What excuse could he offer for laying ungentle hands on a noble lady? 'I can't believe you did that,' she murmured accusingly. 'In truth, my Lady, neither can I,' he answered earnestly, dropping her hands immediately, 'I can only offer my heartfelt apologies and I swear that once I see you safe into your father's care, I will not come within a league of you again…' Éomer's hands were in the air and he was on the point of backing away when his apology was interrupted by Lothíriel's bubbling laughter, 'I deserved it for what I nearly did to you!' she spluttered through hysterical sobs of mirth. The headiness of the experience had completely overtaken her and her body trembled with shock, relief and a thousand other sensations not least of which was the memory of Éomer's warm hands on her own. Pulling herself to a sitting position, Lothíriel was gratified when Éomer returned immediately to her side to assist her to her feet. Swaying slightly and clutching his arm she turned to the sweeping panoramic view and was promptly assailed by a fresh burst of giggles. 'I must be the only person living or dead to have seen this view whilst upside down!' she said when she regained control. Éomer started at her intently. She seemed genuinely amused. The shock was passing and she did not seem to want to faint, cry or kill him. Hardly daring to hope, he essayed a return smile to the one on her face. Her eyes narrowed and Éomer braced himself for whatever was to come. Eorl knew he deserved it.

'You are not a man to goad, I see,' she said slowly. He said nothing, just held her gaze whilst also holding her upright. She was still unsteady on her legs but rapidly regaining strength. He became aware of shouts and the sound of running footsteps. The Guards of the Citadel approached at speed.

'My Lady,' called one, 'is all well with you, we saw…we saw him hang you from the wall!'

Éomer closed his eyes and prepared to step back from Lothíriel. He would be arrested and cast into a cell to await the King's judgement and it was no more than he deserved.

The Guard panted up to them and Lothíriel addressed him without delay.

'Good sir,' she said, quickly, 'there is nothing to be concerned about, I asked the King of Rohan to humour me in a silly childish game and being too much of a gentleman to refuse me, he obliged. And you see I am perfectly alright…' she took a few steps to demonstrate for the Guard who looked less than convinced by her unsteady performance. Éomer stood as though turned to stone and said nothing. The Guard turned an unfriendly eye on him and asked baldly, 'Is that true?'

Éomer sighed and said 'Who am I to cast aspersions on the word of a Lady?' and was rewarded by a smile that to him was blinding.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to all who reviewed and encouraged the last chapter.

Just one little note for 'Blue Eyes At Night': I did actually mean a proper mediaeval-style mace complete with spikes and knobbly bits (a la the Witch King of Angmar's weapon o'choice!) and not the pepper spray… J. Glad you enjoyed!

Chapter 6

'Is it true?' demanded Imrahil trembling with rage. 'He hung you from the walls? Upside down?'

Lothíriel cringed visibly. Of course her father would hear of the incident, that guard of the Citadel had the look of a raconteur about him. 'I asked him to…' she started and was cut off by an exclamation of disbelief. Imrahil fumed silently for a moment before saying icily, 'Yes. Of course you did. These lax post-war times foster all sorts of strange and unreasonable practices!' Lothíriel had to swallow a laugh. Even incensed, her father was never lost for a witticism.

'I have spoken to Éomer myself,' he continued, 'and the man is at a loss to explain his behaviour. He professes his undying regret and promises never to do it again. While this is, of course, a relief to any father's heart, it does not excuse it happening in the first place.'

Lothíriel felt a faint sense of disappointment. 'It was not as though he planned it, Father,' she said firmly, 'it just happened. He was just as shocked as I was and he did apologise handsomely to me afterwards.' _And promised never to come within a league of me again_.

'I should just think so!' stormed Imrahil, 'can you imagine what your mother would have done if I had behaved so to her during our courtship?'

Lothíriel absently allowed herself a moment of silent speculation which was abruptly shattered by Imrahil's next words.

'What a pass we have come to' he groaned, 'Honestly, daughter, I thought nothing could jeopardise this alliance, but as usual I had not banked on your sheer unpredictability!'

'The alliance is off, then?' she asked in shocked tones.

'I should think that a relief to you, daughter!' Imrahil replied, 'if he'll hang you by your heels in Minas Tirith, without even a formal declaration between you, no one can tell what he'll consider appropriate once the pair of you are wed and under his roof!'

Lothíriel sighed heavily, 'So Éomer has forsaken me.'

Imrahil looked at her sympathetically. 'No daughter,' he said finally, 'not Éomer. It was I who forbade the match. You are my only daughter and I love you with all my heart, which incidentally nearly stopped when I heard what had happened on the wall this afternoon. I cannot give you into his care, my child.'

Lothíriel looked up at him stricken by his words, 'But…' she began.

Imrahil cut her off, 'At first, I thought it could be explained away but after speaking to Éomer I realised that it cannot. He himself could not account his actions, he was as horrified as I was, maybe more. And that was what troubled me most of all, child. I know your mettle, I know you cannot resist an opportunity for wit but Éomer is of a different sort to you and I. You cannot play at barbs and courtly witticisms with him and expect no insult to be taken. I was wrong about him, child, he is not the one for you. If he were, he would have chosen another way to deal with however you provoked him on the wall. If anything, this episode has revealed most starkly that you and he are exactly the wrong type for each other. The error was mine, my child. Éomer is a good man, a steady captain in battle and one you would want at your back in a fight, but you, my precious daughter, have the ability to make him lose his head and do things that he obviously regrets later.' Imrahil stroked his daughter's cheek lovingly. 'If you were wed to him, I would not know a moment's peace, my dear,' he said softly, 'I would have to pray nightly that your tongue would hold and his forbearance with it. I must have you wed to a man who will treat you as you ought to be treated, with respect and gentleness.'

'But what if I learned to curb my tongue,' she asked, 'what if I were more careful in my choice of words?'

Imrahil smiled. 'So you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, _you_, will bite your tongue when the opportunity arises to poke fun at your husband? When you have openly called your own noble father an oaf for falling off a horse that _you_ had deliberately spooked? And, lest we forget, the diatribe on manners I received after spitting out a mouthful of food that _you_ had laced with mustard powder?'

'Father! You speak of incidents that are far in my past!' she protested.

'Lothíriel, the mustard incident was barely a year ago!' he answered, 'and besides you are not a woman to change overnight and suppress your nature! And nor should you have to! You are a woman of spirit and wit and should be appreciated as such. I would fear for you, my child, far away surrounded by strangers with no ally to call your own. Anything could happen and the first I would know of it would be a rider of Rohan come to deliver the tidings that Lothíriel of Dol Amroth had finally gone too far and the King found it necessary to have her dragged behind wild horses to teach her a lesson. Alas! For she did not survive the discipline,' he finished with a flourish.

'Oh Father,' she cried, 'but I love him! And I was not afraid on the wall today. I am certain that he would never hurt me.'

Imrahil looked grave. 'I know you love him, my dear and your pain is my doing and my own heart aches for you. But that is half your danger, my child. Your blind trust that he would never harm you. The other half is his loss of control when in your presence.'

Lothíriel shrank inwardly from her father's words. Her head was spinning more dizzily than it had that afternoon. Éomer was lost to her.

'They will soon return to Edoras to bury their late King,' said Imrahil, 'and then the Lady Éowyn will be wed to Faramir here in the city. By then, I hope you will have had sufficient time to recover your poise, my dear.'

Lothíriel murmured an agreement but her heart felt as though it had cracked from one side to the other. Éomer was lost to her.

Éomer paced the chamber as he spoke. His sister usually provided a calm presence which brought his thoughts to order.

'So then she made out that it was a silly whim on her part to be hung from the wall upside down and the Guard, not wishing to call a Lady an outright liar, accepted her explanation!' he said finally.

'But that is not all?' prompted Éowyn gently.

Éomer sighed heavily, 'No. Her father then sought me out for a private audience and unsurprisingly, he forbade the match.'

Éowyn grimaced in sympathy, the story had done the rounds of the city in a matter of moments, or so it seemed. Éowyn could scarcely credit it had not Faramir told her the tale himself. And now she was hearing it from her brother's own lips. He could be a firebrand when roused, no doubt, but this was so unlike him. She had witnessed his growing fascination with Imrahil's daughter and the self-possessed girl had seemed a good match for him so why…?

'Brother, there is one thing that puzzles me…?'

Éomer looked his sister and sighed. 'Why did I hang her from the walls?' he asked wearily. His air was that of a man who had questioned himself at length but without success.

Éowyn nodded. 'You've never acted like that with any other girl you fancied so why this one?'

Éomer looked away and murmured, 'I know not. And that is why Imrahil has forbidden the courtship to go any further. He fears to place his daughter in my hands after today and in truth I cannot blame him. Today's events frightened me more than Lothíriel, I'll warrant.'

'From what you say, she seems to have taken it in good spirit, Éomer,' said his sister, 'she didn't scream and bring the Guards of the Citadel crashing down upon your head. And she spoke up for you when questioned. She would not have acted so if she did not care for you, brother.'

'I know,' said Éomer, 'and that puzzles me. Can you imagine any of the maidens of the Golden Hall doing as she did in those circumstances?'

Brother and sister gave the question some serious thought and burst out laughing together. 'You would have been food for crows before nightfall had you tried that in Edoras,' spluttered Éowyn.

'Aye and it would be no more than I deserve,' he said half-seriously. 'I lost a wife, a valuable alliance for Rohan and possibly the friendship of worthy Prince today, Éowyn. And for the life of me I cannot explain why.' Éomer groaned in frustration and sat down heavily with his head in his hands.

'We will be returning to Edoras soon, brother,' said Éowyn, soothingly, 'once you are home you may find that you think more clearly. The answers will come to you, I'm sure of it.'

'Thank you sister, for my sake I hope you speak truly and not in platitudes,' said Éomer, disconsolately.

Éowyn rolled her eyes and went to sit beside her brother. Drawing back her hand she clipped him smartly around the ear. 'What was that for?' he roared, 'am I not wretched enough? Must you turn on me too?'

'That was for saying I deal in platitudes, dear brother,' she answered serenely, 'and also to wrench you from self-pity. Your answers will come. But in their own time. Be patient and learn not to insult ladies. Such advice will serve you well, my brother!'

Éomer rubbed his smarting ear and wisely decided to preserve a diplomatic silence.


End file.

Lord of the Rings, Drama, Romance