#&. éomer interactions

[swordoaths]

@homebehind spoke: “why do you look upon me so?” (lothíriel to éomer!)

He had felt her absence. It was like the water had receded far from the shoreline, carrying rock and sediment away as it withdrew into itself. Perhaps the water thought it was safer out there-- tucked away from the world where few would risk the journey to meet it. Perhaps, if one were away from the world for some time, the pain would somehow be lesser and none would feel as though they themselves caused it. But it was in Lothíriel's absence that Éomer felt the heaviness of her heart.

And so he journeyed to her, following the trail left behind in the her absence. The lingering scent of salty air from her hair, little drips of paint that brought color to Meduseld, the pile of books that always brought a smile to her face. The small parts of her that were really not so small, but had always filled his heart. And as he made his way to her, striding forth boldly and with a countenance sharp and fell like his kin, there was also there in his eyes the worry and the mutual breaking of his own heart with hers.

Éomer found her in their chambers, and the sound of his boots upon the wooden floor came to a stop at the threshold. There he stood, brows pinched together, eyes carrying the worry, and shoulders lowering as if to acknowledge what she had held alone for so long.

'Why do you look upon me so?' came her question.

His verbal answer did not come first. Éomer closed the gap between them until he was there before her, enveloping her hands in his own. His eyes, which were of the earth, met hers, which were of the sea. There in his gaze was a sharing of all things, for it would always be so that the land was a bed, a floor, for the sea. The two would always be together.

"Because it is Alphros' birthday, and your heart is heavy," he answered, voice soft, yet still laying the truth bare before them.

"You do not have to be alone, if you do not wish it--" and, as he tilted his chin to keep with her gaze, added, "--not for my sake, nor for our people. There is no fault in missing kin-- no reason to carry sorrow over not being there for him on your own."

#homebehind #homebehind / lothíriel #&. éomer interactions #screaming and crying!

[edges-of-night]

Hello dear friend! I was waiting for your request to open. Can I request a reader who is openly flirty while writing letters but in person is a complete love struck fool (I love flirting with my gf over text but I will scream and cry happily if she holds my hand or if she kisses me I FOLD)

Thank you so much for your kind words! I hope you’ll enjoy your post!

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Aragorn strikes me as someone who is not overly flirtatious. Maybe your letters have always been just a little too much for him. So in fact, he’s pleasantly surprised when he finds you’re not as forward in person! He has no problem with little displays of affection and would like you to grow more confident in your romantic desires.

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Arwen would definitely tease you about the discrepancy of your letters with your actual reactions to displays of affection. Maybe she’d even spread rumours about you being some sort of amorist or adventurer! This is, of course, never malicious, and Arwen is very good at noticing your daily level of comfort when it comes to this. She makes no secret of it: she enjoys your cute blushes to no end!

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir fancies himself very suave, I think. But I feel like he would share the exact same situation with you, actually! His letters may be overtly flirtatious and even spicy as he tries to out-do your writings – but in person, Boromir is actually just as nervous and easily flustered as you. It takes him some time to admit it, but you both find comfort in your similarities.

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

Elrond initially thinks there must be a mistake – some jester who writes spicy letters to him in your name. When he confronts you, his sweet and innocent partner, with this conspiracy, your face heats up – of course it’s been you! Needless to say, Elrond understands immediately once you explain the situation to him. He’d even laugh at how everything went down.

･ﾟ✧ Éomer.

To be honest, I feel like Éomer would be disappointed at first. After all, he thought he’d meet an outgoing social butterfly – which maybe you are – but not someone who covers their flushed face as soon as he’d play back some of the things you wrote in your letters, against a wall in Edoras. Even in the candlelight, he can make out your blush. However, after overcoming this initial disappointment he delights in your little interactions.

･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.

Éowyn would need more time than others to realise the difference between your letters and your real personality. She’d mirror your forward flirts and innuendos and not notice at all how incredibly flustered you’d get – not until someone would point it out to her. She’d apologise immediately and ask with what you’d be comfortable, because that is her end goal after all – to make you feel good ♡

･ﾟ✧ Faramir.

Poor Faramir would probably think something was wrong with him, or that you were disappointed by him in person. After all, why else wouldn’t you initiate any touches or flirtatious whispers, something that would be more in line with your letters? It’d take him some time to understand that you simply weren’t that kind of person. Needless to say, he’d happily take on the job of initiating affection himself!

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

Being the dreamy bookworm that he is, Frodo initially thinks that you two were essentially role-playing in your letters! It is only when you apologise to him for being so flustered and nervous when he takes your hand that he understands. He’ll just laugh and tell you he wasn’t as adventurous as the character in his letters either. “Why, we can be flustered together then, can’t we? I’d like that.”

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

Galadriel, of course, cannot be fooled when it comes to your feelings. She is quite content with knowing only your thoughts, be it through letters or telepathy. That said, she likes to indulge in the occasional handholding, while always making sure you’re not pushed too far out of your comfort zone.

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf wouldn’t buy into your letters in the first place. While he does find them amusing to read, he knows very well how you get in person with just as little as a kiss. He accepts you as you are and doesn’t push anything on you that makes you uncomfortable. He also makes you laugh quite a bit with the letters he sends back to you!

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

Gimli finds your letters, no matter how spicy they actually were, quite scandalous – in a good way! He keeps them a well-kept secret, delighting every time you write him a few lines. He doesn’t see that big of a discrepancy between the characters of your letters and in person. He likes you as a whole. To him, it is fairly normal that one is more forward and suave when having hours to think of what to write, instead of a spontaneous display of affection.

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Haldir cannot help but feel a gust of gratification after realising just how easily flustered you’d get in person. He deems it payback for all those shameless letters you keep writing him! However, that also means the stony Elf has to get out of his comfort zone: If he really wants to embarrass you, he’ll have to initiate a kiss or two, sooner or later… How unfortunate (not)!

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Legolas would definitely approach your shy personality with “training” – meaning he would initiate many romantic gestures and little displays of affection, just so that you could get used to them and more comfortable in your relationship with him. He’d be mischievous but never cruel: “Why do you not try to go ahead and kiss me, dearest? There is no need to be shy with me!” He’d even guide your hands, your chin, etc. ♡

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Although Merry has very eagerly sent you just as flirty letters backs, he is pleasantly surprised to meet you in person and finding that you would blush and get flustered so easily. He’d explain it to you as almost having ‘two partners’ – a ‘two for one’ deal, so to speak! He’s immensely excited about this difference but always makes sure to keep it a secret between the two of you.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

Pippin would grow ten feet tall (haha) once he learned how shy and lovestruck you were in person. Because of his playful character, he’d tease you while trying to make you more comfortable, à la: “I dare you to hold my hand right now! If you don’t, I’ll just take yours!” That said, Pippin would totally write back letters that are just as flirty and spicy as yours!

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

Sam may be very shy himself, but he is absolutely charmed by your sweet blushes and cute whispers whenever he takes your hand or gives you a kiss. The man is just head over heels in love with you! Although he knows how you’ll react, it always takes him by surprise, and he’ll grin widely as you try to hide your blush.

#lotr imagine #lotr headcanons #lotr x reader #aragorn x reader #arwen x reader #boromir x reader #elrond x reader #eomer x reader #eowyn x reader #faramir x reader #frodo x reader #galadriel x reader #gandalf x reader #gimli x reader #haldir x reader #legolas x reader #merry x reader #pippin x reader #samwise x reader #* ask #* request #* fluffy

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

I think what I like best about Éomer and why he’s my favorite LOTR character is that he’s so thoroughly relatable. He’s not an ennobled elf with thousands of years of wisdom. He doesn’t come from an exalted bloodline with the intellectual and cultural inheritance of Numenor behind him. He’s not a sweet, gold-hearted little naif with unlimited stores of optimism. (There’s nothing wrong with anyone who meets those definitions–I just don’t personally see myself in them!) He’s a real, living, breathing human who has limitations and makes mistakes and gets cranky but is always trying to do the right thing. And that really speaks to me.

Even better, he usually succeeds despite his limitations (he is never taken in by Grima or Saruman, he helps Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli even though doing so forces him to break Rohan law, etc.) because he’s an excellent judge of character, always has good intentions, and *most importantly to me* he learns and grows from his mistakes. Éomer has no problem taking in new info, admitting that he was wrong, and then course correcting as needed (he literally says the words “I would gladly learn better” at one point!). It happens over and over, after his prejudices against the elves are called out, during his interactions with Ghan Buri Ghan, once Gandalf wizard-splains the concept of patriarchy to him, etc. He doesn’t get defensive or try to justify bad beliefs and practices. He is open-minded and humble enough to update his understanding of the world and then try to do better. Why wouldn’t I love that?

Oh, and he’s hot. Just, like, scaldingly hot.

#eomer #eomer eadig #lotr #lord of the rings #he’s the best #I love a man who can admit when he’s wrong and learn from his mistakes

[estelofrivendell]

Hello ! Hope you're doing well

Could you please write a Legolas x Reader where the reader is playing piano (i know piano don't exist in LOTR lol so actually it could be any other instruments, I just prefer piano) during the Rohirrim party and Legolas fell even harder for them and thought it was the right time to confess his feelings (if you can also include that they've been distancing lately)

Hope it is not too much and take your time to write it!!

Legolas x Reader (The Pianist)

A/N: Hope you like this, anon! Legolas is a little tricky to write, trying to get better with him and his characterization.

The Rohirrim were a merry bunch, there was no doubt about that. Despite the heavy losses in Helm’s Deep, the return of Gandalf and Éomer lifted their spirits greatly. 

The celebration began as soon as they returned to Edoras with Merry and Pippin, cheerful and energetic as always. Legolas was unsure if he was dreaming but he swore the two hobbits were not as tall as they are now the last time he saw them.

After Gimli passed out, Legolas checked the great hall to find the remaining ones not yet intoxicated. There was Aragorn, who never took in more than he wanted to, Éowyn, who did not seem to enjoy these kinds of things. And there was you, playing the piano and surrounded by jolly men singing a song about falling in love.

If the theme of the party was to celebrate the recent victory and honor the fallen, then everyone was miserably failing, because they sure are not making any mention of the dead in their song.

As soon as the song came to an end, he approached you, narrowly avoiding the tipsy men about to bump into him and passed by others who lost their balance. You looked up at him and grinned.

“Hello, Legolas,” you greeted cheerfully. “Would you care to join me?”

“I am afraid I am not very skilled at the piano,” said Legolas. “I do, however, take pride in my skill at the harp. You never told me you played the piano.”

“You never asked.”

True enough, Legolas felt he did not know you well. He started off preferring your company over the others, especially Gimli’s, but in a strange twist of fate, he would not hesitate to call Gimli his best friend now. You were what he liked to call thoughtful; always thinking of the future, hoping for the best instead of the worst. He was no cynic even if the odds point to a complete destruction of the world and someone like you and your optimism was a refresher.

Legolas thought this was the right moment to start over. “We speak little to each other lately. Perhaps at dusk you could teach me how to play the piano and get to know each other more.”

“I would love to.”

-

“It’s not that hard, Legolas. You’re tensing up. Everyone has to start somewhere, and if I can do it, then so can you.”

Legolas could read basic piano sheets and memorised all the keys and what notes they represented,  but couldn’t hit the notes as well as he wished. One second, he’ll be playing fine but his fingers would suddenly tense and make it difficult for him to continue, abruptly ending his practice awkwardly.

“It happens to the best of us,” you insisted. “Besides, you’re lucky enough to have all your life to master the piano.”

Legolas chuckled. “That is true.”

And for the first time in what he guessed was weeks, Legolas felt light heartened, like he always was before you two grew distant from each other. He’s not sure how it happened but he was sorry those weeks were wasted with lack of interaction instead of getting closer to you.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Legolas asked.

“Not at the moment, no,” you said. “Why?”

“If you would let me, I would like to take you out for a ride at dawn. Edoras has a lot of lovely things to offer. We could talk about that and more about each other.”

You smiled. “That they do. I’d love to, Legolas. I think you're wonderful to be around.”

#lord of the rings imagine #lotr imagine #legolas x reader #legolas imagine

[sluttyseacadet]

good evening please interact with this post if you blog about éomer, lothíriel or rohan in general because I need more of them

#éomer #lothíriel #rohan #brainrot bad

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 3 of 6

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: Confronting the stark reality of their disparities, Éomer and Éorhild resign themselves to the belief that their paths shall never intertwine again. However, unforeseen developments at Meduseld present Éorhild with a fresh opportunity—one that has the potential to either elate her or become the wellspring of profound sorrow.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 8,888

Note: This feels a bit more like a filler chapter, but I promise that it's important!

Read it on AO3 here.

Unlike most mornings, Éorhild was not roused with ease when Tidrun nudged her awake for her to assume her shift.  With a groan, she withdrew her head beneath the sheepskin, tousling her locks into a matted mess. She harboured no desire to emerge from the comforting isolation of her straw bed, longing for nothing more than to evade conversation with anyone. Aware that she was entrusted with a position at the royal household's breakfast service, she anticipated that the mere sound of Éomer’s voice would shatter her composure.

After all, the flow of tears shed the previous night rendered her eyes so tender that opening them seemed an unsurmountable endeavour. They stung and itched, instigating a longing for ice to deflate and soothe them despite her limbs and joints already stiffened by the biting cold in the servants’ quarters. The hearth’s fire had been neglected by the night maids, and the stooped silhouettes bore witness to it.

Every fibre of her being ached — her body, heart, soul. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Why rouse from slumber to meander through the day and yearn for the sweet respite of bedtime when all feelings are dulled and dimmed? Why exert effort when nobody would take notice? Why, oh why, love when her heart was fated to be torn asunder by the forbidden?

As pragmatic and assured as she had been when reminding the prince of their reality, emphasising his duty to wed Lady Lothíriel to secure Rohan’s future with a queen and heirs, she now regretted her grounded perspective. A profound despair boiled within her, prompting her to cast aside all traces of reason and crawl to Éomer’s quarters, where she would implore and beg him to flee the realm with her. Away from Meduseld, away from duty, away from the social fortress dividing them. They could forge a new abode together, a sanctuary where they would be granted the unrestrained expression of their affection. Gone would be the fear of beholding him! No longer would she be plagued by the dread of being discovered holding his hand. They would be liberated. Free to touch. Free to love.

Tidrun hushed something to lure her from the embrace of her bed. The syllables swirled and danced across the gap between the two maids but dissipated long before they graced Éorhild’s ears. Without deigning to request a repetition, she stirred with a nonchalant grunt, shedding the sheepskin from her figure with a swift flick of her foot. At her sight, there was a subtle recoil from the other servant, who tried vainly to contain the involuntary gasp passing her parted lips.

‘By all that is sacred, Éorhild, what has happened to you?’ she enquired, her genuine concern etched onto her traits and a hand veiling her ample bosom. ‘You look as though you have not found rest in centuries!’

Irritated by Tidrun’s comment, which only intensified her wish to withdraw from social interactions, Éorhild offered a shrug as a sole response, stifling a yawn. As her fingers traversed through her hair, they encountered stubborn knots obstructing their passage. With feeble momentum, she dragged herself upright, shuddering as the soles of her feet were met by the iciness of the stone floor.

After retrieving her clean uniform from the wardrobe that had been replenished overnight, she tiptoed to the shared washroom, mumbling greetings to her friends who were winding down after diligently scrubbing, sweeping, ironing and folding all night. She handed a well-worn bar of soap that had been forgotten on the table to one of her colleagues immersed in bathwater. The other maid sat with her legs hooked over the edge of the wooden tub, her calves dripping onto the floor.

Indeed, the sole distinction between that morning and all the others from the past sixteen years lay in the silent yet devastating heartbreak that gripped Éorhild. The passing of the torch from the night maids to the cooks and morning servants unfolded as it always did — an everlasting design, unyielding to change. A gentle nudge from the next occupant of her bed would serve as her wake-up call. One or two of the servants would parade or bathe in the nude in the washroom as they unwind before retiring for some well-deserved rest. Balwinë, perennially forgetful, would seek her soap or towel — when not both at once.

Éorhild’s ritual had long been bereft of spontaneity. It operated with unsurprising precision, each step occurring almost at the same hour as the previous morning. Anticipating the night maids’ sloth, she unfailingly bathed before bed, also driven by a desire to keep the straw bed neat between uses. Upon awakening, she would make a brief visit to the privy, followed by a thorough wash of her hands, mouth, and face. Then, once adorned in her uniform, a mere pass of a comb through her hair was required before she proceeded to feast on seasonal fruit in the kitchens.

Always the same cycle. Never anything new.

For the past moons, Éomer had been a delightful disruption in this routine. Not that he would partake in it, of course, but his haunting Éorhild’s mind provided another reason for her to rise every morning. The sole thought of pouring his wine, laundering his tunics and ensuring their impeccable care would make her heart flutter with excitement. Even more vigorously would it beat later in the evening when she would enter the Golden Hall and find him by the hearth, eagerly awaiting to exchange pleasantries and laughter.

But those days were gone. Now, she had to live in fear of their embraces and kisses being discovered, even though they would exert every effort to maintain a distance between each other. There was dread in hearing footsteps near the door of the maids’ room, preparing her for the prospect of surrender if the visitor happened to be a guard arresting her before her execution. The image was clear as day: the gleaming blade of Herugrim poised in the sunlight above her exposed neck, followed by its swift descent that would sever her head from her slumped shoulders in one clean slash.

As Éorhild’s fingers crept up around her neck, she cast a defeated glance towards the window, behind which a vibrant sunrise was unfurling. Was he thinking about her? Did his sleep mirror the turmoil that troubled her own? Did he lie in his bed reminiscing about their first kiss? Did he shed a tear for her?

Or had he briskly cast her from his thoughts altogether, erasing any semblance of their friendship from his memory?

Catching herself with tears brimming in her eyes, she drew a sharp breath and followed her routine. When he exited the washroom, a group of maids stood by the revived flames in the hearth, palms extended for warmth, as they gossiped in hushed tones, careful not to disturb the others.

‘… not found?’

Éorhild trudged towards the door, apprehending her duties at the breakfast service. She yearned to negotiate with one of her fellow workers, willing to shoulder another day of work on top of her own if it meant that she could evade being in Éomer’s presence at breakfast. Yet she had to resign to face reality. One day or another, she would have to cross his path again. What difference did it make, whether it was on that day or within a month? The pain within her heart would remain unchanged.

Kneeling on the floor to lace up her leather slippers, which she retrieved from a row of shoes by the door, one of the maids engaged in the conversation around the fire called out her name. Refusing to partake in any gossip, she ignored her, pretending not to have heard her at all. As she spoke anyway, she deflected her attention to the common bristle brush, running it against the tip of her shoe to rid it of dirt and grime. And with it, pieces of moss from the hillside escapade with Éomer.

‘… guard exiled!’

Tapping the bristles against the doorpost, Éorhild placed the brush back where she found it before leaving for the kitchens. On her way, she overheard whispers and gasps from the household staff, yet she found no inclination to listen. With each step, her pace weighed heavier, as though she was marching inexorably to her own doom.

‘… a replacement?’

‘Oh, Béma preserve her!’

Using the edge of her hand, she pushed the door to the kitchen open. Inside, several cooks were already engrossed around the stoves, seasoning meat or toasting bread in sizzling oil. Others stood hunched over cutting planks, slicing fresh bread whose aroma filled the air, and arranging the slices into a lavish woven basket. Éorhild nodded at one of them, who greeted her with a brief hand wave. Pulling her headscarf from her pocket, she kept her back to the wall and concealed her hair underneath the thin linen.

‘It is going to be a normal day,’ she silently attempted to comfort herself as her heart thundered inside her chest and her stomach churned. She was aware that upon exiting the kitchen, Éomer would be seated in the hall beside his uncle. ‘There is no reason to worry. Nobody will know we ever kissed if we do not speak to one another.’

Yet once she came to face the fruit basket from which the maids were allowed to help themselves, a lump formed in her throat. A violent heave in her stomach seized her, causing her to stumble back. All colours drained from her cheeks as she pressed the pads of her fingers against her lips as if to stave off the urge to retch. All sounds from the kitchen were dulled by the overwhelming pounding of her heart echoing in her ears. Her fingers clawed at her shirt, but much to her relief, the nausea subsided as promptly as it had come.

‘Éorhild?’ a voice called out to her. Her eyes searched frantically for its source and locked with Mildrid, one of the senior maids tasked with setting up a presentable fruit basket for the royal family. The woman rushed to her side and held her firmly by the waist, touching her forehead with the back of her fingers. ‘Dearie, you are as pale as the first snow! Are you feeling well?’

‘Yes, Mil,’ she responded with an audible gulp, fearing that her dizziness might return. ‘I believe that I moved too fast. My night has not been the most restorative.’

‘Obviously not; your eyes are red beacons. Well, if you say that you are fine, I will trust you, but if your state persists, you must inform me right away.’

‘I promise, Mil. But you know me, I am too tough for any ailment.’

Mildrid chuckled and patted her shoulders before returning to her task. At least, she had believed her. Éorhild sighed and eyed the untouched fruit she had intended to eat. Visibly, her sorrow was such that it affected her appetite. Contemplating sinking her teeth through the skin and indulging in its juicy flesh triggered another wave of nausea.

She resigned herself to the prospect of hunger. She could endure an hour or two more of it; surely, she would regain some of her ravenousness once duty would disperse the royal family from the table.

Éorhild assisted Mildrid with preparing baskets and arrangements destined for the hall once the table was set. Before long, the kitchen door opened, and Edelmer, the chamberlain, made his solemn appearance.

‘Their Majesties King Théoden and Lady Éowyn have graced the Golden Hall,’ he heralded. ‘Before you enquire about the rumours that have spread among our kin this morning, we must await further orders from the king. No decision can be made without his approbation. Now, their breakfast service must commence.’

Before Éorhild could seek an explanation from Mildrid, as she found herself unsure of what Edelmer could mean, the older woman thrust a pitcher of cider into her hands.

‘Oversee the serving of beverages this morning, dearie,’ she chimed. ‘If the sight of food makes you swoon, I will not have you do so in front of the king.’

She nodded in response, steeling herself before marching out. Thankfully, only the king and Lady Éowyn were present; Edelmer did not mention Éomer. Would he attend at all, or would he forgo his meal to avoid her?

Oh, how she longed to chastise herself and deliver a resounding strike across her own cheek for entertaining such ideas. She had existed merely as a backdrop in Éomer’s life for so long. It was quite implausible for her to occupy his mind and trouble it with her absence as much as she was distraught by the end of their friendship.

When she entered the hall with her head low, she instantly discerned the tension in the king’s demeanour. His fists rested heavily on the wooden table, his thumbs twitching and repeatedly pressing against his curled index. Somehow, the prolonged silence bore a heaviness more pronounced than on ordinary days. It was rare that the king would utter a word at the start of the maids’ morning parade, but his stillness was usually ceremonious. But this time, it was disturbed by the muffled gritting of his teeth as he clenched his jaw. He did not pay the servants much mind when they lined up and bowed respectfully before covering the table with the various treats and delicacies prepared with utter devotion. Only Éowyn thanked them.

Éorhild approached the table and poured cider into the lady’s cup, careful not to spill it onto her fingers. She retreated to the frame of one of the arches behind her, awaiting any shift in the king’s demeanour that would signal his desire for a drink. It would not happen for a few minutes; King Théoden always made a point of devouring meat and a slice of bread before indulging in a beverage to quench his thirst and soothe his parched throat.

‘Uncle,’ Éowyn spoke, ‘please tell me that the gossip in our halls is false. Surely you did not administer such harsh judgement!’

Théoden picked a slice of bread and tossed it into his plate.

‘Our law is our law, Éowyn,’ his voice echoed throughout the lofty hall, carrying its sternness. ‘If anything, I have been nothing but merciful.’

Éorhild stared at the table’s feet, her curiosity piqued. Listening to the king’s conversations was always something she did, but it was merely to detect any shift in his tone or words that would betray thirst or hunger, which she could solve by filling his goblet or presenting him with food. This time, it appeared that something was amiss in Meduseld. Something ominous and noticeably troubling the Lady of Rohan.

Her speculations drifted to Éomer’s absence at the table, and her heart raced anew. Could it be that the guard had, in fact, detected her presence under the prince’s mantle the previous night and denounced her? If any punishment had been meted out against the king’s nephew, then it would explain his niece’s anxiety.

It could also signify an impending risk of her being arrested at any moment.

As her throat constricted with the weight of what this dreadful notion entailed, footsteps resounded beneath the opposite arches, prompting a visible relaxation in the king’s body language.

‘Ah, Éomer, there you are,’ he exclaimed.

Éorhild stiffened, meticulously counting every breath she took to anchor herself and keep another wave of nausea at bay. A chair was drawn out from underneath the table in a screech, and the prince sat with a heavy sigh. A moment passed before Mildrid gently elbowed her with a subtle chin jerk to alert her to him holding out his cup. Éorhild murmured an apology and stepped forth to tip the pitcher over his goblet with a trembling hand. She pressed a folded napkin against the container’s beak to blot any stray drop and joined the servants’ rank again.

‘So,’ the king started, ‘did you oversee what I told you to?’

‘Yes, uncle. The girl’s room has been cleared of all her belongings, and she has vacated the premises.’

‘Very well,’ Théoden said before marking a pause to savour his relief. ‘Tell me, had you observed any similar impudence from the girl?’

‘No, uncle. I was just as surprised to learn of it as you were.’

A sharp thump caused by a raging fist made all the cutlery laid out on the table clatter, and cups threatened to tumble. Servants, king and prince jolted from Éowyn’s outburst as her strained breathing disrupted the ensuing stillness.

‘I cannot believe that you are letting this happen! Both of you!’ she chided. Éorhild could perceive from the uncomfortable shuffling of Éomer’s feet that his sister’s reprimand humbled him. ‘She is but a girl, not yet eighteen if I am to trust Dúnhild!’

‘Éowyn, be still,’ the king’s voice rose in irritation. ‘She betrayed her oath and, as such, she must face the consequences of her actions. I showed enough mercy considering that he was a guard and not a courtier.’

A scoff escaped the lady’s throat.

‘There have been much worse affronts committed in this court that were not met with such drastic and cruel measures, uncle. Do you not remember Lord Gammer, who struck his wife unconscious for merely drinking more mead than he had allowed her during our annual banquet? You pardoned him with little more than a slap on the wrist!’

‘This was a different situation entirely.’

‘Indeed, because I found myself stitching the wound on her scalp that night. She could have been gravely injured had her son not caught her!’

‘Precisely. She could have. Yet she did not.’

Éowyn groaned in frustration and seemed to turn to her brother as if to bid him an unspoken plea for his support. Éomer did not respond. He evaded eye contact, sipping at his cider.

‘I know that all our maids swear an oath upon entering our service,’ the lady conceded through gritted teeth, toying with a piece of fruit on her plate without ever bringing it to her mouth, ‘but there was nothing inherently wrong with her action. Éomer had relieved her of her duties when it occurred, and Fréagar had already left his post. None of it was disruptive to their work!’

Théoden slammed his fist on the table in turn, mirroring his niece’s indignation. She froze and stared at the king, anticipating his following words.

‘An oath sworn is ineffable, and it is about time that you understand it if you are to marry Faramir,’ he retaliated, raising a finger to halt her from speaking before she could even open her mouth. ‘Our tradition is simple. Maids are not to take lovers of any kind. Neither affairs nor husbands. They pledge to remain celibate for a reason. I should have had her executed for her betrayal, but I decided to opt for leniency, considering that Fréagar was but a guard.’

‘How dare you call their humiliation and banishment from Edoras lenient? Théodil was but an orphaned girl when Hilda presented her to us when her previous employer passed. She was born within our ramparts; she has nowhere else to go.’

‘Let it serve as a warning to all the other maids who might wish to commit the same crime.’

Éowyn’s chair dragged against the stone as she rose to her feet, tossing her napkin onto the table.

‘Times are immune to change in this wretched land, it seems,’ she hissed. ‘I no longer wish to speak of it. You know my opinion on the matter, and I have no say in your decisions. I will not share your meals for the rest of the day. Good day.’

With these words, the Lady of Rohan stormed out of the hall, returning to her chambers with her maid, Dúnhild, in tow. Once she was out of sight, the king sank back against his chair and sighed, tapping his cup as a cue that he desired to indulge in some cider. While Éorhild tended to him, another servant carried Éowyn’s chair back to the kitchen and cleared her unfinished plate.

‘Do not mind your sister’s antics,’ Théoden huffed, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You are well aware of her proclivity for overreaction. As much as I love her, I find myself wondering whether I have indulged her too much over the years and inhibited her maturation in the process.’

Without emitting as much as a sound, Éomer responded with a mere shrug, holding his cup before his face. From where she stood, Éorhild could discern his white knuckles as he clasped the silver receptacle, which seemed to elude the king. Underneath the table, the prince’s leg shook up and down, attesting to his disapproval of his uncle’s stance and the insult against Éowyn. Yet, he did not voice it.

Fright gripped Éorhild now that she comprehended the situation. Later that morning, Mildrid explained that Théodil, Éomer’s chambermaid whom Hámer sought the previous night, had neglected to attend a small gathering in the servants’ quarters to celebrate the birthday of one of the younger girls employed at Meduseld. It could have remained unnoticed had the chambermaid and the girl not been close friends. Assuming that Théodil might have lost track of time, one of the maids visited her private chamber on the opposite wing of the Golden Hall, only to find the room empty and the bed untouched. After an unfruitful hour-long search, the servants had alerted some guards, who aided them in their endeavour. It took them another hour to discover Théodil and Fréagar in the throes of passion behind the stables. Éomer had been instantly notified, and the king was sent for.

Within just a few moments, the chambermaid and the guard had been banished from the capital for life for their actions. They were allowed the night to collect their belongings and return equipment and uniforms. By the early hours of the day, they were expected to disappear from Meduseld, forbidden to bid farewell to their fellow maids and guards.

Fear surged into Éorhild’s veins as she stood there, eyes riveted to the ground, and perspiration forming in the hollow of her palm rendered her grip on the jug of cider unstable. To remain inconspicuous, she had to clench her teeth to muffle their clattering as her whole body quivered from her sheer mortification at the odds of being denounced for what happened between her and the prince. All hope dwindled as she surrendered to panic and imagined Éomer incriminating her should she ever do something that displeased him — a prospect now heightened by the sudden pressure she shouldered. Flashes of her vision for her execution resurfaced, nearly blinding her and almost prompting the pitcher to slip from her fingers and shatter at her feet.

Éomer would never do that. Hopefully, he had appreciated her enough to spare her life. At least, that was a comforting thought.

Théoden held out his goblet, and Éorhild summoned what she perceived as a tremendous effort merely to advance and pour the amber-coloured nectar.

‘Now there remains one issue on our plate,’ the king spoke, raising his hand when the cup was only about half-full. The maid bowed and stepped away again under the prince’s stern yet fond watch. ‘We must find a replacement for that foolish girl. I will ask Edelmer to survey the maids and choose the most apt one. We must only hope that the new servant will be up to the task and not let herself be corrupted by frivolous guards.’

Furtive but knowing glances were exchanged between the maids, who endeavoured to maintain their composure. This was no ordinary opportunity for them. Becoming a chambermaid to one of the royals entailed several benefits. Allowances were increased, thus enabling them to afford more than the simplest products at the merchants’ stalls. For the younger ones who were still bound to a family, it meant sending a portion of their wages to support their parents and siblings and, therefore, honouring their name. Tasks were fewer and demanded less time, provided the maid displayed efficiency and thoroughness, granting her more moments for recreation. Her status within the hierarchy of household staff was favoured, as some daunting duties could no longer be demanded of her. If, after one month in Éomer’s care, he still found satisfaction in her service, she could renounce her previous oath as a regular servant and swear a new one.

Many were the speculations surrounding this new oath. Unlike the vows that Éorhild once made, those of a chambermaid were never pronounced publicly. Royals often tailored their demands from their new personal servants based on the relationship they developed with them and their own needs. As such, no oath resembled another. For this reason, they were usually made to the royal and, if permitted, a magistrate who could produce a written record of what was promised, should the need arise. Tales of old once spoke of a prince who instructed his chambermaid to vow to strike him if he ever came to be too harsh on his children. Legend had it that the maid only raised her hand once on the prince, and he never again displayed such behaviour towards his heirs, such had his guilt been.

Of course, this was but a legend. Whenever a chambermaid position would open, many of the younger servants would seek to claim it in hopes of securing an arrangement with the noble they served and ridding themselves of their celibacy vows. Many harboured dreams of dalliance with noblemen from distant towns in Rohan and Gondor during their visits, while others would find satisfaction in encountering a handsome ostler and guiding them through the city during their leisure hours before stealing kisses in the hall’s shadows.

But all of that required the royal family’s approbation, and the chance for it to happen was meagre. Not that the royals found it a revolting thought in itself, but rather because they bore weightier concerns on their minds than the celibacy — or lack thereof — of their maids. Some rulers who were more bound to traditions categorically refused to let it happen, for they believed that a good servant was unmarried, childless, and solely devoted to the care of the royal house and its children.

In the peculiar case of Théodil, no new oath had been sworn due to the war, when she assumed the duties of her predecessor, slain during the Battle of the Hornburg. Consequently, she remained bound by her earlier vows, and her liaison with Fréagar yielded disastrous consequences.

Éomer drank the last of his cider and placed the goblet on the table, his gaze fixed upon it for a fleeting moment, lost in contemplation.

‘There is no need to trouble good Edelmer, uncle,’ his baritone voice rose. ‘If you will allow me, I want to choose my chambermaid. One whom I can trust.’

‘That is certainly a strange request,’ Théoden scoffed. ‘Edelmer knows them better than anyone in this palace.’

‘And I do not deny it at all. Only there is one servant in particular whose talents are wasted here. She has been happily serving us for a long time and has done so outstandingly. In all sixteen years of her tending to us, I have never noted a single mistake on her part. She is most excellent.’

Éorhild’s complexion lost all its hues, and she stood frozen. This time, her trembling hands were too unstable to maintain a firm grip on the jug’s handle. Before she even realised that she had let it slip, Mildrid caught it just in the nick of time, saving it from shattering on the floor. The older woman placed it back in her hands and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a silent indication that she was ordering her to return to bed once the king and the prince finished their breakfast.

Yet she paid no attention to her, offering neither nod nor acknowledgement. Éomer’s words echoed within the walls of her mind, reverberating and filling her with newfound dread.

This could not be happening.

She must have misunderstood.

Béma, please let it be a delusion.

Théoden reclined in his chair and eyed his nephew over a slice of cheese.

‘If you are so sure of yourself, then name her, and we shall fetch her.’

Éomer glanced over the king’s shoulder and witnessed the panic exuding from the young woman’s demeanour. Despite her averted gaze, he knew her well enough to sense that his desire to bring her closer to him again was instilling fear within her. She needed not to speak nor move to convey it.

No harm would befall her. He would ensure that. Any soul audacious enough to stand between them or lay a finger on her would never know peace until Éomer dealt with them. Jealousy and possessiveness were not ingrained in his nature. However, in the course of the previous months, a profound connection had formed between them, one that he cherished to the extent of willingly sacrificing the whole world for her well-being. Within a heartbeat, he would forsake throne and crown. He would relinquish his wealth and armour for a single night in her arms. He would crawl through the mud and soil his name to build a home for her to enjoy with his blood, sweat and tears.

Valar, she needed only ask.

The prince held out his hand towards her, although she remained unaware of it.

‘Her name is Éorhild. She is behind you.’

Théoden raised a discerning eyebrow, and his pupils followed the direction indicated by his nephew. As he scrutinised each maid, anticipating the right one to step forward and introduce herself, Mildrid discreetly nudged Éorhild in the ribs. Lost in thought, her mind was reduced to little more than entangled questions and what she pictured to be the worst outcomes of becoming a chambermaid. The tap extracted her from the mess of it all, and she advanced, bowing ceremoniously.

She could not allow it to diminish her. Though uncertain of the next step in her fate, she resigned herself to this unexpected turn of events. Answers would come to her in time.

‘Your Majesty,’ she spoke with the usual solemn tone she reserved for the House of Éorl.

‘Speak your name again, child,’ Théoden demanded.

‘Éorhild, my liege.’

The king inspected her without leaving the comfort of his chair. A heavy silence lingered for a few moments as the young woman remained bowed in deference.

‘I recognise you,’ he uttered with a deliberate nod, ‘although you have grown since our last encounter. You are the orphan from the Westfold that Hilda insisted on taking in, are you not? The woman nearly begged me. Well. As much as I trusted Hilda, it seems that one of her former pupils caused quite a stir at court last night. I hope you are intelligent enough to abstain from causing such trouble again.’

‘Indeed, I am the child you speak of. If Your Grace grants me a position in the prince’s care, you can rest assured that he will not lack anything. The discomfort of a bed shall never haunt his slumber, for I shall always strive to keep it neat.’

A fond smile graced Éomer’s lips; much to his relief, it remained unnoticed by the king. Théoden considered the servant’s words, running his thumb along his beard.

‘Are you aware that the role of chambermaid is rather different from what you might expect at this court, young Éorhild?’ he enquired with an eyebrow raised. ‘In addition to overseeing the cleanliness of the prince’s chambers, you would also serve as his lady-in-waiting. Your responsibilities would extend to rousing him, dressing him and tending to his attire. Remind him of the duties ahead and accompany him if he demands it. Should his meals occur at a different time than ours, you must ensure he receives his sustenance.’

As Théoden detailed the expectations for the role she was being thrown into, the lump in Éorhild’s throat swelled, making every new breath an ordeal. Her shoulders slumped underneath the weight of what was to come. Upon hearing Éomer name her, she had dared to hope that her contact with him would be confined to the mundane tasks of changing his bedlinen and tending to his chambers. The prospect of becoming his lady-in-waiting, however, brought forth a tumult of anxiety manifesting in a violent churn of her stomach. Nausea, the likes of which had seized her in the kitchens, resurfaced, and the pinching of her lips stood as the only obstacle to her heaving over Meduseld’s floor.

Éorhild’s sanity drowned under her raging thoughts, each capricious wave bringing a heavy burden of anguish and uncertainty that submerged even her pleading hand reaching out for safety. She felt like a ship steering into a storm, at the mercy of the tempest within her heart. Being so intimately involved in Éomer’s daily life was both a dream and a nightmare, and she struggled to bring her feet back to solid ground where she had to fear neither heartache nor losing her head.

Oh, what to do?

Théoden cleared his throat upon her lingering silence, growing impatient as the girl remained hunched over her knees. His fingers drummed on the table as irritation tinted his eyes and tensed his traits. As for Éomer, his concern grew as he discerned the encroaching pallor upon her face. Her petrified demeanour tugged at the strings of his heart as he conceded the delicate decision before her.

All he wanted in this instant was to draw her into the comfort of his arms.

‘Well, girl, do you accept this task?’ Théoden urged. ‘Speak!’

Éorhild drew in a sharp breath and clutched the jug.

‘I accept, your Majesty.’

‘Ah, I was beginning to think that you were mute! Very well. As with any chambermaid, your initiation involves a one-month trial period, effective immediately. If my nephew is satisfied with your service, then he will have you swear the oath. If not, you will be allowed back as a simple maid.’

‘Thank you, your Majesty. I shall work hard not to disappoint the prince.’

Théoden gestured with his hand, signalling for her to stand upright. The young woman obeyed, keeping her head bowed.

‘Edelmer?’ the king summoned the chamberlain, who promptly appeared at his side. ‘Accompany Éorhild to her new quarters and guide her through what is expected of her. Show her all there is to know.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘And Éorhild,’ the monarch continued, turning to her instead, ‘it is no longer required of you to avert your eyes in our presence. Behold your prince.’

There it was — the moment when she was granted permission to gaze upon the man she coveted. She lifted her chin with gradual deliberation until her eyes met Éomer’s. Rosy hues dotted her warming cheeks as her pupils traced the delicate lines of his face, which she had believed she would never have the chance to admire again.

And just before she caught herself staring, she bowed once more.

‘At last, my prince graces my view,’ she spoke up in appreciation, prompting Théoden to grin in utter amusement. ‘It is an honour I shall never take for granted, as it is to behold my king.’

‘This is certainly devotion if I have ever witnessed it,’ the king laughed. ‘Go and start your initiation. I will have you replaced for the tasks you were initially assigned to.’

‘At your command, Your Grace.’

Mildrid retrieved the pitcher from her hands and offered her arm a congratulatory squeeze. She observed Éorhild as the latter followed the chamberlain to the servants’ quarters to collect her scant belongings. As the maids lounging on the straw mats caught her sifting through the folded uniforms, searching for those adorned with her designated colours embroidered inside the hem, they congregated around her, curious about her impending departure. When Edelmer proclaimed the good news, a blend of celebration and envy emanated from the women. Some displayed authentic joy at her ascension to a better function after so many years of selfless and arduous work; others, more restrained, buried their hopes of liberating themselves from the celibacy vows and the curiosity of gazing upon the royal family.

Éorhild, still rattled by this unexpected change, hardly uttered a word. While the others swarmed her with their questions — especially curious about why the prince would name her in particular — she freed her blond mane from the headscarf and flattened the fabric upon the icy tiles. Setting the uniforms and a few possessions at its centre, she then tied up the corners, forming a bundle. Edelmer carried it for her as she let her fellow maids drown her in warm embraces and well wishes while she humbly thanked each and every one of them, holding their hands or pressing her forehead to theirs as they so often did to support one another through the years.

She departed with a heart divided, torn between the promise of a new opportunity at Éomer’s side and the wrenching sensation of leaving the life she had led since she was twelve.

If only Hilda were still there to guide her. In her typical ways, she would fondly pinch her cheek and punctuate her sentences with léofeon, an antiquated Rohirric term akin to ‘darling’. All the while, she would coax her to the kitchen for a hearty feast of comforting delights she would craft from loose ingredients, some you would never expect to go together so well and yet would taste divine. Hilda’s culinary talents remained unmatched, missed by maids and royal family alike.

In the stillness beyond the reach of curious ears, Hilda would tenderly cradle Éorhild’s head upon her lap while combing her hair and weaving braids into it. A patient listener, she never let her interest waver as the young woman would unburden her heart, and she would never disrupt the thread of shared confidences. Then, once Éorhild brought back to the sanctuary of reassurance, Hilda would impart her wisdom.  She would encourage her to pursue what her heart desired and bestow upon her the most precious counsel life could offer.

No soul was ever lost if sheltered beneath Hilda’s wing.

How might she have perceived her former protégée now entangled in the allure of the prince? So desperately enamoured with him that she broke sacred rules in the king’s back?

There was no doubt that she would have strongly disapproved of it. She not only condemned her heart to endless suffering from an impossible love, but she was also losing sight of what truly mattered. A perilous path that would inevitably cause her downfall.

Yet, Éorhild kept following Edelmer to her new quarters, located merely two doors from Éomer’s. While far from luxurious, they offered privacy at the very least. Upon seeing the solitary bed nestled against the wall, elevated on feet and enclosing an actual mattress, the realisation struck her. In sixteen years, she had never spent a night alone.

She wondered if she was even capable of it. How does one find the relief of warmth without companions to huddle together with? How does one awake without the gentle nudge of a chambermate? Can one surrender to the enticing embrace of slumber when there is no sound to be perceived, whether it be groans or snores?

Éorhild had to figure it out on her own. Novelty certainly did not limit itself to the duties at hand.

As Edelmer stepped outside to grant her time to settle in her new quarters, she stood there in bewilderment, with nothing but the clothes on her back to accompany her. Her old uniforms had been taken away, and the chamberlain only needed to retrieve Théodil’s chambermaid clothes in hopes that they, too, would fit her successor. So, having nothing to do, she idled away the minutes by observing her new surroundings.

For a maid’s chamber, the main bedroom was wide enough to allow movement. With its headboard pressed to the wooden panels covering the wall, the bed faced a chest of drawers with ornate brass handles. Placed on top, two handheld candle holders adorned with half-burnt white sticks awaited their new owner. Trickling drops along their lengths were momentarily immortalised once touched by the cold until they would eventually vanish in the flame's heat. They rested upon a linen doily embroidered with traditional Rohirric patterns in golden thread. Éorhild admired it, brushing her fingertips against the curves and overlapping lines, smiling as she recalled watching Hilda create it when she was younger.

Opposite the door, a narrow window overlooking the valley enabled just enough light to penetrate the room and enfold anything or anyone standing in its beam with its warm mantle. A potted flower graced the thin windowsill, its drooping petals visibly as delighted about the arrival of winter as Éorhild herself. It was probably one of Théodil’s belongings, one discarded or forgotten in the rush of her departure.

On the left side of the room, the nearest corner encroached a sturdy chest, while, next to the window, a simple door opened onto a cramped washroom. Barely enough room existed for a tub, sheltered beneath a shelf adorned with a few towels and a supply of soap bars swathed in leaves. Behind the door, carved into the floor and digging underneath the palace, there was a pipe covered with a hatch through which she could dispose of her waste, a feature that the servants’ quarters lacked. Tossing the contents of chamber pots through the tiny windows that seldom allowed their arms to go through without spilling now seemed a thing from the past.

Life was about to change in ways she had not anticipated. It had all come so fast, at absolute breakneck speed. As she stood by the window to admire the view, Éorhild sighed and wrapped her arms around herself.

Behind her, the door creaked open, and Edelmer appeared with a stack of different uniforms balanced on his forearm. Once they ensured they were comfortable enough for her to wear, the chamberlain showed her all she needed to know about her new duties. She proceeded to strip the prince’s bed from its sheets, replacing them with clean bedlinen that Théodil had scented with dried flowers from the valley. The following hours she spent washing, hanging, dusting, wiping, and sweeping, regarding each task with the utmost seriousness. With a resolve she did not imagine herself capable of demonstrating, she forbade her inner turmoil from disrupting the thoroughness of her labour. Not a single surface was left with so much as a speck of dust. Not an inch of the wooden floor was left unpolished and dull. Not a wrinkle from the pressed bedsheets was allowed to persist. She departed the prince’s room in no time, leaving chambers more immaculate than they had ever been.

Soon enough, there were no more tasks for her to complete, considering that Éomer had been called out to survey the garrison at the city gates. In such circumstances, Edelmer sat her down around a cup of steaming herbal tea and detailed the lady-in-waiting part of her role, patiently answering her questions and advising her on how to proceed.

A few hours later, Éorhild emerged from the washroom, enveloped in the lingering fragrance of perfumed bathwater. Dressed in simple brown robes, she sat on the windowsill and rested her head against the icy glass. Outside, the world had come to a standstill as the moon rose into the sky, a beacon of light and hope in an otherwise cold and lonely night. Unable to quell her cruel thoughts, she could not help but remember that at the same hour a mere day prior, she was safe in Éomer’s embrace, her lips pressed against his. And there she was, thrust into a dance she was not quite sure she could follow, stumbling on her own feet.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her brooding, instantly bringing her solace. Solitude was clearly not her natural state. Shifting her weight to her dangling leg and standing up from the windowsill, she readjusted the belt around her waist and turned to the door.

‘Come in.’

Her relief was short-lived. At the doorstep stood the prince himself with his breastplate tucked under his arm. His brow glistened with perspiration in the halo of the candlelight as he stepped inside.

Éomer retained his striking handsomeness.

‘I hope that I am not disturbing your peace,’ he murmured. ‘I was merely wondering if you would grant me a moment to speak to you.’

With a tightening sensation gripping her chest, she stiffened and offered him a bow, which seemed to displease him.

‘You are the prince, my lord; if you wish to speak, you need only say the word.’

‘Éorhild, please…’

The new chambermaid stood upright again and stared at him with pleading eyes, growing mistier by the second as he graced her sight.

‘What have you done, my lord?’ she blurted out as he shut the door behind him and placed the breastplate on top of her coffer. Her voice quivered with an unyielding tremor, laying bare the concealed pain within. ‘Do you revel in causing me such torment?’

Éomer recoiled in surprise at such accusations.

‘How dare you indict me for such nonsense!’ his voice retorted, bearing a similar trace of anguish to her own. He did not raise it out of fear of being overheard and condemning her with his own indiscretion. ‘Éorhild, if you believe for a moment that I would wish to cause you pain, then perhaps you do not know me nearly as well as you claim.’

‘Then why summon me to your personal service when fully aware of the grief it inflicts upon my soul?’

As tears descended upon her cheeks, he could not restrain himself. He drew near and tucked her head under his chin, holding her close to his heart. Unable to maintain her composure any longer, Éorhild wept openly against his chest, leaving damp marks on the collar of his padded shirt. Heartbroken yet striving to console her, the prince wove his hands through her hair, fondling her scalp and shoulder.

Éomer squeezed his eyes shut until colourful spots danced under his eyelids. Even after allowing his vulnerability to be exposed in front of her the night before, he was determined not to appear weak in her presence again. Partly a matter of pride, having been raised with the harmful idea that men never weep, his main concern was that he did not wish to further her agony. If she were to witness how devastated he indeed was, would it not compel her to tend to his wounded heart, casting aside her own pain until it became too burdensome for her to bear? Éorhild was inherently selfless, and he wished not to exploit it or permit her to neglect her own well-being.

He had inflicted too much pain upon her already.

Éorhild clung desperately to his shirt, tears soaking the fabric as she found herself too feeble to cease her sobbing.

‘I cannot do this, my lord,’ she hiccupped. ‘Spending every moment by your side when my heart desires you so! Torment. It is truly nothing but torment!’

Éomer pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, then leant back, his gaze locking onto hers.

‘I should never have named you; I realise this now,’ he sighed, wiping her drenched face with his thumbs. ‘How selfish of me! All I intended was to keep seeing you without the court’s scrutiny while keeping you safe from gossip, should the events of last night be discovered and denounced. Quite stupidly, I believed that by keeping you by my side, I could offer you my protection against the consequences they would entail, but I did not consider your pain.’

His arms enfolded her anew, and salty drops dotted her hair as his apparent serenity collapsed under the weight of their situation. Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he joined her in weeping, unable to hold back.

‘Forgive me, beloved Éorhild. I cannot breathe when you are far from me.’

And so, they stood in the middle of her chambers, broken heart to broken heart. Their knuckles hurt from holding each other so dearly, unwilling to restrain their strength in their embrace, reluctant to let go. Despite all that had occurred, both admitted that taking this moment to grieve their stillborn love brought much-coveted balm to their souls.

When they parted, hurriedly drying their faces with the cuffs of their sleeves, Éomer took her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss upon her knuckles.

‘I shall not force you to accept this role that I forced upon you. This choice remains yours and yours alone. Should you refuse the opportunity, I would not hold it against you.’

With his sight still blurred by his tears, Éomer loosened his grip on her fingers, letting her hand naturally slip out from his grasp. Before bowing to her, he collected his armour from the trunk in the corner and tucked it under his arm.

‘All I demand from you, Éorhild, is to consider it.’

Leaving these words lingering in the air, the prince exited, closing the door behind him. As he moved to his quarters, his steps bore the burden on his heart. Meanwhile, as Éorhild’s world crumbled, she sank to her knees, cradling herself. She bowed over her knees to press her forehead to the cold floor as tears flowed freely once more.

It was a restless night, as it was to be expected. It was odd to lie in a bed without being inadvertently kicked by a squirming neighbour while the other was snoring into her ear. Of course, it was not the sole reason for such agitation. Twisting and turning upon the mattress, she pondered the benefits of her new position, disregarding the advantages that held no importance to her. Changes in her social status and the possibility of renouncing her celibacy vows she deemed dreary matters.

Éomer raised a good point when he mentioned being able to provide her with his protection if anybody found out about the embraces and kisses they shared on the hillside. So long as their accuser lacked the king's support, the prince’s testimony would prevail, as would his blade should anybody attempt to carry out justice without proper trial.

On the other hand, spending all this time by his side would undoubtedly prove to be a challenge during the first weeks, at the very least. Éorhild wondered whether she could summon the strength to be in such proximity to him while attempting to forget him and move on. So far, her upcoming nights seemed destined to be induced by the exhaustion from shedding tears in the cold embrace of her lonely bed.

Luckily, she could always refuse. Éomer granted her the opportunity to do so, and perhaps that was better for her. She only needed to alert the chamberlain, who would then notify the king. A temporary chambermaid would be appointed until Théoden and Edelmer agreed on her and Théodil’s succession. She would retrieve the maids’ chamber and blissfully complete the mundane tasks she had grown so fond of, even when they were not always pleasant to tackle.

When the morning sun ascended from behind the mountains, Éorhild swung her legs off the bed and meticulously arranged the linens. She adjusted her morning routine to the unfamiliar quarters, a temporary dwelling that she was not fated to occupy for long. Clothed and clean, she braced herself for a regular day; her thoughts gravitated around the tasks initially assigned to her.

As she marched towards the kitchens, her step was lighter, as was her heart. At last, she had settled her mind on what she deemed the best choice and was determined to adhere to it. When she opened the door to the cooks’ station, she saw Edelmer overseeing the planning for the royal family’s upcoming meals. With a decided step, she approached the chamberlain.

Shortly after, an elated Éorhild grappled with a door, her hands laden with the result of her first completed duty. She deftly balanced her burden against her hip, swiftly turning the shiny brass knob before slithering inside the room. Halting merely a few steps in, she gazed fondly ahead of her.

Éorhild admired the sleeping form in its lavish bed, huddled underneath the covers. Cascading golden locks streamed upon the pillows, wild yet still silky — she could tell. A soft snore filled the room, prompting her lips to twitch into a beaming grin.

Tiptoeing nearer, she placed the tray she held between her hands upon the nearest nightstand, cluttered with letters and playing cards. Carefully nudging them away with the wooden platter, she ensured that the latter was stable enough on the surface before walking away. She bypassed the bed and drew back the curtains, inviting the sunshine to spill into the room, illuminating the face of the deep sleeper.

‘Good morning, my good prince,’ she chimed, instantly causing his eyes to flutter open and his lips to curve into a grateful smile. ‘You must awake. There is a long day ahead of us.’

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[anghraine]

Hope you dont mind me asking, but what's your take on the idea that Eowyn and Faramirs arc in the steward and the king happening too quickly and doesnt make sense for her character arc? Personally i think the timing of it all is a function of the timeline he set himself up with more than anything else, but as for the second I'm not so sure because I see multiple sides to it. I'm always curious to hear your thoughts!

I don't mind, though it takes me some time to get to things!

I think it mostly makes very good sense for Éowyn's character arc and is far preferable to the other ideas Tolkien considered for her (iirc, marriage to Aragorn or death in battle).

It is very fast, and I think that's a fair criticism of the narrative development in itself. The in-story speed doesn't bother me, but it's basically wedged into one chapter of a long book and reads very quickly. I do think it's abbreviated mostly because there's so much going on in ROTK and so much ground to cover in the later phase. But I do think it's a bit overly abbreviated, yes.

For me, one of the spots that feels the most underwritten is the development of Faramir and Éowyn's friendship. I can believe that they would rapidly become friends! It fits thematically and all. Their interactions after that point are lovely. But it has to be taken almost entirely on faith and it's the most fundamental development in their arc IMO, so I'd have liked to see more of that transition, at least a little.

The other spot that's a little dubious for me is Éowyn's declaration that she'll stop vying with warriors and become a healer, something she has shown no interest in up to that point. If it were foreshadowed in her character, it would be a little easier to buy for some people, I think.

Also, yes, it fits Tolkien's value for healing and peace, as seen in characters like Aragorn and Elrond—but they aren't required to give up warfare altogether. Éomer isn't. Éowyn is her own person and you could argue that it fits her specific arc, but mediating that through the only female warrior (and female major character) in the entire book is always going to rub a lot of people the wrong way.

But to me, Éowyn finding happiness with someone both gentle and iron-willed, and who gets her in a way that nobody else (even Aragorn and perhaps Gandalf) really does, seems very appropriate. Nobody else fully grasped what she was going through. Something else was always more important. So someone who is willing to reach out to her where she's at and really focus on her, while also bridging the way to a life of vitality and healing and growth coupled with significant work to be done, seems very suitable to me.

It also helps for me that, while not a king, Faramir is a Númenórean prince and viceroy/chief counselor/leading minister of the king with a lot of family power and prestige—more than the kings of Rohan, according to Gandalf. And as an individual person, he's singled out from nearly all other men of his time as particularly unique and special. So while Éowyn does have to grow beyond her crush on Aragorn, it's not like she's railroaded into choosing a random ordinary guy or humbled in status or something, or that it's even Tolkien's usual woman marrying down/man marrying up dynamic.

So Éowyn's romance with Faramir doesn't even require her to give up much of what she was after in the first place—she gets a healthier (and more romantic!) happily-ever-after than she could have envisioned and she gets to escape her life in Rohan while gaining status. So she kind of gets it all, rather than being reduced to Faramir's reward, and I do find that satisfying.

(If anything, I feel like Faramir is a reward for her and it's his narrative that is cut short to enable the romance more than hers.)

#anon replies #respuestas #legendarium blogging #legendarium fanwank #otp: and the sun shone #éowyn #faramir

[swanimagines]

Lord of the Rings: Imagine being Aragorn’s sister and getting married to Éomer.

requested by anon

When Éomer first asked for Aragorn's permission to court you, he of course gave it with warmth and without a moment of hesitation. Your brother could be protective of you at times, but he knew Éomer would never hurt you.

Now when you were walking down the aisle with Aragorn walking you and seeing your love standing there as even more handsome than you had ever seen him, and he wiped his eyes briefly as he saw you coming up the steps, and taking his hands on yours as the priestess started his talking.

"Here we are to join together these two people, in front of this Kingdom that they will serve. Princess Y/N and Éomer Éadig, you are here standing before us because you have consented to come together as one. Will you, Éomer Éadig, take Princess Y/N as your wife, to protect her and to preserve your love until the end of your time?"

Éomer was staring into your eyes, blinking away the tears from his own. "I do," he whispered hoarsely. And then softly: "I give my promise to you."

"And will you, Princess Y/N, take Éomer as your husband? To cherish him through good times and bad; to preserve your love through all life holds for you both?" You took a step forward and raised your hand slowly so you could touch his cheek with it.

"I will," you smiled at him, and he broke into a wide grin as he squeezed your hand tighter.

"You're now a husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," said the Priestess.

Éomer smiled as he leaned forward and touched his soft lips to yours. The other guests cheered as you drew back to smile at them all, and you walked hand in hand away from the altar - there would be a huge party held in the castle for you and your husband, and you felt like the luckiest woman in all Middle Earth as you had just married the man from your dreams.

---

Tags: @randomfandomimagine​ @captainshazamerica ​ @dancingwith-sunflowers​ @retvenkos @thegirlwiththeimpala @bookfrog242 @katherinepetrovawife @nyx2021 @byersboys @supervalcsi @doutorbaizhu // send in an ask to be added, and specify which of my fandoms you want to be tagged on! Don’t just say “can you add me to your taglist” as I can’t know what taglists do you mean by that!! ALSO IF YOU WON’T INTERACT BEYOND LIKING, I’LL EVENTUALLY TAKE YOU OFF THE LIST!!

#eomer x reader #eomer #aragorn #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings #lord of the rings x reader #lotr #lotr x reader #my works #female reader #gif imagine

[roselightfairy]

Would you ever write...

A Star Wars time travel attempted-fix-it fic featuring Vader?

A LotR fic featuring Gimli set in the Undying Lands?

A Bail/Obi-Wan fic, either Clone Wars or Rebellion Era?

Celebrimbor/Narvi?

Ooooh, these are very good asks!!

Time travel is not, at the moment, something I ever see myself attempting in general - it's one of those tropes that's kind of a soft no for me. I'm sure I could be convinced with a really well-written fic, but it doesn't hold a lot of appeal for me even as a reader, so I can't see myself delving into it as a writer. But I should never say never - I seem to be doing a pretty hardcore canon divergence right now, which was not something I predicted myself doing! (V for Vader, now . . . if I had someone to really talk to about it and the brainspace to devote, I could see myself trying that one out someday . . .)

ABSOLUTELY YES I WOULD WRITE GIMLI IN THE UNDYING LANDS. Someday I am going to finish the fic with them sailing so I can set things up for that. Actually, I guess technically I have written fic of Gimli in the Undying Lands, but it's about The Sad Thing and he's . . . uh, only in part of it, so I don't know if it counts.

I don't exactly ship it, but I could definitely see myself dabbling in Bail/Obi-Wan for a one-off, perhaps in the vein of my Gimli/Éomer fic. I kind of ship Obi-Wan with almost everybody he interacts with, and Bail/Obi-Wan becomes VERY plausible in the post-Wild Space time! (Sidenote: @thevillainsmustache and I joked that Obi-Wan notoriously does NOT sleep with politicians but WILL sleep with their staff, so Padmé and Bail have a bet to see which one of them could possibly get him to break that rule.)

Celebrimbor/Narvi - yes. Also most likely in a one-off sense, but who doesn't love the OG elf/dwarf pairing? I think it could be fun to do kind of a braided story with them and L/G in the vein of the thing I tried to do with a different pairing for my unfinished WIP post. I don't feel any real desire to do it right now, but I certainly think it's a possibility someday!

Thank you for these; they're so fun and creative! (Note that anyone is still welcome to send a "would you ever write..." to my inbox; I had a TON of fun with this one!)

#ask #fanfic #star wars #lotr

[meteors-lotr]

Do you have any Boromir and Tilda head canons

I have some thoughts…

Me and my best friend watched some crappy wedding rom com earlier, and so marriage has been on my mind now.

And I think when they first started seeing each other, Tilda would make it very clear that she is not at all interested in marriage.

But then, a few years pass, and their relationship just keeps on growing to be stronger and stronger, and fuck maybe Tilda does want to get married to him?

The proposal itself is very like, Pirates of the Caribbean esk, just in the middle of some random battle she asks him to marry her. Boromir is so delighted, he spins her around (and she gets a few good kicks in at the random guys they’re fighting).

Despite Tilda being royalty and Boromir being a Steward (And maybe like an advisor/captain or smt, idk just important guy), they’d keep the wedding very casual and low key, family and friends only, fuck everyone else.

(Instead of walking down the aisle, Tilda will drop from the fucking ceiling for dramatic effect, probably fracturing something in the process. Boromir has heart eyes the entire ceremony)

The real issue in their relationship would arise when it comes to children.

Because Boromir loves kids. You can see it with the way he interacts with the hobbits, and with Faramir, like he’s a good dad and a good role model. He’d probably want to have children.

Tilda does not want children at all. She doesn’t like kids, and she doesn’t wanna “ruin” her body by becoming pregnant.

A lot of arguing would probably come from this, but in the end Tilda isn’t budging, and Boromir can’t exactly force her to become pregnant. When Éomer and Faramir adopt, and Bain has Brand, he probably becomes the best uncle known to man, but he still longs for a child of his own.

Until, Tilda finds an orphan. Just some kid who lost their parents in some way, who knows. And fuck it, despite her aggressive attitude Tilda is a bleeding heart, so she takes the kid home. Boromir is ecstatic.

And I’m like, half tempted for the kid to be like Jon or Arya, because Sean Bean and also it would be very funny.

#not a quote #This is less like actual headcanons and more ideas I have of stories #tilda dragondaughter #tilda of dale #boromir #Tildamir

[ladyvictoriadiana]

So... I've been rewatching "Lord of the Rings" this past week and I've been having some thoughts on the whole "Legolas of the Woodland realm" scene. This is a long one, stick around if you want to.

This scene, in which Aragorn introduced everyone to Éomer with their father's name except Legolas has been on my (and the entire fandom's) mind for quite a time. And every time I rewatch the movie, I keep thinking about possible explanations for Aragorn not mentioning Thranduil. And as funny as the explanation of "He forgot his name" is, that just seems a bit unlikely.

So I've been thinking - what other reasons could exist. And my mad brain, muddled by period hormones, has come up with something.

I think it is fair to assume that Rohan has merchants. Not only do they have the means to travel for extended amounts of time and long ways (horses), we also see plenty of evidence of trading in the Rohan life presented by the movie - everything from wood and potatoes to embroidery threads and metal.

And if merchants from Rohan do indeed travel through Middle-Earth, it is utterly possible that they traveled to regions that put them close to Mirkwood. Not only can merchants follow the river and somewhat naturally land near Mirkwood but by crossing The Wold and a short part of Dagorland, you directly come to the southern part of the forest. We also know that the Rohirrim know about, though maybe have not interacted with, the Galadhrim and Lorien, which could mean that merchants have been to this region (which is at the same river that also leads past Mirkwood after a split).

Now, we also know that Galadriel does not enjoy the best reputation among the people of Rohan. And she's the nice one. Now imagine Thranduil, who can be a bit bitchy and scary, especially towards outsiders - what kind of reputation does he enjoy in other parts of Middle-Earth, especially parts that are already very skeptical towards elves.

My thesis thus is - Aragorn does not mention Thranduil because he knows the Elvenking has a bad reputation in Rohan and Legolas being his son would not do their mission any favors.

(He even is very unspecific when mentioning where Legolas is from (the Woodland realm). Yes, we know that Aragorn means Mirkwood but it is rather ambiguous - most elves come from woodland areas so Éomer could assume that Legolas is from a different elvish settlement, one unknown to Rohan even. )

#lotr #legolas #thranduil

[swordoaths]

@homebehind sent: [HAIR]: in the process of pushing the receiver's hair back from their face, the sender lets their hand rest against the receiver's cheek a moment longer. (lothíriel & éomer!)

Éomer had always been whole if ever he was in the saddle, but there was wholeness anew in his heart for this ride. With one hand on the reins and the other wrapped securely round Elfwine, he saw the world not only through the framing of Firefoot's ears, but also his son's eyes. The plains had never been more golden, the sun had never been more bright, Elfwine's laughter had never been more joyous, and his heart had never been more full. Low and steady was Éomer's song as they rode-- sung to the rhythm of Firefoot's gait-- and he felt Elfwine find his seat until all three were one. Éomer turned his gaze to Lothíriel, who rode beside them, and the rays of sunlight caught the glistening in his eyes.

The sun had been shining down upon the plains when they rode out, but now it sank low on the horizon. All too soon, it was time to dismount.

"You shall ride circles round us before long," Éomer spoke with pride as he gathered his son from the saddle.

Once he was in his arms, Éomer lifted a hand to brush the stray strands of hair from Elfwine's face before a sleepy Elfwine rested his head in the crook of his neck. It was then Éomer looked to Lothíriel, and though his hands were full, his gaze reached out to her. "And so we shall treasure these rides now, ere you grow too big to ride with your father." His voice was quieter as Elfwine fell asleep in his arms, but not so quiet that Lothíriel could not hear. She answered him thus: with a gentle hand that reached to tuck the loose strands of his hair away from his face. "How he has grown," he murmured. And when her hand rested against his cheek, he leaned into her touch with eyes closed. A moment that would be sung about for years hence.

#homebehind #homebehind / lothíriel #&. éomer interactions #<3

[infracti-angelus]

Pale Fire, Chpt 5

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing:  Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.  She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Click here for Chapter 4

Chapter 5: The Incident

His manner and bearing belied a cool aloofness. Indeed, the only fault that could be found in his interactions with the other partygoers was his stiffness, most likely due to inexperience as a warrior thrust into the role of king. But his eyes betrayed him. Lothíriel didn't know how to describe it, but his gaze held such awareness, a true presence in this very moment, that it almost alarmed her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot.

No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight's supper.

If this was what a brief look of indifference caused, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to be the center of his attention. The likelihood of that, however was in her favor, since he was making it a point to not rest his eyes on anything for longer than a few seconds while his captain was otherwise occupied, probably due to the amount of eligible women being blatantly paraded past by hopeful fathers.

Lothíriel felt perpetually flushed, not helped by the arrival of more partygoers. She announced to the rest of the family that she would find Ada, which left a very put-out Amrothos holding Alphros whilst Rosilith secured a dance ("or two!" she winked) from Elphir. Venturing this way and that and consciously keeping her gaze averted from the table housing the King of Rohan, she was able to cover a large amount of ground without any sign of her father. The surrounding lords seemed no longer content with her excuses and she could sense the electricity of their frustrations with each additional dance refusal. She had officially given up looking for her father and was going to seek out wherever Amrothos and Alphros had set up camp when her path was blocked.

"My lady," a masculine voice drawled.

"Lord Brayan," Lothíriel dipped her head in acknowledgement, schooling her features to one of cool indifference.

"You're looking…well."

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed. The epitome of gentlemanliness, Lord Brayan gave no indication to being the contrary. His gaze remained respectfully on her face the entire time, which was more than she could say for some of the other lords she had encountered. They had lasciviously dragged their eyes on her form, and one had even waggled his eyebrows suggestively (he'd been thrice her age, and she had to contain her laughter). Despite this, the statement from Lord Brayan left her ill at ease.

"Thank you, my lord. Excuse me." Lothíriel took a step to the side, attempting to extract herself before this chance meeting could evolve into something more.

He stepped to be in front of her again, blocking her path. Lothíriel felt a bubble of panic before narrowing her eyes. She had done much more difficult things than rebuff unwanted advances from a nobleman.

"I must confess, I find your appearance to be a bit of a surprise," he said, taking a step towards her to close some of the empty distance.

"Oh?" she countered, trying to sound entirely uninterested in his opinions (which wasn't hard).

"I thought you were sequestered away on your seaside palace," he said.

Lothíriel's brow quirked without her intending it to. She knew he meant what she was wearing, but spoken aloud he was referring to her presence in Gondor. Classic misdirection.

"Hmm," she said. The less she answered, the less fuel she gave him.

"It's nice to see your family let you out of that sandcastle." Lothíriel bristled at his reference to her ancestral home as a sandcastle.

He continued, "If you were mine, I would keep you tucked away, safe and sound. It's still very dangerous for such a journey. Then again, I'd be sorely disappointed if they did that."

Lothíriel stepped to her left this time.

"I could also understand if you were to get too bored being locked up, and need a release for your pent up energy." He stepped again to impede her escape. "Perhaps you've passed the time with other…activities." Lothíriel looked up sharply, and by the glint in his eyes, he knew he had touched a nerve. He grinned. "Horseback riding, perhaps?"

Damn him, Lothíriel thought. She could comprehend the deeper implication of his words.

He was extremely close to her now. She knew he could see down the front of her dress; his eyes dilated. "I'd like to see more of you."

Damn him again.

"Dance with me," he demanded and grasped her hand to place a kiss on her pulse point. Coils of revulsion curled inside her stomach. Lothíriel wished she could shed her skin like a snake. The memory of his lips on the inside of her wrist reminded her of a jellyfish sting.

"No," she extracted her hand from his. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought.

"When I wanted to escape, I had a special, isolated place I would go to," his voice lowered. "But I'd be willing to share it with you." He did not give up, despite her rebuff. She glanced around to see if she could find her family.

She noticed her father across the room –there he was! — and glanced at the man he was talking to.

Lord Brayan grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him, sliding his finger suggestively down the back of her dress. "If you're good, I'll let you come."

Lothíriel locked eyes with the King of Rohan. Fire seeped through her veins. Elbereth, the way he was looking at her. She felt a flush envelop her, and tore her eyes away from his as Lord Brayan's words registered in her mind.

If Lothíriel hadn't known the commotion it would cause, she would have thrown a fist (Erchirion had taught her how to fight when she was eight because Amrothos had, in her words, "kept trying to drown" her). Nonetheless, she knew the disgraceful behavior of her potential actions would only bring shame on her family, and perhaps affect their livelihood.

Lothíriel, instead, yanked her arm out of his grasp and took a step back. Her face burned in anger and she all but hissed "No, thank you" before she rudely (not enough to sate her rage, but enough to make a point) pushed past him and found the first exit she could.

She sought refuge in the pleasant but ill-tended gardens of Minas. Once lovely like the city, they too had fallen into disarray with the growing shadow. Even with the end of ethuil, spring, the gardens were lackluster. They could no longer compare to the gardens in Dol Amroth, but perhaps now that there was a new King, the gardens would be tended to once more. Even with the threat of war upon the lands, the gardens still held hints of aromatic scents from medicinal herbs cultivated by the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel leaned on the nearest stone balustrade and squeezed her eyes shut. She could still feel the imprint of his grip around her wrist as he pulled her against himself. She stifled the urge to retch.

Lothíriel breathed shakily. She was on the brink of one of her attacks. No, not now, she thought. She swore under her breath. She would not relive her encounter with the Corsairs. She refused to do so; she refused to let Lord Brayan trigger that memory. Recalling that pain seemed to be a reliable distraction, she sunk her fingernails into the flesh of her hand, causing angry crescent shaped welts to appear. Focusing on the sting in her palm, she could feel attack dissipate. Merciful Nienna, thank you.

It was dusk but the air still held the warmth promised by fast-approaching laer. Lothíriel found herself a well concealed alcove inhabited by a stone bench. Perhaps she could obtain a moment of reprieve before rejoining the party. She dusted off the moss the best she could, hindered in her task by the fading light. She would have to, unfortunately, see and interact with Lord Brayan eventually. Hopefully he didn't follow her out, or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Before she could turn to lower herself onto her seat, she heard a masculine voice behind her.

"My Lady, I-"

Lothíriel spun around and at first all she could see were broad shoulders. Before she could identify the speaker, she saw two shadows and a flash of steel to her right.

"My lord!" she cried in warning as the figure wielding a sword approached and shouted something. She instinctively put her arm out to protect the man—Lord Brayan?—in front of her and move him out of reach.

If she had thought the King's eyes made her burn, she was so wrong. The unnatural sensation of cold metal sundering her flesh was followed instantly by agonizing pain. Her whole arm felt aflame and the trauma of her body accepting such a wound blinded her to the subsequent scuffle. A glint of a dagger and the whole affair was over, with the uninvited man hailing victorious.

Lothíriel felt her heart palpitate at an alarming speed and she began gasping for air. Immediately the man knelt to the ground in front of her –how did she get down here? -and guided her arm to his lap.

"The laceration is mild. You are in no danger of losing any permanent feeling," he stated, his tone clinical and dispassionate marking him as an experienced war veteran. She could feel the pressure of some sort of fabric he pressed down to staunch the bleeding.

Lothíriel could not thank him, could not quip that loss of feeling would be a blessing, or even check to see if he had sustained any harm. Indeed, she could not even breathe and her vision started to blur.

"My Lady?" the man's voice had colour to it now. He was clearly alarmed.

Lothíriel tried to even her breathing or she knew she would pass out from hyperventilation, as she'd seen it happen to more than one noblewoman. She only managed to choke out a mangled noise. With her left hand she reached behind her and attempted to unbutton her gown.

"My Lady!"

"Lothy!" Amrothos' concerned voice joined the shocked one. Lothíriel looked up to see Amrothos jumping over a corpse and skidding on blood to kneel by her side, joining the man who had blond hair. "Lothy, what happened? Are you alright? What's wrong!?"

If Lothíriel had been in her right mind, she would have chided Amrothos for pestering her with questions without waiting for answers, but the relief of the arrival of her brother surpassed everything, and she managed to choke out "corset."

She could see comprehension flash across his eyes, and Amrothos, with a set task given to him, immediately took over unbuttoning her gown. After opening the back, he reached the lacings and began to loosen them. But he was going too slowly and her lungs burned as if someone had jabbed an iron poker, blazing red from heat, into them. Everything was aching and the edge of her vision started to blur. She could feel herself slumping from the lack of oxygen; Amrothos started to panic. Immediately she felt his hands shoved aside, and a quick glance revealed a solid arm reaching around her. It held a small dagger, still dripping with the assassin's blood, and took her brother's place. A swift motion and the lacings of her corset were sliced apart and she could finally draw a full breath. She slumped forward all the way forward, into the blond man's chest. She felt exhausted and closed her eyes; her head felt too heavy to lift. Though her arm still burned, the pleasure of filling her lungs with the night's fresh air caused her to inwardly rejoice.

"Lothíriel, what happened?" Amrothos questioned again. She felt the man she was leaning on inhale and felt the reverberations in his chest as he answered for her.

"I followed her out here to speak with her. She was able to warn me in time before either of us were killed." He cursed in a foreign language-was that Rohirric?—and continued, "I wasn't quick enough and she sustained injury." His voice was deep and reminded her of waves on the shore during high tide: powerful and unstoppable, but peaceful and soothing. There was a certain lilt to it that betrayed an accent she wasn't familiar with.

Lothíriel could feel hot, white light pulsating from her arm with each heartbeat. She steeled herself for the effort it took to speak and croaked out weakly, "Amrothos, please get Ada."

"I will be right back," Amrothos replied, eager to do something useful. He stood up and darted away, evading the pool of blood on the floor.

Lothíriel took another deep breath and exhaled shakily. The man's arms, which still held her, tensed slightly. After a few more moments of breathing comfortably in silence, Lothíriel finally shifted. Wincing a little, she untucked her head from beneath his chin and glanced up.

She shivered. And his arms tensed around her again.

It was the King of Rohan.

"Do you have the strength to stand?" he asked, the tone of familiarity he had used with her brother was replaced with a strained one.

Gooseflesh prickled across her skin at his breath on her neck. Lothíriel nodded. He carefully shifted her from his lap and stood. Gently, he picked her up at the waist and set her on her feet. Lothíriel swayed a bit and he caught her before she could tip over.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, looking up at his face. His jawline was incredibly sharp even beneath his trimmed beard, and she tempered the urge to reach up her hand to cup it. She observed that his jaw was clenched. She watched the corded muscles in his neck twitching, and noticed that he wouldn't look her directly in the eye.

"Lothíriel?!" she heard her father's panicked voice call to her. The King of Rohan stepped away from her immediately and his stinging gaze honed in on Imrahil. Lothíriel turned around and saw her father, Amrothos, a few of their most trusted Swan Guards, and a Rohirrim hurrying toward them.

"Ada," Lothíriel cried out immediately, rushing into her father's embrace and holding onto him tightly with one arm while cradling the other. Lothíriel could hear whispered Rohirric behind her. Imrahil gripped her tightly by the shoulders to move her away from himself so he could take inventory of her injuries.

"You've been harmed," Imrahil's voice was low and tight. He took off his splendid mantle and draped it over her shoulders, as her dress was sliced and was starting to slip further down her body. Without the King's heat, she realized how chilled she was. The majority of her back was bare, and the mantle provided cover she didn't realize she needed. She watched as the Rohirrim left his King and slipped away.

The King of Rohan cautiously approached them and cleared his throat. Imrahil looked at him. "Prince Imrahil," he spoke lowly and quickly, "I do not think it prudent to stand out here in the open any longer where prying eyes may discover us."

His eyes darted toward Lothíriel and back to her father, raising an eyebrow. Imrahil's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at his daughter. His eyes widened at what he saw and he nodded in agreement. Lothíriel felt confused.

Imrahil looked at the King, knowingly. "You are wise, my friend, and I perceive you have a plan. Mayn't I be aware of it?"

"This must be dealt with discreetly. It would do no good for our peoples to know what has happened here, on this night. Peace is still too fragile, and news of assassins infiltrating during the coronation day would cause chaos."

"And Lord Aragorn?"

The warrior-king looked thoughtful. "I am loathe to divulge this information to him immediately and taint this day with ill tidings. I would have us deal with it privately until tomorrow at least. The less people who know will be to our advantage."

Lothíriel turned at footsteps coming towards them, and the Swan Knights instinctually went into a defensive pose. The footsteps belonged to the Rohirrim returning from his errand. The Swan Knights only relaxed when Imrahil motioned them to with a wave of his hand.

He spoke rapidly to his king in Rohirric. The King of Rohan turned to Imrahil and explained. "I asked Éothain to procure the services of Éowyn. Your daughter needs her arm tended to, and I think it best that we do not go to the healer here, or else it will be reported. We needed someone trustworthy, and Éowyn has been studying the art of healing. Éothain has informed her of being needed, and she is waiting in her room with the appropriate supplies. That is, with your permission."

"That is agreeable," Imrahil said, turning from Lothíriel and speaking in hushed tones with the Swan Knights. The King of Rohan's expectant gaze shifted to Lothíriel. It took her a few seconds to realize he was waiting for her approval as well. She nodded mutely, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with her wounded arm on which she was still putting pressure. At her consent, the King spoke to the man named Éothain in their language, and though she could not understand them, it sounded like they were arguing.

Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow, and she was being ushered away by the Swan guards. Lothíriel stumbled often, and was steadied by one of her father's most trusted guards. Lothíriel didn't register for several moments that the knights were following Éothain through the servant corridors to the guest rooms. The further they walked, the more agitated Lothíriel could feel herself become. Finally, they arrived in a wing that Lothíriel recognized as being reserved for important dignitaries, and Éothain rapped on a solid wood door in a staccato rhythm before the lock clicked open. A beautiful woman with long golden hair answered the door a crack, her face drawn tight and worried. Upon seeing Éothain, she cried out and embraced him. She spoke quickly with him in their native language, and motioned for Swan Knights to stand guard at the door. She smiled tentatively at Lothíriel until she noticed the garment wrapped around her arm, and then the woman's face paled.

She spoke sharply with Éothain who answered in what Lothíriel perceived as a snippy tone. Lothíriel watched as Éothain shrugged the woman off and left while she was in the middle of a sentence. The woman looked extremely frustrated before taking a deep breath, schooling her features to one of calm and turned to Lothíriel and invited her in.

"My name is Éowyn," she said softly as she locked the door, gesturing at a padded bench at the foot of her bed for Lothíriel to sit on. Lothíriel's blood pumped thunderously through her veins and she could feel her body vibrate with energy as she moved to the bench and sat down. Despite her upbringing, Lothíriel could not still sit. She watched Éowyn glide with impossible grace over to a table positioned underneath a window. There were a variety of herbs mixed into poultices, a sharp needle and thread, and cotton fabric strips. A set of closed doors led to an adjoining room, which was for a spouse as was custom in Gondor. Perhaps Éothain's? Based off of their interaction, Lothíriel wasn't sure. Her general knowledge of the Rohirrim and their naming customs could very well point to Éowyn being Éothain's sister, which would make more sense. The room was large for just an apprentice healer, even if she was foreign, but perhaps it was due to Éothain's rank. A fireplace on the opposite side of the room boiled a pot of water and crackled comfortingly, though it did nothing to soothe Lothíriel's reeling mind.

"I'm Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she provided, as she tried to think of anything that would keep her still, "and I'm so dreadfully sorry to disturb you during the festivities." Lothíriel gripped the fabric of her dress with one hand and forced herself to sit still as Éowyn approached her. The Rohirric beauty was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of the Houses of Healing. The fabric was almost black in order to disguise blood stains, and had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in shimmery thread on the left side over the collarbone. The robe was tied with a swath of fabric, silver in color and purely decorative, which indicated she was an apprentice. The higher up in training, the plainer and more practical the belt was. The Warden of the Houses of Healing had a leather belt which held many pouches and slots for tools. Her hair was down but plaited back. Its pale gold colour reminded her of a ghost crab Lothíriel routinely saw scuttling across the sand after dusk near one of her favorite places to sail.

Éowyn knelt down next to Lothíriel and reverently unwrapped the fabric from around her arm and folded it. She replaced it with a damp cloth. "Is he alright?" she inquired quietly, while pouring a sterilizing concoction over the wound to prevent inflammation.

Lothíriel ceased the bouncing of her leg and winced at the sting, startled out of her reverie. "Pardon?"

"Is the King alright?" she clarified, dabbing at the wound to clean it.

"Oh! How did you know he was involved?" Lothíriel puzzled aloud. Éowyn gestured towards the fabric at her feet that had been used to slow her bleeding. The discarded item was a costly tunic of brocaded green.

"The King of Rohan was wearing this. It used to be King Théoden's, and it has blood on the outside of it. Yours has not seeped through it yet."

"Oh!" Lothíriel flushed. She hadn't even realized that the King had given her his own tunic. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed him in nothing but his under-tunic and breeches. She looked at the woman who was tending to her. Lothíriel thought that she looked frightfully pale. "Your King is completely unharmed, as far as I am aware," she reassured, recalling that the people of Rohan had already lost one King. Lothíriel watched colour return to her face and a look of immediate relief.

Éowyn breathed a prayer of thanks in her own language. Smiling at Lothíriel, she handed her a less than half full small glass phial to drink from. "This is the last of the poppy tears I could find. It should help to dull the pain while I stitch the wound closed. After this, all I have is willow bark," Éowyn explained.

Lothíriel downed the bottle in hopes that it would help. She immediately felt her heartbeat slow down, though she didn't feel sleepy like the last time she had been in this situation about a year ago.

"How is it that you were wounded?" Éowyn asked casually as she prepared the needle.

Lothíriel recalled vaguely that the King of Rohan had said Éowyn was trustworthy, but didn't know to what extent. She settled that it wouldn't hurt to tell the healer, but Lothíriel froze at seeing the threaded needle coming toward her. Éowyn, believing Lothíriel's hesitation to be from lack of trust, paused in her task. "Éothain told me it was ill-tidings for all, that you were attacked."

"He told you what happened?"

"Not the complete tale. I've known Éothain since we were very young. He grew up with my brother and I, and the three of us are still very close. My brother and he, especially. It is rare to see them parted. He said just that you were involved in a scuffle with an enemy, and the consequences of it are far reaching for us all."

"I was in the gardens," Lothíriel explained as she exhaled through her mouth, "when I heard a voice calling to me. It was your King, though I did not know it at the time. I saw a flash of steel in the corner of my eye. I tried to move him out of the way, but I wasn't fast enough. " Her speech slowed as the needle Éowyn held initially pierced her flesh. Lothíriel's eyes took on a glassy quality, and she appeared to be reliving some horrific memory from a time long passed.

"Breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth," Éowyn coached. Éowyn had witnessed many soldiers experience this after the Battle of the Morannon and had herself struggled with the episodes of the warriors' waking dream after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Lothíriel dug her nails into her upper thigh to ground herself and inhaled slowly through her nose and could feel herself return to reality as she exhaled.

Éowyn watched intently. She looked extremely contemplative as she knotted the final stitch and used a small dagger to remove the excess thread.

"I-" Lothíriel started to speak.

"Nay; there's no need to explain. It never happened." Éowyn interrupted her, making herself appear intently busy on wrapping Lothíriel's arm with cloth strips. Lothíriel looked extremely grateful, her vigor finally returning. "Well at least the assailant has been dispatched," Éowyn continued, hoping to distract her patient from feeling any residual uncomfortableness.

Lothíriel nodded. "Yes, it is good. Do you know if they captured his companion?"

Éowyn's sharp eyes snapped to Lothíriel's. "Éothain spoke only of one."

"Yes, one assassin. I'm talking about the accomplice he was with," Lothíriel said. She felt renewed energy flow through her body, like a thrumming running through her veins.

"They do not know there was a second enemy," Éowyn stated harshly.

"Well someone has got to tell them!" Lothíriel exclaimed, jumping to her feet as the urgency washed over her. She felt as if she were racing the rising tide; there were but a few, fleeting moments in which she could secure her fate. "There's a chance we could still prevent them from leaving the city."

"They are debriefing now in the war room as we speak," Éowyn spoke hurriedly. Lothíriel started towards the doors but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. "Ye cannot go while you're like this."

Lothíriel wrenched her shoulder out from her grip and assumed her mask of indifference. "I am perfectly capable of speech, therefore I am going."

"Nay, I do not mean to prevent ye from going," Éowyn said softly, turning her palm up to suggest she meant no harm. "But ye may want to be at least properly covered up."

Lothíriel looked down at herself and blanched. Here she had been abashed at the King of Rohan in naught but his under-tunic and breeches, while she had looked twice as disheveled. The hem of her dress was a shade darker from the rest, stained from the blood pool. A rip on the side by her right knee must have happened when she hit the ground. But truly, the most mortifying thing was the top of her dress. Its mutilation to save her life had left her with little decency. The slips of fabric that served as her sleeves sagged near to her elbows, and Lothíriel realized that had she not been keeping her injured arm so close to her body, the entire dress would have slid down to expose her bosom. In fact, the entire torso at the back of her gown was ripped open, and displayed her bare back from the very nape of her neck to her tailbone.

"Sweet Elbereth," she breathed. Éowyn said something to Lothíriel she didn't catch and ventured into the adjoining room while Lothíriel took a mental inventory of everything wrong in her appearance. Her hair, which Maren had painstakingly taken the time to curl, was haphazard and wild. Lothíriel tried to run her fingers through it like a comb, but was interrupted by Éowyn returning.

"No clothing of mine will fit you," Éowyn apologized, handing Lothíriel a small stack of folded clothes. Lothíriel regretfully knew how true that statement was; Éowyn was slender everywhere that Lothíriel was not. Lothíriel's bust and hips would never fit into any of Éowyn's dresses. "I took this from my brother's room; Éomer won't mind. There's a pair of trousers and one of his old shirts, too. I found an old belt of his that should keep everything from falling off you."

Lothíriel thanked Éowyn and began to hurriedly strip off the remnants of her dress. Taking care not to unnecessarily jostle her arm, she slipped the soft shirt over her head and tucked it into the trousers. Éowyn had to assist her with tightening the belt. Lothíriel thought she looked like she'd been swallowed, but Éowyn looked at her approvingly, strangely satisfied with the end result. Lothíriel thought that was odd, but was distracted by Éowyn tossing worn leather boots toward her.

"We look to be the same size," she smiled. "You will look less ridiculous wearing these than your sodden slippers." Lothíriel looked down at her slippers and grimaced. "Now make haste."

Lothíriel threw a few words of gratitude over her shoulder as she darted into the corridor. She decided she would have to sacrifice a little time in the name of discretion. After all, imagine the fuss that would occur if some Gondorian were to recognize her, the Princess of Dol Amroth, while she wore trousers, not to mention her bandaged arm. Thus, Lothíriel followed the servants' corridors and passageways. Thankfully the party was still in full swing, unaware of the happenings, and the corridors were largely empty. Lothíriel was able to make it to the war room in record time.

Lothíriel took a fortifying breath and charged towards the doors, where two Swan Knights stood guard. One, the older of the two, looked panicked as she strode towards them. His bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise and his face paled. The younger's eyes widened, his jaw dropped open, and he flushed crimson. Both stood frozen as Lothíriel approached, and she could hear raised voices within the room. She grasped the door handle and wretched it open without delay, ignoring the belated reprimand of the elder guard croaking a distressed "Princess!"

She entered the war room.

Additional Context-  

Nienna -a Queen of the Valar, the sister of Mandos and Irmo (known as the Fëanturi), acquainted with grief and sorrow but also pity and courage. She is ranked as one of the eight Aratar, the most powerful of the Valar. Her element is grief and she is ever mourning for the wounds of the world by evil. Those who listen to her learn wisdom and endurance in grief.

#Lothíriel #Lothiriel #Eomer #Éomer #Dol Amroth #ROHAN #King of Rohan #Prince of Dol Amroth #Princess of Dol Amroth #Imrahil #Queen of Rohan #Eowyn #Éowyn #The White Lady #Amrothos #Pale Fire #fanfiction #frecklesforever93 #Éothíriel #eothiriel #infractiangelus #lord of the rings #lotr

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Nowhere Else

Summary: The story of the first time Éomer met the woman who would become his wife, told from both sides. Includes some other small, sweet moments of them together at different times in their lives, including one of my favorite mental images of Éomer as a father.

Reminder: Though I write almost entirely canon-compliant, my one big exception is that (as a Rohan partisan) I always wanted to see Éomer with a fellow Rohirrim. So his wife in my HC has been his best friend since childhood, and her name translates to “famously kind”.

Mereliss’s eyes had begun to grow heavy. The celebration of Éowyn’s birthday, her sixteenth, had started early, and after a long day of riding and feasting and revelry had turned into an evening of singing and mead and stories, Mereliss seemed to be fading fast. Each time she closed her eyes to blink, they remained closed a little longer, and eventually her head started to nod. Éomer watched her from the corner of his eye, as he so often did, and smiled to himself at the sight. When he could see her lashes laying fully against her cheek and her breathing had become long and slow, he shifted next to her ever so slightly, allowing her head to come to rest against his shoulder. He leaned his own cheek against her hair, breathing in its sweet scent of lavender, and closed his eyes for a moment of peaceful happiness.

He had always loved Mereliss, almost from the first instant they met. He had only recently arrived in Edoras at the time, an eleven year old still reeling from the loss of his parents and the dramatic change of daily life in his new home. Other children in the city had given him a wide berth, as though they were afraid his personal misfortune might be contagious, and while they would nod and smile at him, that was usually the limit of their interactions. Not that he minded. He didn’t want to be asked about his parents or his old life, or to be treated as an object of curiosity and pity. And so he resigned himself to keeping his distance from his peers, spending all of his time with his beloved, but much older, cousin instead. Until the day that Mereliss walked into the stable and into his life.

Her father, Elfhelm, was there to see Théodred, and, as the two men went over plans for an expansion of the stables, Mereliss had plopped down at Éomer’s side and just started talking. She talked to him as though they had always known each other, comfortable and familiar and heedless of any way that he might be different from her. Later he would see how she had inherited this gift for warmth and friendliness from Elfhelm, but at the time it seemed magical to him. She made him feel somehow both entirely normal, no longer marked out as distinctively tragic, but also noticeably special, someone that a pretty, kind girl had picked and wanted to know. By the time Elfhelm was ready to take his leave and she had leaned over to give Éomer an impulsive goodbye hug, he was already hopelessly smitten.

He never knew why she had taken an interest in him that afternoon, why she wasn’t afraid of his grief as the other children were or how she had been so confident that they should be friends when she knew nothing about him yet. He had never asked, and, truthfully, he preferred not to know. Her coming into his life was a gift, and he had learned not to question such gifts, only to enjoy them while he had the chance. But he never forgot that feeling of being chosen, the satisfying pride of being sought out and valued by someone who seemed to know exactly what she wanted. Neither did he forget the way his heart had jumped in his chest the first time her arms had ever gone around his neck.

He had loved her from that day, through many long years of treasured friendship. It was never said bluntly in words, as words had never been his strongest suit. But he tried to show his devotion in every action and gesture, in the way he ran to her first when he returned home from a journey or pulled her up to share his saddle when they rode out to enjoy a free afternoon on the banks of the Snowbourne. Or in the way that he positioned himself so that her head could rest comfortably on him when she fell asleep early during a gathering of friends.

He lifted his cheek and opened his eyes to find Théodred watching him from across the room. His cousin raised an eyebrow and smiled, and Éomer blushed a little at having been caught in a moment of intimate contentment. Théodred winked and turned back to his own conversation.

Just then, Mereliss stirred against his shoulder, roused by a boisterous laugh from one of Éowyn’s friends, and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. “I’m sorry, Éomer. I didn’t intend to use you as a pillow and keep you from being able to move about.” Her voice was soft and tired, but she began to straighten herself and sit upright again.

He caught her elbow as she moved and pulled her gently back down into place against him. “It’s alright,” he whispered, smiling down at her. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

*******

Éomer’s eyes had started to grow heavy. After a long day of work he always looked forward to precious time with his family, but chasing after a toddler for hours was every bit as tiring as his royal duties. He had just spent the last hour crawling around on the floor with Sigewyn on his back, playacting as the horse she wanted to ride and endeavoring to keep his hair out of her surprisingly strong little fingers when she tried to use it as reins. When his knees could no longer handle the stone floor, she had agreed to sit for a story instead and then promptly fell asleep splayed out across his chest on a couch in their great room. By the time Mereliss walked in, the last of her work finally completed for the day, Éomer himself was already deep into the liminal space between sleep and consciousness, reclined in a comfortable position with the warm weight of their daughter covering his torso like a blanket and one of her loving little hands plastered to his cheek. Mereliss smiled to herself at the sweetness of the scene and gently moved a pillow to better cushion his head as he rested.

She knew that some people looked skeptically at the amount of time Éomer spent with their daughter, just as they looked skeptically at the amount of authority and autonomy he had given to Mereliss as queen. Determined to learn from his regrets at the constraints his sister had lived under, Éomer wanted his marriage to be a true partnership, a union of equals, and, despite some of her early insecurities, Mereliss had flourished in the role. She soaked up information faster than advisors could present it to her, and she gained expertise and confidence in equal measure. Before long, they had worked out a division of labor that played to each of their strengths–he handled military and diplomatic matters while she adjudicated disputes and looked after the needs of the towns and villages–and she set about her tasks each day feeling happy and fulfilled. Though not everyone in the kingdom embraced the idea of a queen who was more than just a mother and a figurehead, she had Éomer’s trust and respect, which is all she had ever wanted from the first time they met.

She hadn’t gone in search of a friend that day. She was merely tagging along with her father on some business, happy for a chance to be out and about. On the way into the stable, though, she had caught a glimpse of an unknown boy talking quietly with a much younger girl, drying the girl’s tears and giving her a comforting hug. The gentle and caring way he treated this girl, who Mereliss assumed to be his little sister, touched her heart. Other boys her age were always so rough and rude, quick to tease or provoke, but this one seemed different. Kind and thoughtful, if also forlorn. Whatever was troubling him and his sister, Mereliss wanted only to somehow make it better. When the sister left the stable and the kind boy sat alone, she had gone straight to his side, determined both to make a friend of him and to alleviate even a little of the sadness that seemed to follow him like a shadow. She gave him all of her charm, used every little trick for putting people at ease that she had gleaned from watching her father at work, and she would never forget the first time that she made him smile, when that grave solemnity gave way to a moment’s laughter and a deep dimple appeared on his right cheek. Nor would she forget the nervous little flip in her stomach when she reached out to hug him and his arms went around her shoulders for the first time.

After that day, they were nearly always together, and her affection turned easily and seamlessly into love. She never told him so in those words—he could be embarrassed by too much talk of feelings and preferred instead to show how he felt. So she followed his lead and tried to put her love for him into every deed and motion, in the way she waited up long into the night whenever he was expected home from trips out of Edoras, or in how she pulled his arm snugly around her waist when she sat in front of him in the saddle as they rode off for an afternoon outside the city. Or in how she gently tried to make him comfortable when he fell asleep early under the sleeping form of their daughter.

She slid in carefully next to them on the couch, resting her cheek against his shoulder and gently moving Sigewyn’s hand from his face, taking care to unwind a few locks of his hair from around those little fingers. She pressed her lips to the space where the hand had been, and he stirred slightly, turning his head to look at her through half closed eyes. “Did I doze off? I’m sorry, Mere. I’ll get up, and we can still make something of the night.” His voice was faint and thick with sleep, but he moved a foot toward the floor.

She blocked his foot with her own, lightly pushing it back up onto the couch. “It’s alright,” she whispered, smiling up at him. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #lotr fanfiction #eomer #éomer #rohan #how we first met #two sides of the same event #sweet little moments #divider by saradika

[themoonlily]

HI OMG I AM SO OVER THE MOON TO HAVE FOUND YOUR TUMBLR—

Sorry, I'm just really over the moon. Your many posts about Lothíriel and the Rohirrim and EVERYTHING LOTR has made my day. I have found my jackpot haha to scroll through your blog and procrastinate while excusing myself as doing some research about LOTR. Bless you and your brilliant blog. Have a great day/night!

Oh, right, may I ask your experience getting into Éothíriel? Did it happen the first time you ever read LOTR or until much, much later? (which is what happened with me and now I can't stop ahh)

Thank you so much for your lovely message! I'm glad you enjoy my tumblr. :) I think at some point I was quite frustrated with how little you see stuff about them online, and then I decided to be the Éothiriel content I wanted to see in the world. :')

As for I got into this ship - I've loved LOTR since I first saw the PJ films, but didn't really engage in any fandom things until the Hobbit trilogy came out: it was at that point that my obsession with Tolkien really took a turn for the worse, so to speak. Even before then, I had especially liked the parts with Rohan, but I decided to try reading LOTR for the first time in English, and I quickly fell in love with the character of Éomer. And I started to devour everything I could find about him, so of course I eventually found out about Lothíriel.

Although Tolkien didn't write much about her and she doesn't appear in the story proper, I felt like there was still a lot in the story to go with - stuff that heavily implied why Éomer married this woman and what might be the circumstances of their relationship. I think it was all set up even as early as the Battle of Pelennor fields, when Imrahil discovers that Éowyn is still alive, and I think that Éomer would feel gratitude and friendship with the person who helped to save his sister (and his only living family at that point). It seems clear to me that they would interact a lot during the rest of the war and after it, being commanders in the army of the West. So he would have familiarity and probably frienship with Lothíriel's family, and it would be politically a very good match, making ties with a powerful noble House that ruled its own fiefdom in Gondor. She might even be the highest-ranking lady in Gondor at that point (excluding Arwen). Furthermore, I think it would be of great interest to Éomer (and other Rohirrim) that Dol Amroth had a cavalry of mounted knights, making them natural allies with a lot to give to each other. Éomer's heir is named Elfwine (=Elf-friend = Elendil), which also speaks of how highly he thought of the friendships he made in Gondor. 

I thought, yes, it makes sense in a lot of ways that Éomer and Lothíriel were married. But there was also a lot of potential for how their relationship came to be, and you could tell their story in so many ways, which really fascinated me. And down into the rabbit hole I went.

That's the short version of why this blog exists, really!  

Have a great day/night, too! :)

#asks

[mariniacipher]

At the king's board sat Eomer and the four guests, and there also waiting upon the king was the lady Eowyn.

The king now rose, and at once Eowyn came forward bearing wine. 'Ferthu Theoden hal!' she said. 'Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!'

'I said not Éomer,' answered Háma. 'And he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.‘

two times eowyn was acting as a servant while being in her own home and also the Lady of said home, and one time her people actually got her the respect she deserves

(but honestly- i might love the rohirrim, but her serving them during the meal just sits wrong with me? like- she is the lady of rohan, not a servant?

or does she eat with the servants and the riders and is that how she got their respect and trust, through those interactions?)

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