#also y'all you can just go ahead and assume i'm always down to fill prompts

[theemightypen]

Idk if you're still doing the pairing+prompt thing, but if you are, would you be able to do 1 or 4 or 46 with Eothiriel? Thank you so much I love your writing!

Nonny, I’ll do you one better: I’ll write all three! :)

The rest is under the cut.

1) “Here, let me see.”

If Eomer were a wiser man, he would insist on someone–anyone–else to be the one patching up his bruised shoulder. As it is, Eomer has never been very wise–stubborn, yes, courageous, so they say–but wise? Not hardly.

As it is Lothiriel huffs at him from across the room, the pungent smell of whatever poultice she’s currently making thick in the air.

“Remind me again,” she says, aggravation clear in her voice, “why you and my idiot brother decided it would be a good idea to go sailing?”

“I had never been,” he says, “and Amrothos said that the weather was ideal for speed–”

“For him, an experienced sailor!” She interrupts. “You are a novice at best, and the winds were wild today–”

“Yes,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d already heard as much from Eothain, then again from Imrahil himself. Who must be as mad as his youngest son, to permit his daughter to be the one to doctor him after the afternoon’s…accident. “I know.”

She sets her jaw, stomping over to him with bandage in hand. “If you knew, then why did you do it?”

He opens his mouth to respond–that Amrothos had seemed so confident, that he would like to learn more about the things she enjoys during his short visit here–but swallows any defense at the look on her face. Anger, yes, irritation in no short supply, but Bema…concern. Worry.

“Nevermind,” she says, waving a hand at him. “Shirt off, troublesome king.”

The world seems to spin. Perhaps he had been hit in the head, after all?

“What?” He asks.

“I can hardly put a poultice on over your shirt,” Lothiriel says, slowly, as if he’s a small child. “Thus the shirt must come off.”

Oh, helle.

“Lothiriel, that’s–is there no one else–”

Abruptly she looks amused. “I have three brothers, Eomer. You need not worry about being the first man I’ve ever seen shirtless.”

This is decidedly different, he thinks, grumpily, but concedes to her point. She is well-trained in healing, and has likely seen men besides her brothers unclothed. The thought makes him strangely…irritated. She waits, mostly patient, as he strips out of the thin shirt Erchirion had loaned him. He winces as it jostles the injured shoulder. Being pinned against the mast by a loose piece of rigging had not been pleasant, but he had not expected the bruising to be so bad. The front of his shoulder is mottled, a mix of red and purple, and he can only imagine how the back looks.

“Here,” Lothiriel says in a much softer tone, “let me see.”

Her fingers are gentle, though he cannot fight back a hiss as she touches a particularly tender spot. She is disarmingly close, strands of her hair falling loose around her face as she smoothes the poultice into his skin. There is a band of freckles along her nose, spots of pink her cheeks, the soft fullness of her lips slightly parted as she contemplates him–

Forget the rigging, Eomer things, this is true torture.

By the Mark’s standards, he would be well within his rights to kiss her, as her betrothed. But, as he has been reminded on numerous occasions by her brothers, Eothain, and even traitorous Eowyn: they are not in the Mark.

Mercifully, she steps around him, hiding her all-too-tempting mouth from his sight, to examine the other side of his shoulder.

Her sudden sharp intake of breath startles him. “Lothiriel?”

She’s silent for a moment, and then–

Eomer flinches at the sudden touch of her fingers along his back. Ah. The scars.

One does not lead an eored for the majority of their life without accumulating some lasting injuries, and Eomer is no exception. The one she’s touching now came from a Dunlending’s arrow, luckily prevented from causing further damage by his mail. Her fingers flit over to his shoulder blade–this scar is faint, he knows, a luck swipe from some Southerling’s spear. He had not noticed it until well after Morannon–how could he have, with Eowyn nearly dying in the Houses, Theoden lost?

“Eomer,” she murmurs, voice thick. “Oh, Eomer–”

“They are old wounds, swete,” the pet name comes naturally, because for all her temper, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth is sweet, and gentle, and kind, “do not trouble yourself.”

She’s silent again, before she steps around to face him again, setting the bowl down with an angry clatter. “Do not trouble myself?! What kind of woman do you think I am, Eomer Eomundson!”

Eomer can only blink at her. “I meant no offense–”

“Who is to worry for you, if not for me?” She cries and he can see tears in his eyes–Bema help him–and she jabs a finger against his chest. “I am–I am going to be your wife!”

It is the first time she has ever said it aloud. It is the first time he has ever heard her acknowledge, in truth, what this betrothal means for her, for him.

So, Bema help him, he can do aught but reach out, tug her close, and kiss her. She is stiff for a moment before relaxing, all but melting against him, her mouth hot and welcoming against his. She winds her fingers into his hair and he moves to pull her closer, damning Gondorian propriety for denying them this–

The sudden sharp ache of his shoulder is enough to make him gasp a curse and Lothiriel freezes, blinking at him and then at his shoulder in surprise.

“Oh, Elbereth,” she murmurs. “Your shoulder–I am sorry–”

He kisses her, gently, to stop her ramble. “You need not apologize for that.”

She huffs a laugh, drifting back closer to press her forehead to his. They’re both silent for a moment, until she says, in a very soft voice, “I will always worry for you, Eomer. Please do not ask me not to.”

He can only draw her closer, strokes a hand through her hair. “I suspect I shall be very bad at forbidding you anything,” Eomer says, smiling slightly as she laughs again, “much less something as kind as that.”

“Good,” she says, lifting her head from his uninjured shoulder to smile at him.

Not for the first time, he suspects he owes Eowyn a very large favor for insisting on him taking a trip to Dol Amroth after her wedding.

4) “Will you just hold still?”

The situation, Eomer reflects, is entirely Lothiriel’s fault.

If she had not permitted her charming-yet-disastrous brother to ride her prized mare, she would not be short a horse on their ride from Emyn Arnen to Minas Tirith. (Niprehdil was fine, but lame, and could not bear even the smallest of riders.) She would not be seated in front of him, leaning her head back against his chest, and he would not have to fend off cheeky grins from Aragorn–the traitor–every time he made eye contact with his fellow king.

It does not help that Lothiriel–minx, tormentress, possible sorceress that she is–will not sit still.

Normally, he would have no problem being pressed so closely to his wife–Bema knew his councilors approved of the…obvious attraction between their young king and queen–but they are in public now, with her parents and brothers not far behind them, and Legolas’s all-too-knowing gaze finding them far too often.

She shifts again, wriggling closer to him, and Eomer thinks his eyes may actually cross.

“Lothiriel,” he hisses, gratified when she starts guiltily, “will you please hold still?”

“Oh,” she gasps, in a hushed tone. “Am I disturbing you?”

Yes, he wants to say, and you know that very well.

“I will force you to ride with Elfhelm if you do not stop,” is what he says instead.

Lothiriel turns her head, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You would not.”

“I very much would,” Eomer argues.

She must read the seriousness in his tone, for her expression shifts, softens. She turns her whole body–yet another agonizing move, as her legs are now throne over his right thigh, her right arm looping around his back–so she can better face him. “I am sorry. It…it has just been a long few months–”

Bema, how can he stay angry, when she looks at him like that? And she has the right of it: she has been with Eowyn through the last half of her pregnancy while Faramir has been dealing with some sort of trade agreement with the supposedly reformed Harad. He has missed her–all of Meduseld has missed her–and they have scarcely had a moment alone, thanks to the overabundance of well-wishers scrambling to meet Eowyn and Faramir’s son.

“I missed you,” she says, reaching up to touch his jaw with her free hand.

He can only smile down at her, leaning down just slightly to brush her nose with his. “And I you.”

Lothiriel smiles, just a brief twitch of her lips. “I am glad to hear it,” she says. And then she’s giving the hair at the nape of his neck the briefest tug, stretches her spine as far as it will go to better press her mouth close to his ear, “and I will be very glad to demonstrate just how much.”

Eomer barely stifles a groan. “You will be the death of me, Lothiriel.”

“Mayhaps,” she agrees, catching his mouth in a brief–but impossibly warm–kiss.

Well, Eomer thinks, grinning to himself as Eothain mutters something about ‘indecent behavior’, there are worse ways to go.

46) “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?”

Lothiriel well knows the importance of horses to the lives of the people of Rohan. She would not consider herself a good queen if she did not. And as this makes her third spring in the Mark, she also knows that the foaling season is amongst the most vital, the most sacred to the Eorlingas. Man, woman, and child, to a one, there was no time of the year that garnered more joy, more excitement.

Her husband is no exception.

The past two springs, she has not minded his absence, his tendency to abandon anything and everything to hurry down to the stables to help with the foaling–he is the King, the embodiment of what Rohan stands for, and his presence is considered a blessing for every colt and filly born.

But now…returning to their rooms after a long day to find them empty makes her…well, nearly angry. Sad. He is their king, yes, but her husband also! Happy as she is to share him, his continued absence from their rooms is vexing. On numerous levels.

In the rare instances she does manage to catch him, he is distracted, weary, but with an undeniable current of excitement lingering underneath.

“Four more strong colts today,” he tells her, pressing an absent minded kiss to her forehead. “Ceola thinks another three mares will go into labor by nightfall.”

If you love the horses so much, perhaps you would have been better off marrying one of them instead, she thinks, bitterly.

And then Lothiriel shakes herself–she is being ridiculous, petty and small over something that brings both Eomer and their people such happiness.

“Will I see you for dinner?” She asks.

Eomer frowns, the first unhappy expression she’s seen since the first foal was birthed nigh two weeks ago. “I am afraid not, swete. They have need of me in the stables–”

Sighing, and forcing back her retort that she might be better served by his hands than the horses, she kisses him briefly. “Do try to remember to sleep sometime, husband.”

Giving her a smile and nod, he is gone again, in a whirl of blonde hair and the soft smell of hay.

Shaking her head at his antics, Lothiriel lets her hands slide to rest on her stomach. The curve there is small, not noticeable at all through her clothes. But significant enough that he would not have failed to notice it if they had actually shared a bed for more than a few passing moments–or to do something more than sleep–in the past weeks.

Perhaps if I told him I was foaling, he would not be so eager to spend all his time in the stables, she thinks, wryly.

Still. The idea of telling him such a thing without his having his full attention makes her stomach twist. Only she and Master Duilin know of it now. It is better this way, she knows, and in a way she’s grateful that there is a reason behind her strange melancholy, her embarrassing envy of the horses of Edoras’s stables.

It is another two weeks of this state, with her remarking to a laughing Wilfled one day that it is almost as if she does not have a husband, rather a ghost who must delight in leaving dirtied shirts all over the floor and tracking mud on her carpets. Finally, late one night, she’s pulled from slumber by the sound of horns: the last foal has been born, the season officially ending in Edoras.

Eomer tries to creep in quietly, but she rolls over to face him anyways, smiling softly at his guilty expression.

“Did I wake you?”

“The horns beat you to it,” Lothiriel answers. “How is the foal?”

“Healthy and beautiful,” he says with a grin. “Another filly.”

“She took her time,” she says, watching with not a little pleasure as he peels off his shirt, then his breeches.

“As is the prerogative of a beautiful lady,” he answers, eyes glinting in her direction.

Lothiriel laughs, shakes her head. “Flattery would usually get you everywhere, Eomer, but tonight I am tired.”

“That is just as well,” he says, sliding into the bed beside her. “For I am tired, too.”

Regardless, she sighs happily when he curls himself behind her. She has missed this–missed him–very much, and the lingering smell of horse isn’t detriment enough for her to move from where she’s pressed herself into the curve of his much large body. Eomer kisses her neck, moves his arm to wrap around her better, his hand coming to rest on–

Oh, Valar, she thinks as he suddenly goes stiff as a board behind her.

Her nightgown is thin and clings rather obviously to the slight swell of her stomach, where Eomer’s hand currently sits.

“Lothiriel,” he says, tone unreadable.

“Would you believe,” she interrupts, trying to keep the laughter from her voice, “that Rohan’s cuisine is simply more hearty than Gondor’s?”

He tugs her to face him, dark eyes wide in his face, his hand still somehow pressed to the curve of her stomach and she takes pity, reaching up to cup his face in her hands.

“Are–are you–”

“It seems we will have a foal of our own, come winter,” Lothiriel says. “Though I do not think Duilin will permit you to help with this one’s birth.”

Eomer gives a dazed laugh, his smile nearly blindingly bright. She can still feel his smile when he kisses her.

As it turns out, they are not that tired, after all. 

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #prompt response #my writing #LOTR fic #also y'all you can just go ahead and assume i'm always down to fill prompts #they're a delight!