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#eomer fanfiction
sotwk · 10 months
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Taken (Eomer x femReader )
Part 1 of 3
Part 2 / Part 3
Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig
Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk
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Summary: The lone shield-maiden in Eomer's Éored has been secretly in love with him for years, but has long accepted that that he can never share those feelings. At the feast of King Elessar's coronation, she is surprised to learn that there may yet be hope.
Prompt: "It's like you never really see me. I'm standing right in front of you and you don't see me!"
Requested by and Dedicated to: @writefortherain-blog Thank you for making this request and giving me the opportunity to write for Eomer!
Word count: 2.4k
Content: Romance, angst, mutual pining, oblivious to love, jealousy, forbidden relationship, class division, shield-maiden, King Eomer, post-RotK
Rating: T (Teens and up)
Warnings: Some sensuality
To Read on AO3: Link
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Taken 
Third Age 3019 May 1
Minas Tirith
PART ONE
Downing that fourth cup of wine had been a mistake. Or was it the fifth? Sixth? The ridiculous dress with its rib-crushing bodice and neckline positioned nowhere near your neck, had also been a mistake, even though the local clother had insisted to you that it was in the "proper" Gondorian fashion. The entire evening and its inconveniences had all been for a failed end. 
You finally jostled your way out of the packed feasting hall and stumbled outside to the courtyard, your compressed lungs and flushed skin rejoicing at their contact with the cool night air. One hand rose to massage your throbbing temple, and the other clawed irritatedly at the boning that caged in your unacceptably unfeminine frame. 
"Never again," you seethed under your breath, as you crossed the white-stone pavement to move even farther away from the chaos you escaped. 
It had been a painful decision to ride out to Minas Tirith with the rest of your Éored and attend the coronation of the returned King of Gondor. You despised grand affairs, knowing well enough the requirements rules of court would impose on you, unwieldy formal attire being just one of them. These were at least tolerable within Rohan, where you could find some comfort amongst familiar faces and settings. But as the lone female who rode in the company of the Third Marshal, you refused to be excluded from any undertaking by your Éored, however dangerous or unpleasant. Whether it broke your arm or shattered your heart.
"I can just go," you thought, casting a quick glance back at the great hall, alive and alight with the merry cacophony of a thousand revelers that would surely last until dawn. The two hours you already spent mingling to the best of your limited ability had to suffice, and it was doubtful your presence would even be missed. 
But the call of a deep voice stalled your retreat, loud and commanding and instantly recognizable even across a distance as it shouted your name. The soldier in you succumbed to the instinct to obey your Marshal, to honor the oath you had sworn on your knees years ago. 
The flickering flames of nearby torchlights reflected against the carved silver panels of the breastplate he donned over his lavishly embroidered tunic. Famously handsome even when caked in blood and grime, Eomer was breathtakingly resplendent bearing the regalia that befitted his station. King Eomer now, you reminded yourself, as you dipped your head in a bow. 
“My lord.”
“Is something amiss? Why did you leave?” His narrowed eyes upon you were penetrating, his tone demanding rather than concerned. Lying to someone you had spent practically every single day of your adult life with was difficult, and even more so with an addled brain, so you knew you had to mince words carefully.  
Fortunately, you had years of practice doing exactly that. 
“I underestimated the potency of their vintage, and downed one cup too many.” You scrunched up your features in a grimace that just slightly exaggerated your pain. “I thought it best to excuse myself and retire for the night.”
“Perhaps if you rested a while and ate some food…” He rested a hand lightly on your shoulder. “It is much too early and the quarters would still be empty. I know you detest fraternizing, but just sit at the table with the rest of our men.”
You released a graceless guffaw and a puff of wine-tinged breath. “Half of them are already deeper in their cups than I, and getting sloppier by the second. I finally had to remind Héothain of his manners the second time he tried to sneak a hand down the front of my dress.”
“He did what?” Eomer’s sudden growl awakened you to your own carelessness and slip of the tongue. Smooth-cheeked Héothain was the youngest and newest addition to the Éored, and remained sorely lacking in experience with women. He should not be held accountable for his awkwardness amplified by insobriety. 
“It was a silly mistake that caused no harm,” you insisted, pulling back as Eomer attempted to lead you off by the elbow. “Two sprained fingers taught him a lesson he shall not soon forget.” 
Eomer glowered at you but remained silent for a pause, as he did whenever running through courses of action in his mind. “Then you can come sit by me at the King’s table.”
Your laugh in response to that suggestion was shrill and nervous, as he looked so serious making it. “I most certainly cannot… my lord.” You stated your defiance firmly, baring a toothless pertinacity against your leader, and underneath it a silent plea that the friend in him would understand. “There is no place for me amongst such esteemed company and truly, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy less at this moment.” 
You sighed and braced one hand below your rib area, massaging a spot where the corset dug into a still-tender battle injury. 
“Please. Let me go back to my room where I can be rid of these dreadful garments.”
“No.” The immediacy and sharpness of his refusal made you blink in surprise. “Not until you explain yourself to my satisfaction.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“Hah, there! That is what I am speaking of.” 
“I’m afraid I don’t understand--”
“When did you cease to call me by my name in private conversation? Or last bother to converse with me at all?!” You took too long to answer, and he barreled on, hazel eyes flashing with the sudden rise of agitation. “Let me enlighten you, since I recall it well. It began after Theodred’s death, accompanied by a host of other changes in your behavior towards me that you think I have not noticed!”
You scrambled to concoct a rebuttal, another feint to keep him from uncovering your secrets. Alas, your dulled mind had frozen completely in the face of the horse-lord’s fury, which had never been directed at you in such a manner.
“You are misreading things, my lord, or else imagining them. I cannot say that I--”
“You cannot even look me in the eye these days of late!” Eomer snapped. “Nor can you stand to be in any room I am in for long.” He threw out his arm in the direction of the great hall. “Even now you rebuff any attempt I make to spend time with you.”
“I…I…” You stammered, rendered helpless before his unexpected wrath, cursing yourself for the poor timing of your inebriation. How could you put up your shields when your mind was struggling to pick out your own lies from the truth?
“If you are angry with me, I would have you admit to it now. I will no longer be played for a fool.”
Indignation pooled in your gut, crawling upward until it deepened the coloring of your already flushed face. “I confess to nothing! For what cause do I have to be angry?”
“Because you loved him!” Eomer erupted. As you gaped at his outburst, he gripped a fistful of his hair, and took in one sharp breath, steeling himself. “You loved Theodred,” he finally said, in a voice gone cold and quiet. “And you place blame on me for his death.”
The fire in your belly flared at the terrible accusation. “Theodred was murdered by Saruman, and only a traitor would fault you for that vile cur’s deed.” You shook a finger at him emphatically. “I am no traitor.”
“Did you love my cousin?”
“Of course I did,” you said stoutly. The prince’s demise plagued you still, for you had been the one to spot Theodred’s body amongst the corpses that littered the fords. And after he’d been borne away to Meduseld, you never saw him alive again, and all you could do was weep in the privacy of your quarters, which you did for weeks, mourning the loss of so much more than a dear friend and mentor. 
“No one has ever shown me greater kindness than Theodred.” You held a hand over your heart as a different ache rose in you. “He believed in me at a time when no one else would, not even you." 
Eomer had fallen silent, but you saw his cloaked shoulders rise and fall, broad chest heaving in the manner so familiar to you. It was the way he looked on the battlefield, where his blood ran hottest, and he was fighting to balance out the genteel lord and savage killer that both resided within him. He was so thoroughly upset with you. 
“If I have made you feel like your cousin’s fate was in any way your fault, I am truly sorry,” you said. "But what sort of questions are these, and why are you asking them now?"
His gaze flicked back in your direction, leaden with anguish. "You should know why."
“I am telling you I do not, my lord, and I must beg you to explain why you are speaking so cryptically."
“You wish for me to explain in words something I have been trying to show you for years now?!” He gave a strangled laugh and raised his eyes and hands to the night sky. "Bema…"
“It is as though you never really see me,” he muttered, almost as though speaking to himself. “Here I am, standing right in front of you, and you do not see me!"
But you did hear his mumbled complaints, and suddenly it was all too much. Your sickening weariness, your aches both physical and emotional, your befuddlement caused by the six drinks and this man's unhinged raging as he launched yet another ludicrous accusation at you.
"Not see you?" you repeated, and something about just saying it rammed open the gate behind which you had caged up every real thing you ever wanted to say to Eomer, Son of Eomund. 
"If such a thing were possible, I would wish it upon myself immediately!" you exclaimed. "But you are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to! Even when I flee from your presence, I can never escape a face that refuses to leave my thoughts!" 
Oh Valar, no. STOP. Panicked, you bit down on your lip to imprison the words fleeing your mouth, so hard you tasted blood. But Eomer suddenly moved forward, encroaching on the space you desperately fought to maintain for your own protection, and his hazel eyes locked into yours to wrench away the last of your defenses. 
"It hurts too much, can you not understand?!" you cried, managing one step back. "To remain in the presence of the one thing you most desire but will never have, to be taunted by a dream that will never be fulfilled, to watch as it falls into the possession of another while you can do absolutely nothing!"
He spoke your name, his voice oddly hoarse, and shame finally came crashing down inside you. Your hands flew up to hide your face and suddenly he grabbed your wrists, tugging your arms away only to replace your hands with his own, warming your cheeks with his calloused palms. 
“Then see me now,” he ordered. “And know I have always understood how that feels. What great fools we have both been all along to deny ourselves our true desires.”
“Eomer, what--” The stroke of his thumb over the corner of your mouth drove the rest of the words away, and the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes gave him the approval he sought. 
His kiss tasted more glorious than they did in a thousand daydreams combined. It did not surprise you that he was completely unlike the other men you had kissed before. Whereas lesser men were greedy and sloppy in their hunger, the caress of Eomer’s mouth was deep and languid, almost worshipful in its exploration of your lips, as though he aimed to savor every small sensation and intended to carry on doing this with you forever. 
His one arm looped around your waist to hold you covetously against him; his broad left hand traveled from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers burying themselves into your hair, tips grazing your scalp. It fired up a new heat in you that you had never felt before, not with such raw intensity, and a tremulous whimper escaped your throat. 
But the sound of your own pleasure was your undoing, for it triggered an alarm in your head, one that caused you to break away from Eomer’s passion. You mumbled against his lips the words you had conditioned yourself for years to think around him. 
“My lord, I cannot…”
He paused, his eyes still dazed and unfocused, caught in a state of bliss--one that you caused, you realized with a shiver. “You cannot… what?” he said thickly. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped back in eagerly to trail his mouth up your jawline, his tongue skimming the tender pulse underneath your ear. 
You gave a small cry and pushed against his chest with more force, immediately waking his attention. His arm around your waist remained stubbornly secure however, and it took you physically prying the powerful limb off for you to slip free. Either due to shock or lingering delirium, Eomer did not resist. 
“I cannot…” Your voice broke even as you clung to your resolve. “I cannot have you.”
His heavy brows furrowed. “What?” Within seconds the confusion lifted to uncover his dismay, layered with anger. “You would speak lies and nonsense again, after everything I told you?”
“It is the truth, Eomer!” You started backing away already, stepping faster and faster as he began to move and reach out for you. “You can never be anything more than a dream to someone like me. I cannot have what is already taken.”
“Taken? What--wait! No!” He started to run, but you had already turned heel and were sprinting full-speed towards the Citadel Gate. You had always been faster on your feet; there was no hope of him catching up if you refused to heed his orders. “Stop!”
His shouts of your name faded quickly, drowned out by the noise of the milling crowd you plunged into and the thunder of your own frantic heartbeat. You slowed to a walk but kept a quick pace, weaving haphazardly through the throng and on and on until you’d descended at least two levels. Only then did you duck into a side street and survey your surroundings.
Your escape succeeded. Neither Eomer nor any Rohirrim were anywhere to be found, at least for the moment.
You collapsed upon the nearest doorstep, exhaustion and aches finally overcoming you. As the chaotic whirlwind within you settled, so too did the reality of what just occurred sink in. 
Eomer desired you, perhaps even loved you as you did him. But the King of Rohan’s love was not for you, a common soldier, to take. You had known that all along, and he did too. It was unkind of him to give you such false hope. 
Raising your fingers to your swollen lips, you felt the ghost of his perfect kisses on them, and finally burst into tears over yet another memory that will grieve you until your trampled heart could bear no more.
To be continued...
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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months
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Burnt Bread
Éomer x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: fluff, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, family issues, established relationship, alcohol
Word Count: 2.4k
After being left to fend for yourself in your father's bakery, you end up making a massive mistake that earns his ire. Fleeing, you find comfort with the one person who you're utterly safe with.
A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist
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“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”
You glance up from the sticky dough beneath your hands and find your father near the door. He sways on his feet slightly as he attempts to tug on his coat. “I’m leaving” is just another way of telling you that he’s off to drink, and by the look and smell of him, he’s already started for the day.
It wasn’t always like this, and it’s only become worse over the years. Following your mother’s death, your father’s reliance on mead has become a crutch, a vessel for his loneliness. It doesn’t matter that you are alive and here for him.
While you don’t entirely resent him for falling into this state, the frequency of it does worry you. Worse, it’s driving a wedge in your relationship with him. He’s becoming distant and detached. His frequent disappearances leave you alone to take care of the shop and everything that goes along with it. It’s not difficult, and you enjoy the work, but when the shop is busy, you can’t always keep an eye on things.
You’re starting to grow tired of this, and you don’t want to feel resentful of your father. You’ve always loved him, even on the days when he comes home stumbling.
“For how long?” you ask flatly, trying not to sound upset that he’s departing yet again. This is the fifth day in a row your father has left the shop in the morning to drink. You fail, a little indignation creeping into your tone.
Your father hears it because he scowls in your direction. “Don’t know,” he mutters, as he teeters toward the door.
There is no final goodbye or backward glance. The shop door slams shut, and tears begin to form in the lower lids of your eyes. Brushing them away with the back of your hand only dusts your cheeks with floor.
This constant distance is tiring.
Putting all your frustration into kneading the dough on the table, a little bit of that steam begins to cool. Once you’ve had enough, and your arms ache, you cut and shape the dough, setting it aside to rise.
The bell above the door rings as the first customer of the day steps inside. And then it begins.
This is why you miss your father in the mornings. Everyone loves seeing your face. They appreciate your kind smile and helpful attitude. Most days, your father is nursing a hangover and keeps to himself, leaving you to take care of everyone that walks in. But without him, you’ll need to do both.
The front of the shop quickly packs with people. You’re so busy taking orders and wrapping bundles of freshly baked bread, that at first you don’t smell the slight hint of char in the air. It’s only when you finish helping a customer that you catch a whiff of it.
The older woman’s nose crinkles in confusion, and while she says nothing, her reaction gives you pause. Inhaling, you consider the scents in the shop, grouping them into different categories. There’s sugar, butter, and—
Your eyes widen, and then you’re rushing to the large stone oven at the back of the shop. “Oh no. No no no no.” Grabbing the large, wood paddle off the wall, you hurriedly scoop up and toss the bread onto the nearby table.
Some are perfectly toasted but others, like the ones closest to the fire, are charcoal. You slide the paddle in and retrieve a loaf that is entirely on fire. In your surprise, the paddle and bread fall to the floor.
They both clatter loudly and you drop to your knees, using your apron to smother the burning bread. The tears fall easily, and the heat from the apron is hot and irritating, but you put it out. You’re so absorbed in trying to salvage what you can, that you don’t realize where the wide part of the paddle is.
Your hand goes out and connects with it. You jump back with a light cry, cradling your palm. The paddle is wood and not metal, which is some comfort, but your left hand is throbbing.
The bell above the door rings, and you glance up, eyes wide and frightened like a deer.
“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.
Your father is back, and you can smell the sourness from here. He half-sways, half-limps around the counter to where you’re kneeling. His pupils are wide, and he has to lean on the countertop for support. That yellow gaze roams over you, to the burnt bread on the floor, and then back to you again.
“You stupid girl,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “You stupid stupid girl!”
This is the part of him you dislike the most. When he’s deep in his cups, all kindness is gone.
“I’m so sorry, father. We were busy and I didn’t realize—”
“Do you know how much you’ve cost us? This is two dozen loaves.” He picks one up and throws it at your face. His aim is terrible and completely off. All you have to do is bend a bit and it sails right over your head.
“Father—”
“Do you do this to me on purpose?”
“Father. Please—”
“Every day I have to look upon your face and see your mother. A daily reminder that she is gone!”
“Please,” you beg softly, staring down at your hands.
“Get out!”
You bolt up and rush out the door, nearly knocking over an elderly woman about to walk inside. You run and run until you pass through the gates of Edoras, stopping only when you make it to the burial mounds of the kings. You fall to your knees and then onto your back, staring up into the sky.
It’s morning, but overcast, the clouds a stormy gray like they’re ready to cry and join you in your sorrow.
There is only one person who could give you comfort, but he is not here. He is gone, expected back today but you’re not sure when. Even if you were to wait for him, you’re in no state to greet him. Éomer should see you happy when he returns, not tear-stained.
No one holds vigil at the burial mounds. This will be your respite. This will be your chance to slow your racing heart and dry your eyes. Once you’re calm, once you’re no longer wishing to flee from this place, you’ll hold vigil at the gates until Éomer arrives. Going back to the shop to face your father is out of the question.
The grass is a soft bed beneath you. Closing your eyes, you press your hands against the earth, splaying your fingers wide, focusing on the individual blades of grass under your palms. This will be your anchor until you can find a bit of peace.
“What are you doing on the ground?”
Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to the right, meeting the amused smile of the man you love.
“Éomer,” you breathe, sitting up to grab at the front of his leather armor. It doesn’t matter that your hands sting, you pull him down onto you wanting his closeness.
His gentle laugh is perfect, and when your mouths meet, everything slips away. Éomer settles between your legs, his forearm resting by your head while his other hand reaches back to grab. He meets bare thigh, and the contact is exactly what you need.
Éomer is real and whole and with you.
The kisses that start with soft excitement quickly become deep and heated. There is a slight harsh bite to his breathing as the two of you presses closer. Your hands slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, but as they crest over the lip of his armor, the tender flesh on your palm screams out.
Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.
Éomer stills and then pulls away from your lips. His head tips downward, glimpsing the burn before you can hide it from view.
“What happened?” he asks, his tone tipping toward concern.
“It’s nothing,” you murmur, as the memory of your father comes roaring back.
“It’s not nothing,” he replies firmly, his brow creasing. “Show me.”
Slowly, you unfurl your fingers, revealing your palm. Of everyone in your life, Éomer is the safest.
Éomer’s mouth forms into a deep frown as he clutches your wrist, drawing your hand closer to his face as he inspects the burn. “Did someone do this to you?”
You shake your head. “No. Just grabbed some hot bread. That’s all.”
Éomer sees right through you. “You’ve been crying.”
“It hurts.”
Éomer sighs, gently guiding your hand down to your chest. When he releases your wrist, Éomer reaches out to trace the backs of his knuckles against your cheekbone. “You can tell me if it was your father.”
When the tears start to accumulate in your eyes again, Éomer leans in and lowers his voice. “Did he hurt you?”
You shake your head. “Not with his fists.”
Éomer’s exhalation is shaky, like he’s trying to calm his own anger. “You’re coming with me.”
“Éomer—”
“You are coming with me,” he repeats. “We will talk, and I will tend to these burns.” When you open your mouth to argue, Éomer shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”
He slowly sits back on his heels and helps you come to sitting. Then he’s on his feet, bringing you with him. Éomer;s horse, Firefoot, grazes nearby.
Éomer’s hands lightly brush away the blades of grass that cling to your skirts. “Would you like to walk or ride back?”
You love Firefoot dearly, but you’d rather take your time arriving to Edoras’ gates. You’re still not calm, and a slow walk with Éomer at your side might just help you find some peace.
“Could we walk?”
He nods. “If that is what you wish.”
Éomer leads Firefoot by the bridle with one hand, and with the other, he clasps yours. He does not push or dig around, but instead moves at the pace you set. Éomer knows your signals without you having to say anything. Instead of inquiring about your father or what happened, he talks about his time away. It gives you a chance to shift mindsets, to focus on him and nothing else.
When the two of you are in his private room, Éomer guides you over to the hearth. He lays out a small nest of furs and gently helps you down on them, taking care not to accidentally brush against the burn. Once you’re seated, Éomer moves to a far corner of the room to remove his weapons and a few heavy pieces of armor. Then he comes back to you, sitting beside you in front of the fire.
“Show me your hands.” Reluctantly, you present them. Éomer frowns down at them. “Tell me again your father didn’t do this to you.”
“He didn’t. I promise.”
Éomer sighs heavily and his hands wrap around your wrists. He gently guides your hands closer, inspecting the burn. It’s only on your left hand, and Éomer slowly releases the one that’s fine. “I’ll have someone fetch some ointment for this and bandages.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is. I’ll take care of it.”
You snort and Éomer’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Think I’m incapable?”
“A strong warrior like you capable of such tenderness?” you tease.
His smile softens. “What about all the times I’ve been tender with you?”
Your cheeks heat with the memory. “Not in that way,” you mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment.
“Would you prefer that as well?”
“Perhaps later,” you breathe, heart quickening in your chest.
Éomer lifts your wrist to his mouth, placing a kiss on the pulse point. “I’ll return shortly.”
When Éomer acquires the correct ointment and bandages, he sets to work. He cleanses his hands, scrubbing his nails and between his fingers before he begins. Then, with purposeful slowness, Éomer lifts the injured hand and begins rubbing the ointment into the surface-level burns. They likely won’t blister but they’ll sting for a week or more.
Once the ointment is applied, he unwraps the bandages, guiding it over and around your hand to keep the ointment in place. He ties off the extra and cuts it off with a clean blade, tucking the little bit left into the wrappings. Éomer is overly cautious but it’s sweet.
He is always so gentle with you.
“You spoil me,” you murmur.
“I enjoy it,” he replies, turning your hand over to double-check his work.
A soft sadness creeps in. “One day you won’t.”
Éomer glances up. “How so?”
You shrug as if the words don’t mean anything. “You’ll marry a princess. She’ll beautiful and fair. The people will love her.”
Éomer shakes his head. “Why would I ever want such a thing when I have one right here.”
“Don’t tease.”
“I’m not.” Éomer kisses your fingers and gently guides your hand to your lap. In a move so delicate it momentarily steals your breath, Éomer cups your cheek and leans in close. “All I ever want. All I ever need. Is right here.”
Éomer stands before the back door of the shop your father owns. He’s still fuming, but not nearly as much as when he saw your hand. For some time, Éomer has wanted to give this man a piece of his mind. You are precious, and more importantly, you don’t deserve his ire.
The man is a drunk, and everyone knows it. Most show him pity because it all started with the death of his wife—your mother. But that was many years ago, and any pity Éomer felt for the man has long since evaporated.
Squaring his shoulders, Éomer pounds on the door like he’s trying to splinter the wood.
You are still in Éomer’s chambers, curled up in the pile of furs he created in front of the fire. You are sacred to him, the woman he wants above all things. One day, you will be his, and will no longer have to answer to your father.
The drunkard swings open the door. “What?” he growls before he realizes who stands before him.
His eyes widen, and he straightens up, smoothing out the rumbled apron. He fumbles over his words and Éomer holds up a single hand, silencing the man.
“I’m not interested in excuses.” Éomer takes a step into the shop, towering over the man. “If I ever see her in tears again because of you, understand that my next visit will be much less pleasant. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
Éomer wants to stay more, but he draws back his rage. He nods curtly, and exits, only wanting to return to you.
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Ties That Bind
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Summary/Context: Do you ever wonder what happened when Théoden briefly imprisoned Éomer in Two Towers? Or about how Éomer felt about it, or how other members of the royal family felt when Wormtongue similarly manipulated Théoden against them, as we know he did? Me, too, so I wrote this. It’s meant to slot in with canon events like Éomer’s release from jail, Háma’s discovery of a bunch of stolen stuff in Wormtongue’s possession, etc., as well as with some of my own headcanon for Théodred (more of which is here).
Characters: Éomer, Eadlin (“princess”, Théodred’s fiancée and a real ride-or-die for him), Háma, mentions of Théoden, Théodred, and Wormtongue
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“Get your hands off of me!”
Éomer thrashed against the men on either side of him, trying to wrest his arms free from their iron grip. With his sword confiscated and his hands twisted uncomfortably behind his back, he had little chance of overpowering multiple guards. But he would sooner break an arm in the struggle than be led meekly into a prison cell like a child accepting a teacher’s correction.
The man on his right, a lieutenant of the king’s guards, grunted as he took a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, Marshal,” he said. “These are the orders of the king, and they will be carried out.”
“These are the orders of Wormtongue, only put into the king’s mouth,” Éomer seethed. He dug his heels into the stone threshold at the door, bracing his body against the lieutenant’s effort to propel him forward. The two strained against each other for several seconds, the opposing forces keeping them suspended motionless in the doorway, until another guard behind him sent a swift boot into the back of Éomer’s knee, buckling his leg and causing him to stumble forward into the cell. The door slammed closed behind him.
Immediately back on his feet, Éomer gripped the bars of the door and pulled with all his strength. The steel rattled back and forth in its casings but yielded no other result. As the guards retreated up the staircase, he roared with frustration and kicked a small wooden stool into the wall, where it splintered noisily against the thick stone.
He bent down to catch his breath, resting his hands on his knees, and glared out at his small enclosure from behind the long, golden hair that hung across his face.
“By all means, keep raging about. That is certain to help the situation.”
He whipped around in search of the source of this hoarse, flat voice, and his eyes landed on a small person bundled into a dark green cloak and sitting against the bars in the cell next to his. The stranger’s back was to him, and a hood obscured their face and hair.
“I do not recall asking for anyone’s opinion,” he spat out, turning all of his anger easily onto this new, available target.
“And yet you will receive it just the same,” the stranger answered. “If I can endure my pain and outrage quietly, surely you can do so also, Éomer.”
He froze at the sound of his own name, and the contents of his stomach heaved upward as he suddenly placed the voice. His fury was snuffed out in an instant.
“Eadlin?” Her name came out almost as a whisper.
She turned and cast back her hood, revealing the familiar face of the woman his late cousin had planned to marry. Her eyes and nose showed clearly that she had been crying, and the blue and yellow remnants of a fading bruise marred her cheek. But most striking was the bitterness in her expression as she glowered up at him from her place on the floor.
“For days now I have waited for someone from Théodred’s family to come to my aid,” she said. “And now the first of you to arrive is brought under guard himself. But it was foolish of me to have expected any help from the house of Théoden, since it is by his will that I am here.”
He rushed forward to the bars that separated them, and crouched down to look directly into her face. “You must believe me, Eadlin, had Éowyn or I known you were here, we would have done everything we could to get you out. None in our family would ever wish you any harm.”
“And yet here I sit. I would not call this a loving embrace, would you?”
The disdain in her voice shook him. Outside of this cell, she had been a close friend, clever and sharply funny but easy and warm with those she loved. And there was none she loved more than Théodred. She was fiercely loyal to him, extending her full affections to anyone who had his favor and withholding them completely from those who had friction with him. It had always pleased Éomer to know that Théodred had such a steadfast ally unfailingly at his back. But there was a cold steeliness about her now, a furious apathy, which Éomer did not recognize. She was clearly grieving, but her grief had curdled into something else, something harsh and unforgiving.
“Strange events are unfolding, and the king is not well,” he said quietly. “He has difficulty now discerning friend from foe.”
“He seemed quite confident about who was who when he accepted Wormtongue’s accusations against me.”
“Wormtongue!?” The fire of Éomer’s anger, briefly suppressed, was immediately rekindled by that hateful man’s name. “I should have guessed. There is hardly an ill deed in Rohan these days that Wormtongue seems not to have a hand in. What has he to do with your imprisonment?”
She drew her arms tightly around herself and sat for a moment in silence, as though playing out past events in her mind again. At last she spoke. “The day before Théodred died, I passed Wormtongue on the terrace. He expressed condolences for my loss, but I had experienced no loss at the time. When I asked him what he meant, he immediately reddened and stammered something about misspeaking. He is so often awkward and unpleasant that I attributed everything only to his peculiar nature and thought no more of it. It was not until the next day when Éowyn came to tell me–”.
She broke off as her voice began to quake. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. When she opened them again, her voice was clear and strong once more.
“When Éowyn came to tell me that Théodred had been killed overnight, I thought again of Wormtongue’s odious little face from the morning before, accidentally offering me his affected sympathy for a death that had not yet occurred. And then I knew that he was somehow in league with those who killed Théodred…that he had foreknowledge of Isengard’s attack and the relentless focus they would aim at Théodred alone. He knew that Théodred would die, and he erred only in the timing. He spoke too soon and, in doing so, he betrayed his own complicity. I could see it all, but I had no proof. So I waited until dark that night and went to the chambers where he keeps his office. I forced the lock to search for evidence of his treachery, but he discovered me there and had me dragged before Théoden as a thief and a traitor. He asked for my imprisonment, and Théoden agreed without hearing a word from me first.”
Her fingers trailed lightly over the blue smudges on her cheekbone. “I did not go quietly, but what is one woman against a company of guards? And I have been here ever since, rotting alone in the jail of the man who was to be my father.”
Éomer slumped back against the wall and rubbed a hand across his face. “Of all the charges I would lay at Gríma’s feet, never did I think he would reach so low as to aid in the death of the king’s son. Can it really be so?”
Her head snapped up. “Do you accuse me of lying?”
“Of course not.” He raised his palms in conciliation. ”I would take your word over Wormtongue’s in all things. There is no question.”
“Then you are one step ahead of your uncle.” Her lip trembled slightly but her gaze was direct and keen. Éomer looked away to escape the heat of it.
Of course he understood why she felt betrayed by Théoden. Was he not himself sitting in a cell because Théoden had accepted Wormtongue’s counsel? It stung, there was no denying. But something within him still felt a confidence that Théoden’s increasingly erratic behavior was not a true expression of his uncle’s will. The kind and generous man he had known all his life, who had taken him in and raised him as a son, was still there somewhere.
“Théoden is not himself of late,” he said. “I do not know how to explain it, but a person does not change so dramatically merely from old age and illness. I hope still that he will come back to himself before long.”
“You are more softhearted than I imagined, Éomer. Maybe you can forgive one who would cast you aside like so many kitchen scraps, but I cannot. Nor can I forgive the way he treated Théodred in the last weeks of his life. Accusing him of trying to usurp the throne. Of disloyalty. Did you know that your cousin went to his death with such words from his father in his ears? Why should I care whether they were Théoden’s own opinions or he merely repeated the accusations of Wormtongue? The effect was the same.”
Éomer winced. He had been the target of similar remarks recently, part of a wave of paranoia and suspicion that seemed to be gripping Théoden ever tighter. And though Théodred had never mentioned it, Éomer was not surprised to hear that his cousin had experienced the same thing. But if Eadlin had seen Théodred hurting as a result, Éomer doubted he would ever be able to change her mind about Théoden again. She might forgive many things over time, but causing Théodred pain was not one of them. Not now that the pain could never be redressed.
He reached through the bars and put a gentle hand on her arm. She stiffened but did not move. “I promise you, if I can find a way out of this cell, I will get you out, too. I will not leave this prison without you. And together we can try to fix all of this. To restore things to the way they ought to be.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. She tore her arm away from him and jumped to her feet. Her face flushed around the fading bruise, and her fists clenched at her sides.
“The way they ought to be? So you will bring my Théodred back from death, then? You will restore to me the best and kindest person either of us has ever known, the one person I loved above all else? Because that is what ought to be. And if that is not what you offer, then I am not interested. Now or ever.”
She strode to the opposite side of the cell, as far away from him as she could reach, and threw herself to the floor with her back to him once again. She made no further sound, though he could see from the ragged convulsing of her shoulders that she was sobbing.
He fought back the overwhelming urge to join her in her grief, to sit on the floor of his own cell and feel the full weight of his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cousin. But with so many disasters that had already befallen Rohan and others that might yet still occur while he was helplessly trapped here at the margin of greater events, his own pain would have to keep waiting. Instead, he reluctantly turned aside and began to pace back and forth across his cell, brooding on his situation and searching his mind for a plan of action. When the light failed and he could no longer see the bars on either side of him, he felt his way to the wall and sat back against it. He stared forward into the darkness, and in this way he passed a long, unhappy night.
When the morning sun at last began to filter in, he could once again see Eadlin sitting in her corner. Her back was still to him, and her knees were drawn up tightly under her chin. The sight of her in such misery was a jarring contrast to her smiling and animated presence in his memories. His heart ached for her, and for Théodred. How his cousin would have felt to see her like this he could not imagine.
He sat a while longer until the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the silence. The hollow feeling in his stomach reminded him that no food had been brought since his arrival, and he stood in expectation of receiving some form of meal. To his surprise, however, the face that appeared in the doorway was not a guard bearing food but rather the friendly visage of Háma, captain of the king’s guard and doorwarden of Meduseld, bearing a large ring of keys.
Háma smiled broadly and shook the keys with a celebratory jangle. “I have orders for your release, Marshal. Straight from the king himself.”
“The king?” Éomer rushed to the cell door, anxiously watching as Háma tried one key after another in the lock. “He has changed his mind? How?”
“I could not say. I know only that the wizard Gandalf arrived this morning with several strangers in tow, and they had an audience with the king. What was said inside is not known to me, but some magic seems afoot. There was sudden darkness and lightning in the middle of an otherwise clear morning, and soon after the king emerged from the hall to stand and walk in the sunshine as a man twenty years younger than he was only yesterday.”
Éomer’s mouth fell open and for several seconds he was unable to speak as he tried to make sense of Háma’s words. “Gandalf? Alive after all? And Théoden seemingly restored to health? It feels too much to have hoped for. If this is a jest of some sort, Háma, I assure you that I will take it badly.”
Háma grinned as he inserted a final key, which turned with a satisfying clink. “May Béma hunt me down if I do not speak the truth!” He pulled open the door and stood aside to allow Éomer to walk out.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Éomer, grasping Háma’s forearm. “I do not fully understand the chain of events that you have related, but I know better than to question good fortune too closely. Do you know where my sword is?”
Háma smiled and nodded toward the stairs. “If you return to Meduseld, you will find Gandalf and his companions still with the king. Perhaps you can get more explanation from them while I fetch your sword for you.” He turned to lead the way out, but Éomer stood fast and maintained his grip on Háma’s arm.
“I cannot leave yet,” Éomer said. He looked over at Eadlin, who still sat silently in her corner. “I need you to release her as well. I made a promise that we would leave this jail together.”
Háma followed his eyes to the next cell and started at the sight of her. “Lady Eadlin in prison? How could this be possible?” He turned back to Éomer, his brows knit tightly together with concern. “But Marshal, I am sorry. I…I have no orders to release anyone but you.”
“Would you accept such an order from me? If so, I will gladly give it.”
Háma chewed on his lower lip. “I suppose now that you are released, you are returned to status as a marshal in good standing. It is not the usual way for marshals to command the king’s guard, but, then, many unusual things have happened today already. And it does not sit well in my heart to see your cousin’s intended bride mourning from a prison cell.”
Having thus made up his mind, he crossed to her door and unlocked it with the same key. She rose slowly and stepped out. “Thank you, Captain Háma,” she said quietly, and he bowed in acknowledgment. She then bowed in turn to Éomer. “And thank you, Éomer. You have honored your word. I am sure there is much now for you to do.”
His shoulders slumped a little. “Will you not come with me to Meduseld? Would you not witness Théoden restored and prepared once again to receive us as loyal members of his family?”
She laughed ruefully. “Us? What makes you think I am included in his change of disposition? He sent Háma here to retrieve you, not me. I have no reason to believe my position with him has changed, and his position with me has certainly not.”
“But surely once he sees you, once you can speak with him, all will be made clear. He loved you as a daughter, and I know that he still does. Return with me and reclaim your rightful place in his heart.”
She slowly shook her head. “Éomer, even if that were true, it would not be enough. There is no life for me in Edoras anymore. I have no reason to stay here, where precious memories of Théodred will lurk around every corner. Where every familiar place and situation will remind me of him and his absence. I cannot heal where the wound will always be open. And to stay only to seek revenge will turn me into someone I do not wish to be. I have glimpsed that person this week, and she is terrible to behold.”
Her voice was no longer angry but sorrowful, as though her bitterness had leached out of her overnight only to be replaced by a weary defeat. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Eadlin, you cannot give up. Would you leave Wormtongue to get away with what he did to you? With what he did to Théodred?”
He could see that the question hit its mark. Tears welled up in her large eyes, and she looked down for several long, anguished moments. When she looked up again, however, her eyes were dry and clear.
“There are others better able to deal with Wormtongue than I. You will find more capable allies in the visitors who arrived this morning, I am certain. But I will offer you this help.” She leaned forward. “When I was in Wormtongue’s office that night, I found a loose floorboard in the east corner. I had just pried it up when he came running in and had his guards drag me out. But I had time enough to see there was a locked chest stowed in that compartment. A man like Wormtongue does not make such an effort to hide things away unless he truly fears them coming to light. If you send Háma to retrieve the chest, I am certain you will find things inside that are proof enough of his wickedness even for Théoden.”
Éomer shot a look to Háma, who nodded his understanding. “Let me first fetch your sword, Marshal,” said Háma. “And then I will find a way into Wormtongue’s office if I have to break the door open myself.” He turned and ran up the stairs.
Alone once more, Éomer took Eadlin’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You can put your faith in Háma. There can still be justice for Théodred, and maybe that will help to ease your pain.”
She gave a small sigh and shrugged.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
“I am not sure yet. Perhaps I’ll ride to Aldburg and be with my own family again for a while. If I have to build a new life for myself, that seems a likely place to start.”
He nodded. “If you should ever change your mind, there will always be a home for you here. Éowyn and I will see to that. You are part of our family still, with or without Théodred.”
She reached up to press a kiss to his cheek and then stepped around him to the staircase. Just before disappearing around the corner, she looked back at him one last time. “He really loved you, Éomer. I hope you know that. If anyone had to take his place and fulfill the destiny that was to be his, he would have been glad to know it was you.” With that, she smiled sadly and walked out alone.
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myabsurddreamjournal · 4 months
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Luck (part 1)
Éomer x Female! Reader
Summary: Reader is a maid at Edoras who has a crush on Éomer, What happens when she accidentaly pours wine on him?
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.....
Everyone was celebrating the victory in the Great Hall of Edoras. She was hearing the sounds of laughter and dancing, faintly from the outside. Her duty for tonight was waiting here, Serving wine or water if anyone ever comes for getting fresh air.
Maybe it was weird that she volunteered for this, no one seemed to come here anyway. Waiting alone in the balcony. While everyone else is having fun.
But she always liked this kind of duties.
Like grooming horses, picking herbs, cleaning after everyone left. The ones where she didnt need the communicate with the other.
She liked silence,
Sure music was beautiful, and people laughing, dancing, celebrating. It was all beautiful.
But this,
this is something else, Watching the white mountains, the way moonlight reflects on them. It is prettiest shade she ever seen, The dark blue, that she never gets tired of.
And the gentle night breeze on her hair.
Its almost magical to her.
.....
As moon gets lower on the sky "It must be close to end of celebration" y/n thinks. She can tell it from the way sounds from inside quietens slowly.
She smiles to herself thinking this was a beautiful night,
she feels calm. Her mind feels calm.
But like everything beautiful in life her peace is short lived because suddenly footsteps alerts her, someone is coming towards here unfortunately, i hope they leave quickly she thinks as stands up, taking the wine jug on her hand.
To her luck (unluck) owner of the footsteps is may be the last person she wants here. A very tall person with broad body, and long blonde hair that she knows very well. She stared it many times when no one was looking.
Éomer, the kings son.
The powerful Éomer,
The one everyone adores.
The fearless, and strong
And kind.
Her heart beat starts to quicken. Just like whenever she sees him, (from 20 meters apart at most close and more than 20 people around) sneaking galances from window while cleaning. Or when he passes by corridor she is standing.
She takes a deep breath, as he goes to opposite side, his back towards her, he is not drunk she can say, she never seen him drunk anyway, he is always standing on his legs strongly. Like a great warrior he is.
I never seen him this close, he is beautiful.
he will get inside back soon, Calm down. He wont even notice you.
Minutes passes with her battling with herself and her poor attemps to calm herself and he is still looking at mountains motionlessly as if he was a statue.
After few more agonizing moments he finally starts to move, Drinking his wine at one go.
Thanks Eru, he is leaving.
But to her horror instead of leaving he extends his hand that holding the goblet, which is a sign for more wine.
Her mind races.
But, I never served him before! Eru please please help me.
After a few seconds She burts towards him as he starts to turn his head questioningly towards her way, hand still extended.
Dont be a coward this is the simplest duty.
As she starts pouring the wine she relizes her hands are shaking.
Very badly.
Its okay he is not looking, he is looking at mountains.
How long pouring wine can take It? 5 seconds at most maybe, but this time it feels like years to her, years spend with war and agony,
it almost over, You got this. You can do this.
But her body has different plans from her brain. Her hands stafts shaking more as the wine level gets higher on the goblet.
and before she knows it the goblet is full and its overflowing
To his hand.
Oh Eru, please no, this might be a nightmare
...
She doesnt know how much time passed her eyes are closed and she cabr dare look at him.
But when she notices unbereable feeling of his eyes on her.
She has no choice but open them.
Yes, He is looking down at her with unreadable expression,
"F-forgive me s-sire." She says immadietly bowing her head.
But she can see wine is dripping from his hand to floor.
Not knowing what to do, her panicked mind decides it for her, She pulls out her handkerchief , and takes his wine soaked hand in her hand wiping the vine quickly. and gently as possible,
You are touching a royal you fool! This crime is punishible by Death.
she pulls her hand quickly as if she burned by a fire. Éomer's hand falling to his side absurdly and her handkerchief falling to floor.
Eomer opens his mouth but she beats him to it.
"S-sire please dont k-kill me, im too young to d-die" she half yells and runs to inside.
...
Notes: i love how y/n has almost every mental disease.
Also This is Éomer looking down at her
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kylobith · 2 months
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Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)
Part 2 of 6
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Part 1 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
Summary: Éorhild and Éomer hold a secret rendezvous on the hillside of Edoras to enjoy the sunset while drinking tea. But some truths, once unspoken, are burning their lips.
Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character
Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love
Word count: 11,472
Note: I warned you that this was going to be a long chapter
Read it on AO3 here.
As Éorhild stumbled upon the view of Éomer perched atop the rocky hillside, his golden hair dancing in the wind and his gaze absorbed by the landscape darkening under the orange and rosy hues of the sky, her heart fluttered within her chest. His early presence caught her off guard, as though he had been even more eager to share that cup of tea than she had been.
After a day filled with pouring, cleaning, washing, scrubbing and polishing, she had ensured that all of the tasks demanded of her were promptly completed. Left with ample time to indulge in a bath and bake some delicacies for their rendezvous. When Dúnhild, chambermaid to Lady Éowyn, volunteered to collect orders during her visit to the market, Éorhild shared her list, slipping a few golden coins into her fellow servant’s palm.
With the ingredients fetched from the stalls, she dedicated the remaining time she had before her secret meeting with the prince to cooking biscuits that, with experience, she had learnt that he delighted in. It was a relatively simple creation, nothing especially fancy – batter delicately infused with a touch of vanilla and cinnamon, then sprinkled with chocolate crumbs. She had often caught him stuffing himself with her biscuits on harsh winter days when he remained unaware of her presence. Even later at night, when everybody had retired to bed except for her when she was doing her sweeping duties, she had glimpsed the prince as he discreetly left his chambers in pursuit of the much-coveted treats. Once or twice did she generously sacrifice the few she had set aside for herself and placed them in a bowl in the Golden Hall for him to find and feast upon.
Naturally, this gathering presented the perfect occasion for her to treat him to such delicacies, especially considering the purpose of their meeting − to help him ease the doubts and pain burdening his heart. Admitting to a hint of selfishness, she harboured the hope that he would recognise the biscuits and her baking. That, somehow, their taste would evoke the realisation that she had been the anonymous treat provider when the sole memory of the biscuits would make his mouth water and drag him out from the comfort of his bed.
Would he take a greater liking to her then? Would he demand to meet with her more often? Would they share some peaceful moments of contemplation on the hillside again?
Such questions left her feeling rather foolish. These concerns should have remained insignificant to her, yet she could not resist her desire to spend even more time with him than they already had. What good was it for a maid to dwell in the company of her lord? Her duty was to ensure that he was well-fed, warm enough in cold seasons, refreshed in warmer times and that he would never have to care about his chambers being unkempt or his hall being unfit for visitors. She was merely one of the many pairs of hands working tirelessly to promise him comfort and honour. It was believed that a lord without a proper household would insult Rohan’s nobility, and a king without a tidy palace would be the joke of his entire realm. Éorhild wished none of it upon Éomer. Nor did she upon Théoden and Éowyn.
Returning to her senses, she cautiously descended the steps of Meduseld, carrying the tray with the teacups and the plate of biscuits. The soles of her shoes softly pressed against the parchment-thin layer of ice that lingered upon the ground and uneven patches of grass on the hilltop of Edoras. It crackled under each of her steps, soon heralding her presence to the prince.
Éomer peered over his shoulder, and his face illuminated within a heartbeat. He rose and climbed on the rocks, careful not to slip. He extended both hands to gently take the tray from her so she could hold on to the cold stone to keep her balance. One miscalculated step, and one could fall to their death at the foot of the capital.
Once he placed the tray on a flat enough rock, the prince gently took his maid’s hand and guided her towards him, ignoring the blush dusting her cheek.
‘Careful, my lady.’
Éorhild smiled to herself and finally found a stable spot to place her feet. She patted the dust off of her dress and bowed to him.
‘Thank you, your Majesty. But I am no lady.’
‘Titles are but words, Éorhild. Do not give them more weight than they deserve.’
She grinned and locked eyes with him for a brief yet meaningful moment before he turned to fetch the tray and find a seat.
‘Is this place where you intended to meet?’ he asked with curved eyebrows, as though Edoras was an enigma to him and not his birthplace and where he had spent his whole life.
‘Yes, my lord, although I usually climb higher, just beneath the wall. But it is more than fine here.’
‘Well, let us savour this tea before it turns cold, shall we?’
Éorhild nodded and lowered herself to the rocky ground of the hillside. Careful not to sit on sharp stones, she found a comfortable position to stay and watch the sunset with Éomer. The latter offered her one of the steaming cups, helping himself to the other, and gently clinked them together with a teasing grin. As he dipped his lip into the warm beverage, letting its minty flavour roll on his tongue and coat the insides of his cheeks, he admired the sunset again.
‘How was your day, Éorhild?’
‘Busy, but I had enough time to prepare what I wanted for our encounter,’ she replied with a peaceful grin as her gaze followed his and fell upon the rosy sky. ‘Did you have a fine day, my lord? Not too tiresome, I hope?’
Éomer’s mouth twitched, and he hastened to drink more tea to conceal his unfiltered expression. He warmed his reddened hands around the ceramic cup, feeling the tiny ridges of wear underneath his fingertips. His heart was in turmoil again. Not only did his nightmare from the previous evening still haunt him despite Éorhild’s comforting words, but another council session in Théoden’s presence the same morning had weighed on his mind.
‘This day was rather intense, I must admit,’ he sighed. As he watched his tea swirl in his cup, he ran a hand through his hair, which he wore down for once. ‘My marriage is being finalised.’
‘Is it not a good thing?’
‘From a dynastic and political perspective, it is. But from mine… I sure wish it was not happening.’
She sipped her tea and searched his gaze, resisting the urge to touch his shoulder in reassurance. She could not fathom the responsibility of marriage being bestowed upon one’s shoulders. Having sworn an oath of celibacy when vowing to serve the royal household at Meduseld, she found solace that she would be spared such harrowing strife. Being baseborn would have rendered such concern much less nerve-racking, however. Éomer was in a situation which she would never have wished to know.
‘May I enquire why you do not want to marry, or would I be overstepping your boundaries?’ her soft voice whispered in the wind, careful not to startle him and cause further anguish.
The prince glanced at her and smiled.
‘Not at all,’ he responded with an equally gentle tone. ‘Truth be told, I was hoping that, for once, marriage could have been something I could have chosen of my own volition. That I could have chosen my bride myself, out of affection.’
‘It sounds rather reasonable to me. After all, it is a life partner you will gain, and not every pair is compatible.’
‘Precisely. Besides, I have spent my life being dedicated to duty. As a soldier and marshal, I obeyed orders I did not always agree with because I knew that they were demanded of me and that it was my responsibility to carry them out. My whole life I looked up to my parents and my uncle and tried to fit the mould of their expectations for a prince. Even when I was banished from the land, I protected my realm anyway, out of service and love for my kingdom and my king. So, marriage was the only thing that I would have wanted to lead with my heart and not with the need for heirs and political allies.’
Éorhild finished her cup of tea, her eyes fixed upon him, brimming with concern. She picked up the plate of biscuits and raised it to his level, inviting him to pick one, and he did without even glancing at it. He twirled it between his fingers before breaking it in two and biting into it. He momentarily closed his eyes as he savoured it, recognising the taste in an instant.
Yet, he did not comment on it, despite what she had hoped. Instead, he continued his heartfelt confession, his voice straining in his throat.
‘Out of duty, I mistreated my own sister. I could not understand why she resisted orders, why she would not conform to the role expected of her sex, and why she reacted so emotionally to many things,’ he blurted out, unable to stop himself. ‘When I nearly lost her and realised that she would rather have died on the battlefield than return to Rohan as a Lady, I understood how much pain I had caused her. I was among those who had made her life so difficult here that death appeared a sweeter option. My little sister… The apple of my eyes, even if I would never admit it to her face. Perhaps I should. She deserves to know.’
‘She seems to love the man she is betrothed to.’
‘Faramir? Oh, yes. If anything, I am happy that she had the chance to choose her groom herself. Nobody deserves to choose more than she does.’
‘Everybody does.’
He nodded and savoured the last droplets of his tea as he delicately motioned to place the cup on the tray. Then, he picked up another biscuit and absentmindedly nibbled on it, not bothering to break it into smaller pieces this time.
‘You are lucky that you will never know this pain,’ he mused with a slight tilt of the head. ‘This is perhaps one thing which I envy commoners for, for a lack of a better word. You possess a freedom denied to the nobility – a choice.’
‘Not all are granted it.’
Éomer arched an eyebrow, turning his gaze towards her with evident surprise. Was he this ignorant, he wondered? Had his life diverged so significantly from that of his people that he could no longer discern his own fortune? He prayed not, for such a realisation would cast great shame on his honour but, above all, to his feeble confidence in his ability to rule. How could a king, entrusted with the weighty responsibility of governance, make judicious decisions if his understanding of his subjects’ struggles was skewed? How could he, even as heir apparent, allow himself to remain uneducated on such a crucial matter?
So, in silence, he chewed on the last morsel of the biscuit he held between his fingers until his mouth was rid of crumbs, and it became appropriate for him to speak again.
‘How so?’
Éorhild rubbed her forearm, belatedly realising that she had left her mantle upon her mattress. As the sun descended on the horizon and vanished behind the majestic peaks of the Rohirric mountains, its fading rays cast a deep purple glow around the prince and the maid. The warmth bestowed by the star lingered for a moment, embracing them until the encroaching darkness finally settled to exhale its cold winds upon them.
‘It is a matter of vocation,’ she responded, the braids in her hair lifted by the first shy evening breezes. ‘We, the maids of Meduseld, are forbidden from taking husbands or lovers.’
Her declaration, as patient as it was in the face of his blatant ignorance, caught him off guard. The arch of his eyebrow collapsed into a deep frown, forming furrows on his forehead that narrowly obscured his eyes.
‘This cannot be!’ he exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Surely our laws are not so severe towards our good women that they deny them such fundamental rights!’
‘You would be surprised to hear what our oath entails, my lord,’ she added, resting her elbow upon her knee and her chin on the crook of her palm.
Éomer reached out for a biscuit but halted mid-air. It suddenly felt rather inappropriate to indulge in eating when confronted with such revolting knowledge.
‘I do not comprehend why you would be forbidden to love.’
‘Well, it is believed that a woman would be too engrossed in her wifely duties to properly tend to the royal household. Whether in opulence or in poverty, it is expected of us that we bear children to our husbands. Such a task, it was argued, would interfere with our service to Meduseld.’
‘Do these rules apply to the male servants, too?’
‘I am afraid not. Should they marry, the task of raising their children would be bestowed upon their wives.’
The prince scoffed, crossing his arms as he leant forward and rubbed his index across his lips. The crease upon his brow persisted, and Éorhild longed to smooth it away with a gentle touch of her thumb. It became increasingly challenging to refrain from touching him. With each passing day, their interactions had grown warmer, and their evenings by the fire were now filled with laughter. How could she not yearn for more? How could she demand of her heart to still when his mere presence and the playful words rolling off his tongue whenever he addressed her incited such excitement and joy?
But it was already revolting enough for a maid to gaze upon him; she could not allow herself further excesses. Losing her function would bring her great sorrow.
Her resolve waned as she perceived another jeer from Éomer. She attempted to decipher his expression. She wondered why the reasoning behind the oath she had had to pledge offended him so.
‘Such archaic laws are a plague to our realm,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘They are what confined our maidens and mothers to such reductive tasks and robbed them of their individuality. Of their passion.’
Éomer wove his fingers through his hair, his nostrils flaring in anger as his pupils swept through the landscape before him.
‘Such is the world that my sister has grown up and suffered in. It revolts me. When I become king, I will ensure that these rules are erased from our culture. I must set our women free.’
‘But you alone cannot put an end to generations of customs and deeply rooted traditions,’ she remarked in a kind tone. ‘This cannot be done, even by one as powerful as you. Centuries of conventions will take centuries to be undone. Even if you raise your heir to be as rightful as you aspire to be, you cannot even be sure that your successors will not re-establish the very rules you sought to eliminate.’
The prince contemplated her words and sighed. Even in the darkness, she discerned the glistening of his eyes and the strain upon his features. Deciding to forsake her restraint after careful consideration, Éorhild extended her hand and gently placed it on his forearm in a gesture of solace. The pad of her thumb gently brushed against the coarse linen of his sleeve.
Her eyes remained fixed on her own fingers, bracing for his rejection; at any second, she expected him to swat her hand away, retract his arm, or reprimand her insubordination. However, none of these anticipations unfolded. Instead, she sensed the tension in his body yield under her touch as he exhaled to soothe himself.
Until this moment, Éomer had not known how much he needed this. Despite the absurdity and idiocy of his statement, she showed him utter kindness, a gesture he knew that he would never have extended had their roles been reversed. His heart was engulfed in a surge of gratitude and unadmitted affection for the woman he had so long ignored and yet breathed such benevolence into his undeserving life.
As he felt her touch, his eyes brimmed with tears. What good would his ascension to the throne bring if he could not deliver his people from the archaic and severe laws of his forebears? His thoughts shifted to Éowyn. Had she not endured enough? Could the insights he had gleaned from her confessions after the war truly not aid her kin?
Éomer’s eyes lowered to Éorhild’s fingers on his sleeve. How he longed to hold her hand! To return the favour and make her feel as valued as she did him! But the words caught in his throat, tangled in the lump forming there, threatening to break down the walls he had built around himself. No sentimentality, his uncle had often told him, for it is not worthy of a prince.
He could not deviate from protocol. It would be improper. Moreover, if he were to demonstrate such vulnerability, he realised that she would be the one to bear the repercussions, for in Rohirric law, he was nearly untouchable.
Something poked his hand and drew his attention away from his spiralling thoughts. Éorhild was handing him a biscuit with an encouraging smile playing on her lips. Reciprocating the grin, he thanked her with a nod and took it.
‘You know, even if your reign might not make a drastic difference, the fact that you try to understand and learn already holds significant meaning,’ she murmured, leaning forward just enough for her voice to reach him, unperturbed by the rising breeze. ‘It is a quality that few of our kings have possessed, yet that I would gladly bend the knee for.’
The prince grinned and gently patted her hand with his own. Surely, this much he was allowed to express, was he not?
‘I am sorry that I did not know about the sacrifices demanded of our maids. You are an integral part of our household, and knowing that you are not allowed to have families of your own sounds utterly ridiculous.’
Éorhild chuckled, a blush gracing her cheeks as she felt the fleeting tapping of his fingers on her knuckles.
‘Have you not had servants pledge their oath to you?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Éomer admitted in a nervous laugh, ‘but I fear that I have not lent a keen ear to them then.’
‘That is well. I probably would not have listened either had I been in your position. Such matters can be rather… repetitive. And boring.’
Their soft laughter rose in the air as they let their gazes wander the darkened landscape before them. The sun had long since set, rendering the earth wintry and bleak. Without the elusive shadows of the grazing wild animals in the distance and the nimble beasts on the flanks of the mountains, Rohan appeared ensnared in stillness.
Edoras was hushed, the clamour of the streets confined to the taverns farther into the city. The sizzling of the torches dulled in the gale; their flames wafted and bowed in the howl of the breeze, lapping at the rims of their hearths and leaving soot on the bronze.
Flocks of nocturnal birds fluttered their wings, allowing the wind to carry them across the land in the palm of its hand. Above the prince and the maid, a few alighted at the foot of the Golden Hall to peck at the weeds growing between the marble bricks in search of edible prey. Éorhild smiled at their sight, observing them take flight and vanish into the night.
Strangely stirred by her innocent enthusiasm, Éomer felt his face redden as he witnessed the twinkle in her eye. Inside his chest, his heart quickened. Confusion seized him; why was he reacting in such a strong way? Why did he feel the urge to touch her hand again? He could not. No, he had to keep to himself. It was but a fleeting impulse, nothing more.
‘May I ask you something rather personal?’
The words flowed off his lip before he even thought them. For an instant, he hoped that the wind would carry them away from her before they could reach her. But when the maid looked up, her curiosity piqued, he cursed himself for speaking in the first place.
‘Anything, my lord.’
Blast. There was no escaping it. He scratched his beard and eluded her gaze. Embarrassment turned the rosy hue of his cheeks a deeper shade of red. He could swear that had she dared to graze her fingers above his skin, she would have sensed the heat radiating from it.
‘When comes the day that Béma summons you to him, will you not resent the life you led?’
‘Because it was devoid of romance?’
The prince knew not how to respond, and his hesitation conveyed enough for her to understand that she had grasped his sentiment.
‘Do not pity me, my lord, for I am content with my life. It is but romance that I shall be bereft of, not love.’
‘What difference is there?’
Éorhild faced the mountains again, her eyes tracing their peaks. Her long golden locks wafted in the wind, almost entwining with Éomer’s.
‘Love is not something which I lack. I once received it from my family, and I now receive it from my peers and friends at Meduseld. I feel it every day with every task I complete,’ she spoke with a peaceful and solemn grin. ‘My role as a maid is no burden to me; had I found no fulfilment from it, I would have long resigned. I pour my love into everything that I do. In every cup of wine that I fill, in every garment that I wash, and in every floor that I sweep. It must sound rather silly to you, but I feel at peace in my position. Knowing that the people who entrust me with their well-being are satisfied with my services fills me with joy.’
Éomer absorbed her every word as though they held the key to unlocking his mind to a new vision of the world he inhabited. He nodded along, considering her perspective yet not finding much sense in it.
‘Do you not want a family of your own?’
‘But I do have a family, my lord,’ she chimed. ‘One of my own choosing! One day, I shall raise children, only I will not have birthed them. Yet I am confident that I shall also receive their affection.’
‘You are a carer at heart, Éorhild, this much is certain,’ Éomer responded with a smile playing on his lips. ‘But will you not long for someone to care for you in return?’
‘This I cannot ascertain. I can only speak for my past and my present, and so far, I have no complaints.’
They exchanged a compassionate glance and settled into a shared silence for a moment. Éomer reached out for the last biscuit, casting her a beseeching look. With a merry chortle, she bowed her head and watched as he claimed it, holding it up before him.
‘These biscuits have been my weakness for years,’ he said, his voice tinged with amusement.
‘I know,’ she grinned. ‘That is why I made them.’
Genuine surprise graced his face. Her heart swelled with pride; he had indeed recognised her treats!
‘How did you know?’
Rosy hues dusted Éorhild’s cheeks as she lowered her head, unable to restrain the smile that illuminated her face. Unbeknownst to her, Éomer admired her, his heart filling with affection. If its rhythm had quickened earlier, it was now faster than ever, akin to the pace he only experienced when adrenaline rushed through his veins. He dared not approach any closer, fearful that she might perceive the frenetic pounding within his chest. His heart was fated to beat along the drums of war, not to flutter in the company of a woman.
But the realisation that she had remembered one of his preferences without him needing to divulge them was overwhelming. It evoked a sense of sheepishness within him, more profound than ever before.
When Éorhild confessed to being the one to have baked the biscuits over the years solely to witness his enthusiasm, hiding them in plain sight for his enjoyment, she felt somewhat foolish. She wished she possessed enough self-control to halt the torrent of words pouring forth from her mouth. He regarded her with intense scrutiny, the obscurity failing to conceal the reddening of her face as she continued to speak. Why did she feel the need to tell him such things? What conceivable benefit could it yield for her?
Why did her limbs feel both weightless and awfully heavy? Her gut churned, undulating as her chest did with each quivering breath she drew. This sensation was unknown to her; painful yet pleasant, fearful yet bold. She was at her most vulnerable, yet wielded incredible strength to dissimulate the dizzying state that she was in.
While his countenance remained impassive, she pondered whether he felt repelled upon learning of these little gestures she had bestowed upon him from the shadows of the Golden Hall all this time. Was the thought so revolting that he would forsake her and have her banished? In all honesty, she would not find it in her to blame him. The very oath she had once sworn was now betrayed by her heart and her mouth.
And, for once in her life, defying it no longer appeared inconceivable. If anything, it evolved into an irresistible compulsion. Something she needed to do.
But it was much too dangerous. There was no reason for her to risk her stable vocation, the roof over her head, and her own neck for an unattainable fantasy.
Éomer observed her with wide eyes, incapable of organising his thoughts into coherent words and phrases. Had he already opened his mouth, he was aware that he would have stammered like an utter imbecile. He could not allow that; his poise, typically so effortless in her presence, suddenly felt overly calculated and measured. He grew conscious of every blink of his eyes, every twitch of his lips, every breath. What a fool, he thought to himself; what an outright fool.
‘So it was you all this time,’ he finally managed to whisper, still struck with awe by the revelation.
‘Indeed. I apologise for embarrassing you, I should have kept it to myself.’
‘No, Éorhild, not at all.’
She looked into his eyes and distinguished nothing but kindness in their twinkle rivalling the brightness of the stars above them. The corners of her mouth rose in a bashful grin. Éomer mirrored them, causing her heart to quiver further.
‘Rest assured that I feel no resentment for it,’ he added, feeling as though she needed to hear it as much as he needed to utter the words himself. ‘If anything, I am comforted by the idea that I had you as a friend before I saw you.’
His gaze remained fixated on her, although he found himself distracted by the waves in her hair. He imagined running his fingers through them, feeling their soft texture against his roughened skin. One of his fingers jolted, eager to take the leap, while his hand remained tied to reason.
Éorhild spoke again, halting the shameful meanderings of his mind.
‘What will you do about this marriage, then? Do you have the freedom to refuse it?’
‘No,’ Éomer sighed. ‘In the eyes of the law, I should be able to decline it, but there would be too many consequences to such a foolish act.’
‘Do you know the Lady Lothíriel?’
‘Aye. Although it is her father I know better. He is a close friend of mine, despite us originating from such different lands. He was kind enough to offer me his daughter’s hand in marriage, but…’
The prince shook his hand, the movement of his mane releasing its unsuspected perfume that cast a powerful spell over her within an instant.
‘Lady Lothíriel is kind, sweet, and beautiful,’ he continued. ‘But there lacks a connection between us. There is no passion, no desire.’
‘And this is what you wish for. To have somebody that you truly cherish.’
‘Of course. Ah, you must think me selfish…’
Éorhild yearned for the brief meeting of their eyes, resisting the impulse to reach out and graze his arm anew. To indulge in another fleeting touch would seem rather blasphemous. Royals were on the brink of sanctity to the Rohirrim; her servant’s hand would mar his regality. Though she had found a sense of boldness in the course of their conversation, she hesitated, realising that she lacked the courage to take this risk once more.
‘Not in the slightest, my lord,’ she attempted to reassure him instead. ‘In tales of old, the most benevolent kings often owed their virtue to the happiness they found in their marriage, too. One blissful in his home brings bliss to his kingdom.’
‘Hah, that is one way to see it,’ he reacted with a hearty chuckle. ‘Perhaps a bit optimistic and idealistic, but you might be right. Besides, I do not want her to be trapped in a loveless marriage. She deserves much better than that.’
Éorhild’s gaze returned to the birds as they soared above their blond heads. The notion of Éomer’s marriage induced an ache within her. Though her dedication to tending to him and his kin would endure nonetheless, it became evident that the evenings conversing around the hearth in the hall were numbered. No longer would they share pleasantries over cups of wine and water. No longer would he permit her gaze to linger upon him, aware that such scrutiny was already forbidden. To behold a married royal of the opposite sex outside the bounds of personal service verged on the sacrilegious.
Despite her satisfaction with her role at Meduseld, a realisation dawned upon her that her days would soon revert to a quiet solitude. Certainly, she had made companions among her peers with whom they occasionally unburdened their hearts. Labour assumed a more delightful hue thanks to them. Mundane tasks transformed into playful games and friendly challenges meant to motivate one another into productivity while finding genuine enjoyment in their endeavours. No one within the servants’ quarters could elicit laughter from her quite like Éomer. In his presence, her limbs found a certain lightness that eluded her elsewhere.
Silently bidding their friendship farewell, Éorhild spoke into the night in the most solemn tone she could produce, unwilling to let her pain show.
‘Are you going to decline the proposal, then?’
Éomer shifted in his position and drew nearer until she could discern the faint warmth of his mantle so green. Evading his gaze, she remained unaware of the flames of torment ablaze in his eyes. He stared as if unwilling to witness anything else, as though, by his merely looking away, she would slip away like a fleeting wisp from between his parted fingers.
‘I suppose that I could, but I do not believe that I have the courage to do so,’ he conceded in a hushed whisper. ‘It is a matter of duty. When my time comes to reign, Rohan will need a queen and reinforced bonds with Gondor should war return to our lands.’
‘I understand.’
‘But it is not what my heart wants.’
A trace of desperate longing lingered in his voice; of that, she was certain. Something absent even a mere moment prior – a subtle tinge of affection. Deciphering Éomer’s sentimental nuances was a most arduous task. Although his body language often spoke volumes, particularly to her expert eye, his facial expressions and inconspicuous cues remained a mystery.
Drastic emotions were the most effortless to discern. When he harboured deep displeasure, the aura of his discontent was such that it pervaded even those engrossed in tasks on the opposite side of Meduseld. Similarly, in the midst of rare, unbridled joy, a perpetual smile would grace his youthful face, accompanied by the most contagious laughter the realm had ever seen.
So Éorhild quelled any budding hope that it was indeed yearning she had perceived. She knew all too well that the prince would never favour her. It was a sole maid’s fantasy, a childish wish of her eager heart.
As she held his gaze in deliberate silence, his hands deftly unhooked the mantle secured at his collar.
‘Poor Éorhild, you are freezing! I can hear the chatter of your teeth from here!’
In a swift motion, he enveloped her in his mantle, his fingers working to fasten the clasp below her throat. Both of their faces flushed, and they seldom dared to behold each other. As the fabric unfolded and the heavy silk graced her drooping shoulders, the aroma ensnared within reached her nostrils. It was the same fragrance she had frequently caught from his hair, albeit in a subdued essence, whenever his head abruptly shifted.
It embodied what she imagined as the very perfume of Valinor – a blend of its tranquil rivers and verdant plains, its blossoming trees and the lofty peaks of its mountains. It encapsulated nature and life itself. The caress of the summer breeze and the thundering gallop of a horse, the blizzards of the harshest winter nights and the crackling in the hearth. It was the refined grace of a lord and the unyielding strength of a soldier’s grip — the stroke of the feather and the slash of the blade.
It was Éomer.
Éorhild’s heart hammered inside her chest, momentarily leaving her dizzy, as her prince struggled to secure the ties of his cloak around her. His face hovered near, close enough for his warm breath to touch the bare skin of her neck.
‘My lord, will you not be cold yourself?’ she asked sheepishly. ‘You are wearing nothing but linen.’
‘I will be fine, I promise,’ he replied with a comforting smile, an expression which might have persuaded her had he not been gripped by a shiver coursing through his spine.
‘Nonsense. I see your trembling! Please do take your mantle back, my lord. If one is to catch their death tonight, it must be me, not the heir to the throne.’
Éomer laughed while observing her unfasten the cloak and hold it up to him.
‘Would you consider a compromise?’
The maid’s eyes locked with his as curiosity piqued their interest.
‘A compromise, my lord?’
‘Yes. This cloak is ridiculously large. I am quite certain that we could both fit underneath if we come a little closer,’ he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. Not one of malice, she could tell.
Éorhild snapped her head in the opposite direction, peering above her shoulder towards Edoras in a futile attempt to conceal her flustered state. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the hooting of the snow owls on the prowl.
Beside her, Éomer awaited her answer, alarmed by her sudden withdrawal. However, he remained patient. Had it been anybody else, he might have shrugged it off, but this woman was worth the wait, he found himself musing. There was nothing she could do that would displease him.
‘It would not be proper, my lord,’ she intoned at last. ‘A prince and a maid under the same garment… It is unheard of.’
‘Do not trouble yourself with what our people might think. Nobody will even know. Let me warm you. Please,’ he implored in a gentle murmur in the quietude of the moment, the wind having finally bestowed them some respite.
Éorhild pinched her rosy lips, batting her eyelashes as she contemplated the exquisite fabric crumpled in her hands. She acquiesced with a nod, her fingers loosening around the silk extracted from between them by the prince. He drew nearer until they sat thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. In a swift flick of the wrist, he covered her shoulders with the cloak, firmly holding the opposite hem in his fist against his upper arm.
‘You may press against me if the mantle slips off,’ he whispered with a warmth that equalled the cloak's protection. ‘I shall think nothing of it.’
‘Then slip off it will.’
A sigh rolled off his lip and manifested in a twirling gust of vapour before him.
‘Éorhild, may I ask you a question?’
She shifted her shoulders to find greater comfort beneath the cloak, her fingertips delicately tracing the embroideries adorning its hem.
‘Always, my lord.’
‘Why do you flee me so?’
Éorhild crossed his gaze, sensing the lump in her throat reappear. There was a tinge of pain to his otherwise gleeful irises. The sole sight of it weighed upon her heart.
‘I do not flee you. I only fear being close.’
‘Why? Do you not appreciate my company?’
‘My lord, I do!’ she gasped, determined not to let him believe that she could ever be reluctant to spend even a minute with him. ‘But your touch and proximity do scare me. You have already led me to break a sacred rule of my oath by asking me not to avert my eyes in your presence. What other rules will you demand me to break? It is I who shall bear the consequences, not you. I could lose everything: my home or my head.’
Her voice was heavy, bearing the weight of the conflict within her heart. Thoughts raced and collided inside her mind, creating a cacophony when she longed for the solace of silence. She could not bear the embarrassment. Her desire to rise and run surged, but the cold paralysed her feet.
Before she spiralled into oblivion, she felt the soft touch of his finger curling underneath her chin, gently turning her head towards Éomer. Her eyelids drooped as the mintiness of his exhale enveloped her. Her breath caught in her throat, and the visible sparkle in her eyes twinkled with the emotion of this unexpected gesture.
‘I demand one more rule to be broken, Éorhild. It is that you never call me by my title again when it is just the two of us,’ he requested, his words carrying a sincerity that resonated with a desire for intimacy.
‘What am I to call you?’
The prince chuckled and smiled broadly, lips parting to uncover his teeth. His expression softened, yet a hint of playfulness lingered in his eye.
‘My name would be a good start.’
‘My lord, I could not−’
‘It would mean the world to me, dearest Éorhild, to hear my name upon your lips.’
His heartfelt plea stirred something in the deepest recesses of her being. The tremor that shook his soothing voice betrayed an inner turmoil similar to her own. Could it be that he was experiencing the same upheaval as she did? Was his heart, maddened by conflicting desires, on the verge of bursting?
No, it could not be. She was thinking ahead of herself. Éomer was reasonable. But again, she used to believe the same about herself until this very night.
Gripped by guilt and fear, the prince withdrew his hand and crossed his arms against his lap, digging his pointy elbows into his thighs to ground himself.
‘I apologise,’ he muttered, ‘I should not have touched you so.’
He sighed again and ran a hand through his golden mane, which turned silver in the moonlight.
‘I meant to thank you for listening to my idiotic rants tonight. You express such patience and benevolence towards me, and I fear I do not quite deserve your kindness. But I appreciate it all the same.’
Éorhild gulped and brushed her fingers against his forearm. He jolted, and his eyes darted to his sleeve. While his heart skipped a beat, his hand crept upon hers and offered it a comforting squeeze despite the iciness of her touch. Their gazes met once more, and giddy smiles blossomed upon their reddened cheeks.
‘You need no longer suffer alone, Éomer,’ she intoned, daring to trace the outline of his thumb with her own.
‘I cannot suffer when you are near.’
The words flew out of the prince’s mouth before he could even form them in his mind. They held an inevitable truth that he no longer wished to deny. It caused her breath to hitch, her heart to flutter, and her limbs to tremble − except for the hand he held. The ends of her hair, still carried by the rising wind, came to caress his cheek. She broke the silence with a soft laugh and gathered her hair onto her other shoulder.
‘My apologies.’
‘No harm done.’
Éorhild grinned and sighed, slumping her shoulders while maintaining his gaze.
‘I know I am a mere servant, but if you ever need somebody to lean on, I am never against sharing a cup of tea on the hillside.’
His eyes softened and seemed to delve into hers as though scavenging for crumbs of thoughts within her soul. Anything that could either confirm or deny an idea that had already taken root and burgeoned in his mind.
‘You cannot be.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You cannot be a mere servant. You are more than that, more than you believe.’
Éomer found himself on the verge of a breaking point. His emotions had grown too overwhelming to contain, too apparent to escape her notice, and he no longer cared to dissimulate them. He desired her by his side and was determined to make it possible.
‘The Valar cannot even see all that you are,’ he continued in a hushed scoff and a smouldering glance. ‘In heart and mind, you are all that a man would and should want. And none would deserve you.’
A beaming blush dusted her face, tinting it in the deepest scarlet. His thumb searched for hers, bending and tracing her knuckle.
‘Your perception of me is unfounded,’ she responded with a titter.
‘Is it?’
He shook his head and pried his eyes away from her, feeling incapable of leaving her out of his field of vision. In this instant, she was the only sight he wished to behold, her hand the only thing he wished to hold, her closeness his only weapon against the cold.
He needed her. There was no other word for it.
Silence settled again as they grappled with the tumultuous swirls of emotion ravaging their thumping hearts. Éorhild redirected her attention to the dance of the birds of prey, oblivious that her hand lingered captive in his, a detail unnoticed in the tapestry of the moment.
It rested so small within his grasp, a fragile thing, delicate and gentle despite the ruggedness of its daily toll. Her nails were kept conveniently short yet meticulously groomed, creating the illusion that her fingers were briefer than their true length. Though it lacked the refinement of a noble lady’s hand, Éomer saw it as the embodiment of the tenderest care, a conveyor of the kindness residing in her heart. It was this that poured his wine and never missed his cup, that which prepared the treats known to mend his troubled heart.
The spaces between her fingers captured the prince’s attention. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned his own filling these sweet gaps until their hands would fit together seamlessly. He imagined the warmness of her smooth palm, almost feeling tingles in his free hand as he indulged in the fantasised sensation.
He pictured her fingertips combing through his hair, skimming along his scalp until her thumb would rest on his cheekbone, and he would abandon himself to the depths of her earth-coloured irises. In them, he would see the whole world. No land would be left unexplored. He would witness the birth of new trees on the edge of the Entwood; he would feel the coarse sand of the coasts of Haradwaith under his bare feet. He would hear the merry tunes of the Shire and taste the sweetest wines of the Dale. She would ground him like none ever did and sweep him off his feet within the same hour.
Cursing himself for thinking of her in such a manner again, Éomer nibbled on his upper lip. His brow furrowed, creasing his forehead, while his leg began to bounce of its own volition, his heel occasionally slapping the rock underneath. He needed a distraction from the unreasonable longings of his heart. Anything would suffice.
Éorhild inhaled deeply, instantly detecting the palpable nervousness that seized him. She wished for nothing more than to alleviate his anguish, as much for his sake as the solace she sought in her own.
In that instant, a memory unfurled within her. Over the course of her sixteen years of service, there was one thing she had learnt that would assuage the nervous prince. It was a melody; Hilda had taught her that it was a song his late mother once tenderly sang to him and Éowyn when they were little. Remarkably, even throughout his adolescent and adult years, he would find consolation by softly humming it in moments of great distress.
Perhaps this song was the key.
Mustering the courage and recollecting the lyrics, Éorhild gently pressed her shoulder to his, her fingers twitching around his forearm. And then, she sang:
Wind in the willows, glimmers on the streams, Clouds against the moon, moss on the burrow, Bestow on my bairn the sweetest of dreams, Bring forth delight; away with his sorrow.
Éomer’s head sharply turned towards her, a cascade of his luscious locks of his hair swirling between them. His eyes widened in astonishment, for never had he fathomed hearing these words from her.
Thus, the realisation dawned − she knew.
Of course, she did.
And she continued, her voice elevating in the air, amplified by the breeze:
May his bed never be cold May his head always find rest; Whether in halls or the wold, May his path ever be blessed.
Enraptured by her singing and the sight of her serene expression as she uttered the words, Éomer paid no heed to the tears brimming his eyes. It had been long since anyone had intoned it to him. Upon reflection, the last person had been his mother during her last days on her sickbed.
And so, he listened. Éorhild may not have been the finest singer in the land, but her voice was in tune, still carrying a melody enchanting enough to captivate him. One by one, his muscles relaxed, and his breath deepened anew. The storm that had gathered within his heart dissipated, allowing the moonlight in.
A moment later, she concluded the lullaby with the last verse he had always cherished most.
May your soul blossom and never know strife, May your candle be evermore alight; May you find peace in the arms of a wife, Whose embrace your anguish shall always smite.
Éorhild’s eyelashes fluttered open as her lips closed again. Flustered and sheepish, her eyes slid towards Éomer’s in anticipation. Would he be vexed that she had discerned his fondness for the song?
‘I hope that I did not spoil it,’ she ventured with a trace of uncertainty, her gaze searching his for any sign of disappointment.
No words came to reassure her. Not a peep. Instead, he acted on impulse, an action that would astonish anyone familiar with his name and status.
Éomer closed the gap between them, weaving his fingers through her hair and bestowed the tenderest kiss upon her lips. The chilled tip of his rosy nose delicately grazed against her cheek in a bashful caress. A warm palm cradled the side of her face while his other arm encircled her waist beneath the mantle, urging her ever nearer. The moment he felt her form nestled against him and the warmth of her gentle breath upon his skin, the butterflies once fluttering in the pit of his stomach transformed into galloping stallions, stomping and thundering their hooves.
Stiffening at first, Éorhild found herself uncertain about how to proceed. A surge of joy boiled within her, but she dared not abandon herself to it. However, as his grasp grew affectionate, she yielded to the kiss. Her hand found its place on the back of his head, her thumb caressing his hair while the other rested below his collarbone.
This was neither a dream nor a figment of her imagination. Underneath his linen shirt, each beat of his heart reverberated the brisk quiver of a hummingbird’s wings. And she knew hers to be forced into the same maddening dance.
It was Éomer who broke the kiss first, withdrawing his face just a few inches away from hers. The distance maintained him at her mercy should she desire to claim his lips once more while allowing their shy eyes to meet.
‘Éorhild, I…’
Words eluded him, his mind still in the midst of the storm that the kiss caused within him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her away, and a nagging conviction gripped him that he had achieved precisely that, even if she had reciprocated his advances.
And scared she was. Fear twisted within her as it dawned on what they had just done. All the rules of her vocation had been violated. Not only had she touched royalty, but she had ventured into inappropriate behaviour towards the prince. She was acutely aware of the price to pay for such an offence.
Death.
Her hand slid from his hair onto his cheek as she regarded him with a gaze that treated him as though he were the most exquisite artwork in the realm, if not in all of Middle Earth itself.
‘You will cause my ruin; do you know that?’
‘I do.’
Éomer swallowed hard and gently nuzzled her nose, releasing a soft exhale. It was as if the kiss had left him inebriated. His head bore the weight of an exhilarating heaviness while floating with a lightness that defied any sane and reasonable explanation. He knew that he never wanted to let her go.
‘Are you willing to take this risk?’
The maid sighed and leant her forehead against his, her hands trembling. This was her choice as much as it was his, if not more. Should the truth about their endeavour be revealed, the king’s wrath would not be unleashed on his nephew but on her.
‘I cannot,’ she cried, ‘I swore an oath to your kin never to take a man. I am forbidden to hold a man’s hand, and here I am, receiving my first kiss!’
There was a strange yet deep joy within him as she pronounced the last words. It occurred to him that she could never have indulged in such things; she was but a child when she entered Meduseld to be trained as a maid. And he had been her first kiss. He felt a profound honour in that.
‘I am touched that you gave it to me,’ he murmured.
‘You claimed it for yourself more than you received it,’ she responded in a teasing tone. All traces of the smile that had just graced her lips then vanished in an instant. ‘We cannot be together, my lord, for I am baseborn.’
Éomer clung to her face with the expected desperation of an enamoured man, his pupils penetrating hers.
‘I do not care, Éorhild. Nothing changes how I feel,’ he whimpered. ‘If you are not to be mine, then I shall ensure that I will have no one.’
Her heart leapt inside her chest. While she had somehow intuited the prince’s burgeoning affection for her – although she had thought it confined to friendliness − she had never imagined that she would elicit such intense passion from him.
‘Do not be daft, my gentle prince,’ she whispered, her voice trembling from the realisation that she had harboured false hopes after this fateful kiss. ‘You are the future king and will need a queen.’
‘A king must have a queen at his side, or he is a lonely man, as the saying goes, I know. But what if I do not want that life, Éorhild? I want none of it if it means I must return to my chambers unwanted.’
Tears spilt onto his cheeks as he offered her a heartfelt smile. It was not one of joy, she knew. It was one of sheer longing.
‘Please, you must be with me,’ he begged. ‘You must.’
Éorhild planted a fleeting kiss on his lips, eager to savour them again yet restraining herself to tasteless pecks. Salty drops coursed down the curve of her face in turn.
‘My lord, I wish not to cause your ruin, for there is the brightest of futures ahead of you. Besides, the king could have me executed for even beholding you.’
‘But I could protect you! Let me bring the matter to my uncle; I am sure that he will understand. Please.’
She shook her head in refusal but offered a comforting smile.
‘In the best of worlds, it would have been something worth considering. But Rohan is still in the healing process. Alliances are of utmost importance in its journey back to strength. Without this marriage to Lady Lothíriel, you will inherit a weakened kingdom that your actions might not suffice to support.’
She closed her eyes, the swelling lump in her throat stifling the words she intended to express. Together, they wept, forehead to forehead, unwilling to let go yet afraid to hold on.
‘I wish not to cause you pain,’ she sobbed, the ache such that it echoed through her limbs and stung her fingertips. ‘Believe me. Please, believe me.’
‘Yet you are causing me more sorrow by refusing me. Éorhild, I need you.’
Sniffling and patting her eyes dry with her fingertips, she withdrew her face further until only their hands allowed contact.
‘It is but a passing infatuation, your Majesty. You shall recover in no time and laugh whenever you think back on tonight.’
Éomer refused to accept that. His hands attempted to hold on to her as though she were the sturdy branch amid the river’s current, threatening to drown him. She was his solace, comfort, and only source of joy for the past months. Her voice and words soothed him like no other; her laughter enticed him like no other.
He could not possibly let go.
‘Let us abandon this world of worry and fear,’ he urged in hopes that she would succumb to her affection for him. He knew it existed; it could not have been a dream. ‘Let us follow the path our joined hearts guide us onto.’
‘We cannot, my prince. Oh, lovely prince… You are destined for great achievements, and I for scrubbing latrines and chamber pots.’
A soft chuckle escaped her throat as her fingers encircled his wrist to pry his hand away from her face gently. There was a resistance, a strength greater than she possessed.
‘You must be the great king that Rohan so desperately needs. The peacemaker and peacekeeper. You shall be named Éomer the Great, not only by your servants but by all!’
‘I do not want great things if I do not have you by my side to share them. I need not be a great king; there have been many greater kings before me, and more will come. I only want to be a happy man.’
‘Ruling does not counter happiness. There will be a wonderful woman by your side, one so fair that you will forget all about me.’
‘I do not want another woman; I only want you. Is that so hard for you to grasp? No one can compare to the emotions you stir in me. It is almost sickening!’
‘And that is because you have yet to know better. One day, you shall encounter a woman of high birth so beautiful and bright that your world will be turned upside down. No longer will you know left from right, or north from south. Hardly will you remember your own name when she enquires about it!’
The maid sighed and placed a kiss on his brow.
‘And I shall forever be haunted by my first kiss and the knowledge that this evening belonged to us and us alone.’
His eyelashes fluttered shut, the weight added to his eyelids mirroring this on his heart.
‘I never want to meet the woman you describe. I much prefer to remain aware of the direction I am heading towards, and as far as I am concerned, it shall always be north. North to you. Every day.’
A muffled sob slipped through her lips. Desperation gripped her like never before. How she yearned to indulge in this affection, to allow it to guide her every motion and infuse into her every breath! She would have gladly let its light seep through the curtains of her mornings and illuminate each day. Alas, it was a mere fantasy, a thirst to be left unquenched.
How it ached…
Éomer held her. His hand cradled the back of her skull, beckoning her to his chest and resting his cheek against her hair. Agonising as much as she did, he felt the urge to press his face so tightly to her mane that each strand would be engraved on his skin, a fleeting memory of their tender embrace to which he could hold on a little longer. Even a minute would be most precious.
‘Let me hold you tonight, Éomer,’ she murmured his name against the crook of his neck. Éorhild shed a tear, but a resolute smile lingered upon her reddened cheeks as her fingers came to weave through his hair. ‘Let them execute me in the morning. Tonight is ours, and if I am to break the rules of my rank, I would much rather break them with you.’
No additional prompting was required from her. He willingly disengaged from their embrace, allowing his lips to seek hers once more, surrendering to another tender kiss. No longer would he deny his desires that night. A subtle recoil marked her initial response. Yet, within the ensuing heartbeat, she succumbed to the magnetic pull of this ardent communion of their mouths, seamlessly melding into the intimacy of his grasp.
In their fervent clasp, the prince settled her between his legs, enfolding her in the shelter of his mantle, praying that she would never choose to depart from its sanctuary. To his immense satisfaction, the back of her knuckles delicately brushed the stubbled skin of his cheek. One of her fingers unfurled, long and as pale as mountain snow in the moonlight, tracing the contours of his jaw with intoxicating precision, descending to the end of his sharp chin.
The mighty doors of Meduseld creaked above their heads. Footsteps stomped against the white stone. Halted. Waited, then resumed. Somebody was searching for another. Éorhild tore herself away from Éomer’s lips and cast a fleeting glance toward the palace. She curled against him, obeying his urgent plea to diminish her presence as he cloaked her entirely beneath the folds of his mantle.
Alerted by the subdued rustle of fabric, the intruder advanced upon the ledge, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. Upon recognising Éomer’s figure, he stiffened and executed a deferential bow.
‘Good evening, your Majesty.’
Glancing over his shoulder, Éomer beheld the silhouette of one of his personal guards — a youth, slightly junior in years but compensating for a lack of stature with a robust physique. Bereft of a helm, his ashy blond locks wafted in the gnawing breeze, compelling him to lift his shoulders in a futile bid to shield his exposed neck from the cold. The prince cleared his throat and responded with a solemn nod.
The ensuing silence caused perspiration to form on Éomer’s temples. What if the guard discerned Éorhild nestled against his chest?
‘Your Highness, are you well?’ he inquired, his head tilting with curiosity and concern. ‘Is it not dangerous to descend to this portion of the hillside?’
‘I am well, Hámer. I only sought some fresh air and tranquillity.’
An itch crept over Éomer — he needed to laugh, cry, and scream. The entirety of this situation struck him as absurd. Why the imperative to conceal her? She was a gentle soul and kindred spirit, not some pilfered treasure from another’s trove. She was a woman; he, a man. Was it not often asserted by his kin that such unions were in harmony with nature’s design? So, why, then, was their devoted affection deemed unlawful?
Their kisses wrought no harm, nor did their exchanged glances. Then why, he pondered, did she risk her life by simply being in his presence?
Hámer did not pry further.
‘I see,’ he responded. ‘My lord, have you perhaps seen Théodil recently? The other maids are searching for her, but it seems she is nowhere to be seen.’
‘Théodil? My chambermaid?’ As Hámer nodded, Éomer pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I fear not. I discharged her early today. Did she perhaps venture to the city? Go outside to watch the sunset?’
‘Do servants care about such things?’ the guard scoffed. ‘I would imagine that they only find beauty in dirty dishes needing to be cleaned.’
Dissimulated under the cloak, Éorhild bit the inside of her cheek until it bled, a manifestation of the boiling rage within her she struggled to contain. Maintaining her fragile composure, she remained hidden and resisted the urge to rise to her feet to reprimand the haughty soldier.
Unbeknownst to her, she was not alone in her indignation. Éomer clenched his jaw and glared at the younger man.
‘Curse your tongue, Hámer! Have some respect for the gentle souls tending to us every minute of our days! Perhaps it would do you good to spend even a day by their side until you realise the value of their hard work.’
The guard blenched under the rebuke, audibly swallowing his discomfort. In a gesture of apology, he offered the prince a bow. Éomer emitted a grunt and waved his hand in dismissal.
‘Go and continue your search for Théodil at once. If she still eludes you, inform me without delay. Can I count on you, or does her safety hold so little significance to you?’
‘You can trust me, your Majesty,’ the guard replied with his head low. ‘Good night.’
Hámer returned to the Golden Hall, letting the hinges of the doors howl in the night until they slammed. Éorhild emerged from underneath the woollen folds, glaring at where he stood.
‘We are nothing but animals to them!’
Éomer drew her to his heart and kissed the crown of her head, seeking to soothe her vexation. If only he could dispel all her worries with a mere stroke of his fingers through the cascade of her hair. Selfishly, he pondered whether she could be his at last if he gained such a power.
Life seldom adhered to such simplicity. As enchanting as the fantasy was, it remained an ephemeral dream. With the advent of daybreak, she would inevitably depart his embrace to complete her daily tasks, and never would they hold one another again. These tender moments of shared affection would become nothing more than a poignant memory. Intangible. Out of reach. Vapour slipping through their fingers.
Éorhild hissed sharply against his shoulder. A jerk of her knee compelled her to pull away and hold him at arm’s length. Mist regained her brown irises, stirring concern within Éomer’s pounding heart.
‘It is late, and my limbs are frozen,’ she whimpered as her palm flattened over his chest. ‘Our only night together is coming to an end.’
A pang of disappointment tugged at his very guts, awakening every craving. The memory of her touch, the sensation of her cold nose against his flushed cheek, their chests clasped together, the mingling of their breaths, the echo of their tender words and sweet-nothings — all surged within him, fuelling the pyre of his pain.
‘I suppose I cannot talk you into staying. Very well. May I request to hold you one last time, beautiful Éorhild?’
A smile played on her lips as she endeavoured to clutch him first. It carried a different tenor this time. It transcended the delicate gesture they shared over the evening, transforming into sheer evidence of their yearning for one another. A desperate need to embed their affection into their very flesh, limbs, and spirits. Nothing more than the bittersweet taste of a love that had never fully blossomed, dead in the bud, to which they steadfastly clung, unwilling to ever leave it to die. Their tears of mourning blended as they were shed.
Her fingers intertwined with his as she contemplated his face, distorted by pain.
‘I shall never forget tonight,’ she intoned. ‘I care not if it causes my downfall. Let them sentence me to death if they find out, and I shall depart this world with joy, for I will have loved you tonight.’
‘I shall carry the memory of your kiss with me for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, how many years I live, know that I will remember tonight and the woman who stirred my frozen heart so.’
‘And I will never be far. If our secret is not discovered, I will remain at Meduseld in your family’s service. I refuse to leave, even if I am condemned to avert my eyes in your presence again.’
Éomer held her chin between his fingers and pressed his mouth to hers. All that they could not utter aloud, they engraved on each other with this last kiss. They poured all their buried sentiments into it, hoping the other would understand, drinking from their lips as though they were the finest wine until they felt raw and swollen. As the prince parted from his maid, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.
‘I do not wish ever to be apart from you,’ he groaned with a husky voice as the desire to kiss her again flooded his veins anew. ‘You mean the world to me.’
Éorhild granted him a grin and bestowed a loving kiss on his brow.
‘And you are my world.’
The prince helped her to her feet and retrieved the tray bearing the cups and the now-empty plate. As she accepted it from his hands, she drew in a sharp breath, shivering in the absence of his cloak and body that no longer enveloped her. Was this the prevailing sensation of her life from that moment forth? A pervasive chill and desolation, akin to being kicked out of the nest, naked and frail, expected to navigate the world and survive it with no sense of direction?
Curse this world, she thought. Curse it and all its laws.
Before she turned away, too pained to even whisper a goodbye, Éomer delicately caught her chin once more, coaxing a smile upon his own face.
‘At least we had tonight.’
Éorhild sniffled and mirrored his expression, their hearts uniting in a poignant symphony of shared regret.
‘At least we had tonight,’ she repeated in a strained murmur. Balancing the tray on her forearm and tilted hip, she clasped his hand and kissed his knuckles as though paying homage to him. ‘May these hands mend Rohan once you become king. May they know nothing but victory and tenderness when your marriage comes.’
Her fingertips granted his mouth a fleeting caress imbued with unspoken sentiments.
‘May these wonderful lips pronounce only words of truth, kindness and justice. May they receive even more love than they provided me tonight.’
And, at last, their gazes met, bringing warmth to their aching souls even for a moment.
‘May these eyes continue to see the best in people. May they gaze upon the land and never miss a threat. And may they one day behold a radiant bride, who will ease your heart and reign by your side.’
New tears drenched her face as she bowed one more time.
‘I shall never forget the warmth and affection you graced upon me this night, my lord. Thank you for it. May our paths cross again, even if we should avoid each other from now on.’
Éomer stepped forward as she commenced her ascent up the hillside, reaching out to grasp her hand, only finding nothing but the cold night air. Powerless, he remained there, a silent witness to her leaving. His heart was on the verge of bursting, and his throat constricted painfully as he found difficulty in uttering his ultimate words to her.
‘Stay with me.’
But his plea was lost amid the creaking of the palace doors.
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hottpinkpenguin · 1 year
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Blessing - Eomer X Fem!Reader
Oneshot, word count: 4,4045 Summary: Loving a Lord of the Riddemark comes with its fair share of trade-offs. Even more so when you're riding into battle right next to him. Warnings: steam (mutual bathing, nudity, kissing, heavy petting if you squint), canon-typical violence, some playing with the timeline,
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You unsheathed your sword in one swift, strong movement, the grating sound of steel on steel as the blade scraped against its scabbard. Your horse, Túrion, reared up on his hind legs as Saruman’s Warg-riders charged across the empty plain in front of you. You had only moments before their forces would smash against your company’s line. Turning back to face your comrades, you lifted your sword high into the cold, early dawn air. 
“For King, for country, for your families and homes!” You shouted as loudly as you could manage, hoping your voice carried over the sound of whinnying horses nervous for battle and the growing roar of the Wargs. The faces of the six dozen female warriors at your command – your swordsisters - broke into a unified scream. The battle cry echoed across the dusky plain, and you noted with a grimly satisfied smile that some of the foe balked at the sound. 
Túrion pulled sharply at the bit in his mouth, signaling to you his anxiousness for battle. You felt the same frenzied energy; it had been ricocheting through your bones ever since King Theoden had given you his begrudging permission to mount up and join the rest of the Rohirrim in guarding the citizens of Edoras as they made the dangerous march to the mountain keep at Helm’s Deep. Your nerves came partially from the knowledge that this was the only change you and your swordsisters had of proving your mettle to the rest of Rohan, and partially from knowing that, although you had the king’s blessing to fight, you distinctly did not have the blessing of his heir and your lover, Eomer. 
As another bloodthirsty cry erupted from the lines of mounted soldiers behind you, you gave Túrion his head, kicking him into a gallop as you thrust your blade high and forward, signaling the charge. 
“For Middle Earth!” The riders behind you echoed your call to arms as the company leapt to action. 
The sound of hundreds of hooves pounding into the frostbitten ground roared to life as your unit charged forward to meet the oncoming Warg-riders. Your mind slipped into a red haze of battle-fueled fury as your sword sliced through its first victim, then its next, and so on, until you and your sword were one and the same. 
* * * * *
The sun was high in the sky by the time you re-sheathed your sword. The muscles of your sword-arm shoulder screamed in relief as you let go of the weight of your blade. You swung down off Túrion’s saddle, examining your stallion’s wounds. Most were superficial cuts, but there was a deep gash cut into the meat of his left flank. Dark crimson blood stained his grey speckled coat, and he whinnied in protest as you gently prodded the rough edges of the wound. It would require cleaning and sewing, you decided, which meant you wouldn’t ride him for a few weeks while it healed. 
“My brave, brave boy,” you cooed at him tenderly as you moved to the front of his body, stroking his sweaty neck sweetly. You saw his eyes soften at the sound of your voice. You let your forehead fall forward to connect to his snout. He chuffed at you lovingly, rubbing his nose on you as if to reassure you he was alright. Túrion had been your horse for almost ten years, and he’d joined you in every battle you’d fought in so far. 
“It seems your horse fared better than you, my lady.” The voice behind you was reproachful but laced with relief. You smiled, ignoring the admonishment in Eomer’s words as you turned to face him. 
“Eomer,” you sighed dreamily, your voice misty with exhaustion as you let him envelop you with his arms. The layers of armor and chain mail and fighting leather between you left you unhappily separate from his reassuring warmth, but the knowledge that he – like you – had survived the Warg attack made you weak in the knees with joy. 
“You’re hurt, Y/n,” he mumbled gruffly against your hair as he placed a tender kiss on your forehead. 
You pulled back from him, puzzled. You hadn’t noticed any injuries during the battle, although it was very possible that adrenaline had dulled your awareness. 
“I am?” you replied in bewilderment. You lifted your arms gingerly, trying to feel for the injury more than look for it. There was an appalling amount of blood and sinew and entrails staining your armor; all of it from your enemies, you’d assumed, although Eomer seemed to disagree. 
“Your head,” he said by way of clarification. His expression was pained as he touched the side of your face up towards your right temple. Although his pressure was gentle, you noted a tenderness at his touch, and his fingertips were tacky with half-dried blood when he withdrew his hand. Your mind idly flicked through the memories of the battle, trying to identify when you’d been injured. You knew some of the Warg-riders dipped their blades in poison – usually the officers – and if the injury had come from one of them, you’d need to see an apothecary for the herbal antidote. You had a vague recollection of your helmet being knocked from your head by an errant arrow. As you tried to piece the memory together, you realized that the arrow must have sideswiped your skull, leaving a shallow albeit bloody gash there. 
“I’m fine, it was an arrow,” you sighed in relief as you gently ran your hand along the cut. It was narrow and straight – most certainly the work of an arrow rather than a blade. You saw Eomer’s shoulders visibly relax; his mind must have raced to the possibility of poison just as yours had. 
“Thank the Gods,” he breathed out, cupping your cheeks in both his hands as your foreheads connected. Your eyelids fluttered shut as you enjoyed the sound of his breathing syncing with yours. The sounds of the fading battle and dismounting riders around you faded into the back of your awareness as you let Eomer’s presence wash over you. 
When you finally drew back to meet his gaze, you saw the anger that he’d tamped down just long enough to ensure you’re safety flare to life in his honey-brown eyes. 
“What in the devil are you playing at, exactly?” he snarled accusatorily. You had to suppress a chuckle at his rage. He was the bravest man you knew, like one of the royal knights of old out of a children’s fairytale, but when it came down to you, his protective anger reminded you of an hissing, spitting kitten. You wanted nothing more than to pepper him with kisses and have him walk you to a nice, warm bath, although you knew that your doting affection would only enrage him further.
In an attempt to hide your smile, you turned back to Túrion, undoing his breast collar and easing the saddle off his back. 
“Whatever do you mean, my Lord?” Try as you might, you couldn’t quite extinguish the note of teasing in your sarcastic question. Eomer’s nostrils flared in response. He grabbed your upper arm, pulling you about to face him. His eyes were simmering, his handsome lips pursed so tightly they were white against his sun-tanned skin.
“You rode into battle knowing you didn’t have my blessing,” Eomer growled. He released your arm as a few of his men walked past, eyeing the two of you surreptitiously with sidelong glances. Your romance with Eomer was no longer a secret, although both of you tried to keep your personal affairs separate from your roles in Rohan’s military. 
“I had the King’s blessing,” you snapped back once his men were out of earshot. “Last I checked, the King’s blessing still outweighed yours, Lord of the Mark.” Using Túrion’s saddle as a buffer, you brushed past him, leading your horse by the bridle towards the line of soldiers pulling back from the corpse-riddled battlefield towards the shadowy mountains off the west, where the safety of Helm’s Deep thick stone walls awaited. You could practically feel the heat from Eomer’s gaze boring into the back of your head as you walked away. 
Let him burn himself out, you told yourself as part of your instincts yearned to turn back and make peace. You knew Eomer’s anger came from a place of protectiveness, and you loved him for his devotion. By the same token, you also wanted him to realize that a warrior’s blood pulsed through your veins. It wasn’t your fate to be a lady of Rohan’s court, waving embroidered handkerchiefs at him as he rode off into a glorious death in battle. Your fate was to ride out next to him and meet your enemies standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Like him, you would lay down your life to protect those you loved. You’d never dream of taking that away from him; and you expected him to give you the same latitude in return. 
Holding your chin high, you let your feet carry you away from him, eventually getting lost in the crowd. You’d be lying if you said your pride wasn’t a bit wounded that he didn’t chase you down, but he didn’t. Eomer was far too proud for that.
* * * * *
It wasn’t until nightfall that you reached Helm’s Deep. The adrenaline of battle had long worn off by then, and you were beginning to feel every bump and bruise covering your body. Based on the scattered reports you’d picked up on from the other unit commanders, you knew that the battle was far from over. Saruman’s main force was marching towards Helm’s Deep as you spoke. The Warg-riders had been little but a scouting force. You only hoped to have enough time to eat and, if the Gods were merciful, rest. 
Once you’d seen Túrion to the stables and tasked a stable hand with patching up his wound, you made your way towards the main hall of the keep. Theoden’s court had assembled there, and he’d ordered all of his unit commanders to adjourn there for a hot meal and battle strategy. Thankfully, your company had lost relatively few of its number, while others had sustained heavy losses. Despite the bone-deep fatigue that pulled at your eyelids, you forced yourself to stay keen to the king’s brief on his strategy for the coming conflict. Given that your company was still majority intact, you suspected that you’d be part of the castle’s main defensive force along the lower ramparts. 
It wasn’t purely exhaustion that threatened to pull your focus elsewhere; from across the dimly lit hall, you could see Eomer at his usual place to the king’s immediate left. His expression was somber, and you doubted that anyone noticed the slight groove between his eyebrows that betrayed his inner turmoil. But you knew his face the same way you knew the feel of breath in your lungs. You’d be able to feel his emotions in the dark. 
After the king dismissed the company leaders under strict instructions to rest as much as possible, you felt your feet automatically lead you up towards the head table where Theoden, Gamling, and Eomer sat together, their heads bowed as they continued to talk of strategy. Noticing your approach, Theoden smiled at you warmly and waved his nephew off.
Eomer protested his uncle’s dismissal, partially out of a sense of duty and partially to spite you, but Theoden would hear none of it. “Soldiers are never guaranteed another sunset, Eomer,” he chided his nephew sternly but not unkindly. “Don’t waste this one mulling over the details of tomorrow’s doom. Go. Be with your heart.” 
Theoden’s words touched you, and you bowed your head gratefully at him as Eomer rose with a sullen pout. As you turned to follow a very surly Eomer out of the hall, you swore you saw Theoden shoot you a conspiratorial wink. 
The walk to Eomer’s chambers was quiet, although not tense. There was an understanding between you two: despite your quarrel, both of you expected to spend the evening together. And although there were differences of opinion, you knew that you were secure in his affections, just as he knew the same of you. You and Eomer had been doing this dance for too long to let something so petty drive a wedge between you, especially on a night like tonight. You weren’t sure if it was your imagination, but at times you swore you felt the faintest tremor in the mountain that Helm’s Deep was cut into, a foreshadow of the unimaginable force marching your way. Theoden’s scouts had reported an army as large as ten thousand strong, pouring out of Isengard’s gates. The very notion of ten thousand was almost beyond your imaginings, and it pierced your heart with an unmuted terror. You knew Eomer felt it too - everyone did. 
Perhaps it was that shared terror that kept both of you silent as you entered Eomer’s chambers. He closed the door behind you softly, dismissing the guard who stood watch by the doorway. You’d only been to Helm’s Deep once before, but the chamber was exactly as you remembered. The court servants who had fled Edoras with the rest of the nobility had brought with them precious few luxuries, but among them were a pile of freshly laid towels, a bar of soap, and an array of candles spread throughout the room. You breathed a sigh of relief when you saw steam rising from the simple, porcelain tub in the corner of the room. A warm bath was exactly what you needed right now. Sweat and dried blood from the morning’s battle had dried on your skin and in your hair. You weren’t a particularly vain person - your lifestyle hadn’t afforded you such luxuries - but you were not above enjoying a thorough soak and a soft bed to lay your head on at night. 
Without sharing a word, you and Eomer began removing your armor. Unlike earlier, where his anger hung around him like a stormcloud, his mood now moved in the direction of contemplative. You felt his gaze on your face as you lifted the heavy chainmail tunic you wore under your leather armor over your head. With the weight of your armor removed, your limbs felt loose and light. As you swung your dirty braid over one shoulder and began undoing the plaits, Eomer finally broke the silence. 
“I never get tired of seeing you like this, you know.” HIs voice was softer than you expected, and it caused your breath to snag in your chest. You lifted your eyes to him as you shook out the roots of your hair. His face was streaked with dirt from the fight, and there was a dark blue bruise that you hadn’t noticed earlier blooming under one eye. But beneath the grime and his week-old stubble, you saw a soft smile gracing his lips and a gentle light in his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile back. 
“Like what, my lord?” you replied teasingly as you unlaced the bottom layer of your armor - a heavy tunic made of quilted wool. The chill damp of the air felt delicious against your bare skin. You didn’t relish the idea of re-donning everything in just a few hours, especially given that you wouldn’t have time to wash the tunic or clean the plated armor, but for the moment it felt incredible to be rid of those putrid, heavy layers. 
“Undressed, in my chambers.” Eomer’s reply was somewhat muffled by the hem of his own tunic, which had snagged around his head while he was undressing. You laughed at the sight of the Lord of the Riddemark, future King of Rohan, half-naked with a dirty tunic wrapped around his neck. You stepped over to him and helped untie a few more laces at the neck of the tunic, easing his head through the opening and freeing him from the confines of the tunic at last. 
“Such language in front of a lady,” you replied mirthfully as Eomer gestured towards the tub. You accepted his invitation gratefully, stepping one foot into the warm water and then another. The bathwater turned grimy as you let your body sink beneath the surface of the bathwater, dipping your head back to wet your hair. 
From outside the tub, Eomer grabbed the bar of soap and wetted it before running it over your hair to form a lather. When he began rubbing your scalp with firm fingers, you let out an audible moan as you let your head lean back against the edge of the bath. 
He chuckled as you gave yourself over to the incredible sensation.
“I see no lady here,” he replied after a moment, earning a playful glare from you and a splash of bathwater in his direction. He dodged the blow easily, letting out a laugh of his own. 
“Your manners need work, my lord.” Your retort had little bite to it; you were too mesmerized by the patterns Eomer’s fingers wove against your scalp. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you let relaxation seep into every fiber of your body.
“No lady,” he continued, bending down until his beard tickled your ear. “Only a woman. My woman.” Your toes curled under the surface of the water as he dragged those last two words over the gravel in his voice. Sensing he’d plucked the right chord, Eomer chuckled proudly as he planted a kiss to the soft skin in front of your ear. You reached up to grab his hair and pull him to your lips, but he’d already withdrawn. Your eyes opened just in time to see him sink into the bath next to you, the water level rising dangerously close to the lip of the tub. Like you, he grunted in appreciation as the warmth of the water began to work out the kinks in his tired muscles. 
You allowed him to settle against the far edge of the bath before you moved towards him. He opened his arms in a well-rehearsed move, allowing you to settle between his strong thighs and lean back against his firm torso before wrapping you with his arms. Your head lolled back against his shoulder, his cheek coming to rest on your freshly rinsed hair. This was not the first time you had shared such intimacy with your lover; far from it, in fact. But, much like he had pointed out earlier, there was no dulling of affection between you two. Instead, you felt your feelings for him deepen with each passing day. 
As the two of you sat together in the cooling water, you traced absentminded circles over his forearm. Your gaze landed on the dancing flame of a nearby candle as you let your mind wander into a space just shy of sleep. You felt Eomer’s breath deepen against your back as he too relaxed into the quiet. 
After several minutes of companionable silence, you squeezed his arm to rouse him from his reverie.
“Do I have your blessing for the battle ahead, my lord?” Although you used the same playful tone you’d employed moments prior, the question was a serious one. You felt Eomer tense ever so slightly behind you as he considered his response. 
Sensing his hesitation, you pressed on.
“You know I will fight tomorrow, with or without it.” Eomer tensed further at your callous words, although both of you knew they were true. You let your tone soften as you added, “although I would feel all the better for it if I had your blessing.” 
He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head slightly. 
“Whatever did I do to find myself in love with a woman such as yourself?” Each of his words was drenched in devotion, and the sound of it made you curl against him as he squeezed you tightly. It wasn’t a direct answer, but you understood his meaning. His blessing wasn’t something to give or take away; you always had it. Eomer had known what you were long before he’d fallen into your bed, and you’d been certain not to soften those parts of yourself that found a home in battle just for his sake. 
“You are truly one of the lucky few,” you cooed back, relishing the sensation of him nuzzling down against the skin where your neck and shoulder connected. You reached a hand up behind you, lightly gripping the back of his head and encouraging him to let it hang gently against yours. He obliged, sighing contentedly as you began twirling strands of his hair around your fingers. 
“I swear to the Gods, y/n, sometimes I don’t know if you’re my salvation or my downfall.” His confession came with a distinct note of pain. You knew that pain well: it was the pain of loving a warrior. The pain of having to say a potential goodbye each time they rode into battle. The pain of subsuming the urge to protect him at any and every cost under the need to follow orders. It was the pain of frantically searching for an all-too familiar face amongst the bodies of the dead on a battlefield. It was a unique kind of pain, and one that both of you had known you’d always live with when you’d allowed yourselves to fall in love. 
You ignored the way the bathwater sloshed over the edge of the tub as you turned to face him. His eyes were misty as you cupped his handsome face in your hands, running your thumbs tenderly along his cheekbones. 
“Eomer… my love…” Before you could finish your thought, he pulled you against him, his lips meeting yours greedily. In an instant, you recognized the intention behind his kiss. A knot of desire began to coil in your stomach as your fingers tangled in his hair. He pressed his kiss down into your mouth harder, and you felt the mingling of fear, pride, devotion, and love in behind that pressure. Your chest bloomed with heat as the kiss deepened. Suddenly, Eomer rose from his seated position and stepped out of the bath, his muscles tensing enticingly with the quick, agile movement. Bending down to lace an arm under your legs and one behind your back, he lifted you quickly from the now tepid, grimy water. He carried you to the bed with a purposeful heat simmering in his eyes, making that knot in your stomach tighten further as butterflies began to take flight in your lungs. He laid you on the soft blanket, his arms coming to frame your shoulders as he settled his body over top yours, caging you in between his flexed biceps. Just before his mouth met yours again, you lifted a finger and pressed it to his lips. He froze, his eyes on you with curiosity and a hint of frustration. 
“Your blessing, Eomer,” you said breathily, trying to tamp down your own impatience. “I want your blessing.” It had never felt important before, but the longer your mind lingered on the battle ahead, the more compelled you felt to hear those words. 
His honey brown eyes danced with delight as you withdrew your finger, allowing him to speak freely. He didn’t hesitate.
“You have it.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips. 
“You have my blessing always.” Another kiss at the corner of your mouth. 
“Today.” Your jawline. “Tomorrow.” Your collarbone. “For all of your days.” Your shoulder. “And all of mine.” Back to your lips. 
Your heart seized in your chest as the tenderness of the moment bewitched you. Eomer hovered over you, each of you basking in each other’s gaze for another heartbeat. You saw the tender light in his eyes turn molten just as your own mind turned back to the needs of your body. 
“Now, my lady,” he whispered. “Allow me to show you exactly how much of this lord’s blessing you’ve earned.” He dove down to kiss at the now cleaned skin above your breasts, earning a delighted cry from you as you let your eyes flutter close. 
Somewhere in the darkness covering Rohan, an army ten-thousand strong marched closer; but for that moment, your love chased away the dark…
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as-amemory · 18 days
Text
I Could Drive You Crazy
Pairing: Éomer x OFC (unnamed)
Summary: She drove him crazy, with her little mannerism specifically crafted to irritate him, to get a rise out of him, for it was then, in that sweet spot before he starts to boil, before his true ire took over, that they find themselves in the heated throws of passion.
Warnings: NSFW, explicit, racism against Dunlendings (if thats a thing? I don't know, I'm new here), unhealthy relationships.
Word Count: less than 2k.
Setting: Aldburg, Rohan - some years before the War of the Ring.
Notes: This is the result of me ovulating and having no outlet as well as a song-bug stuck in my ear: I Could Drive You Crazy by Sierra Ferrell. Basically its a song about being crazy and I thought that might make for an interesting character to pair Éomer with, since apparently I enjoy watching him suffer. I'm not yet ready to name this OFC. I kind of hate her but I want to play with her a few more times and see what mischief she can get up to first before I decide if she needs a permanent residence.
I'm probably going to the small section of hell they specifically reserve for the sickos who deface Tolkien's works with such vulgarity. Enjoy!
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Hay Fever threatened to take him fully yet she barged through the door as if he hadn’t complained to her that morning of an oncoming headache. She loved to do that. Ignore his every word and then act surprised when he was upset with her for having to repeat himself. Rare did he share his feelings with others, rarer still that he was forced to repeat himself. Not as Third Marshal of the Mark, Lord of Aldburg. People listened when he spoke. She did not. 
“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she says, voice full of spite. He hated when she called him by his name so casually. He never particularly cared for the triviality of titles. It matters not to him how he is referred to, as long as he first gave leave to call him by his given name, yet she takes the privilege without even bothering to ask permission.
She eyes the hound dogs sprawled at his feet with contempt. She did not like that he allows the dogs to reside inside the confines of his home. They belong in a kennel, outside. “They look as though they will devour me.” 
This was his home. It would do her well to get used to seeing them laying on the floor. He sits back in his seat appraising her, the judgment seeped deep in her dark eyes. She is of mixed ancestry, there is no doubt of that by looking at her. Carrying enough blood of the Dunlendings to mark her differently. A mark of his resentment towards her. Resentment that blossomed into hate, the sweet fuel to their more rousing escapades. 
“I should let them.” The threat comes out harsher than he intends, the start of a cold restricting any tenderness from escaping his throat. 
Tossing two halves of an uneaten pheasant on the ground the dogs swallow it whole in one bite. He had taken his supper in his room that evening, not in the mood to dally with the residents of Aldburg. Typically the seasonal Hay Fever did not affect him but the heavy spring rains had caused an influx of new weeds to run wild in the fields causing him to feel less than ideal. Currently a pain bloomed behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, leaving him in no state to make friendly conversation. Yet here she is, when he had specifically ordered the Doorward not to let anyone into his rooms. 
She could drive him to insanity with her blatant disrespect of him. He did not know why he kept her around. They had nothing in common and his list of grievances against her was long in number, dating back almost a year prior, growing longer still.
Showing up late to a personal invitation to go riding, acting as though they had never agreed to a time and certainly not a place of meeting. She had once offered to cook him supper to which he almost choked on the bones swimming in the stew. Had ruined a hunting trip, scaring away all the animals with her incessant humming. A tune which was stuck in his head for almost a fortnight. There was no fishing to be had with her, requiring more patience than whatever little she possessed. Yet time, and time again, him found himself tangled in sheets of his bed with her, or roughly pressed against the edge of his desk in the solar, partial to the idea of being caught, or in the hayloft above the stables, straining so deliciously tight around him as she rode - 
He teeth grind at the sight of her, fluttering about his room, touching this and that, moving it slightly away from its original spot as she talks about her day. 
“I found a lovely bolt of cloth that would make a fine dress.” She has picked up the crystal paperweight from his desk, peering at it as if she is speaking to the paperweight and not him. 
So it was money she wanted? He should have known better than to think she was checking on his well being. He lifts his chin, waiting for her to meet his eye. She would have to ask him directly if she desired any coin from him but she continues to pick up random items just to set them down again, completely ignoring him. 
“Come here.” His patience has grown thin. He will not ask her twice yet she looks at him as if he should be the one crawling on his knees to be near her. As if he should hand over his purse just to be allowed the honor of being in the same room as her. 
When he does not concede to her silent petition she nods her head in appreciation to his stubbornness. A sly smile curls on her lips as she approaches him, already lifting her dress to better seat herself on his lap. 
“I don’t know what I ever liked about you,” he says gruffly as she straddles him. Pushing aside her skirts he unties the laces of his trousers. He would have his due of her before this Hay Fever set in fully. 
She laughs mockingly at that. “You love me.” 
“I don’t think I do.” He nips at her lips and she smiles ruefully. Skirt pulled around her waist he is able to easily palm the wet folds of her labia. “You seem to like me,” he draws out, pushing the heel of his palm into her sensitive nub, eliciting a delicate gasp from between pink parted lips. He takes the opening to kiss her fully when she otherwise does not particularly enjoy the intimacy of a long drawn out kiss. She surprises him by matching the energy, eagerly molding her lips against his. Rutting down on his hand and along his ever hardening cock causes a gasp of his own to escape his mouth and into hers. His eyes closed briefly at the contact. They had last laid together only that morning. Was he so fallible to her that he could not even keep from gasping out like an inexperienced adolescent? 
She bites down on his lower lip. Hard, drawing blood. He hisses his resentment through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into her side. He hated when she did that. This she knows. She remembers that particular detail about him, yet could not remember the name of his first horse or his favorite fishing spot. More than anything she loved to know what he hated.
She is trying to get a rise out of him. Make his boil, just a little. The sex was always better for it. 
“Minx,” he growls against her mouth. Taking hold of his cock he spreads the juices of her pleasure along the length, lining himself up with her entrance. Greedily he flicks his hips up into her without warning. She laments her pleasure, loud for all to hear. The Doorward, no doubt, will not be expecting reprimand from him, not when he can so clearly hear the results of his mistake. 
Wiggling against him she tries vainly to adjust to the size difference but he holds her in place, fingers digging into her sides. He wishes that he wasn’t so incorrigible. That he wasn’t so tempted by her teasing. That he could withhold himself from acting out so rashly. Maybe like that of his older cousin, whose poise and sense of propriety had always come with ease. Yet he falls for her time and time again, fucking her exactly as she enjoys. As he enjoys. 
Letting his eyes linger on her undulating body he sets his jaw to keep from baring his teeth at the pressure of her rolling hips. If only she rode horses as good as she did him then she might be worth her weight in the saddle. Yet for all her withering she is shit astride a horse. It was that cursed Dunlending blood, tainting her ability to be anything but subpar.
A whimper escapes her lips, and he smiles cruelly, at least she suffers, same as him. She rides him slow, a painful pace that leaves him groaning. His only respite from her torture is his thumb circling her clit. She might know everything he hated but he knew exactly what her body loved. Specifically how to milk an orgasm out of her that would leave her seeing stars. It starts slow. Small circles to bring her to attention, and then an increase of pressure as blood engorges to the area. Her breathing hitches in her throat. Like the cat that caught the canary, he smiles at the sight of her. A harsh thrust of his hips, he fills her fully causing her pace to falter. The careful placement of his thumb halts, watching the confused look cross her features as her incoming orgasm slips out from under her. 
His name is a growl on her lips, a slight warning. “Éomer.” 
That he could take his name from her lips. 
She knows the game he plays, the same one she taught him all those years ago. His thumb picks up pace with her rolling hips. He cradles her neck with his free hand. Skin hot, beneath his touch. A sheen of sweat is building along her hairline. He traces the curve of her collarbone and down her chest, across to her nipples, hard beneath her bodice. She is almost as sensitive here as she is between her legs, her hands clench around his shirt trying to hide her rising ecstasy. His nostrils flare, eyes trapped on the expanse of her face, carefully watching for each small indication of her pleasure. 
Turning her head she tries to hide from him but he quickly has her jaw clasped between his fingers. He would see her. Shaking her head she waves off his touch, attempting to cover her eyes behind her hand, like a child hiding in plain sight. He clicks his tongue, taking her hand in his and after some struggling binds them both in his clasp behind her back.  
“Go on then.” He flicks his chin in her direction. Her pace has all but stopped, hesitantly she finds it again, knowing full well that he now possesses all the power. The power to dish out pleasure as he saw fit.  
Yet her rolling hips are more powerful, more exaggerated than before, causing him to grimace, lest he call out her name. She would love that, revel in his undoing. He steels himself with a deep breath through his nose. A ragged breath from her lets him know she is close again. He slows his thumb, wondering if she’ll cry out, plead with him to give her what she wants. 
“Éomer.” His name, like a prayer on her lips, is soft and sweet, and he knows he no longer possesses the control he once touted. 
Letting free her hands, he pulls her in close until her head rests against his. He can feel the warmth of her breath as he takes his pace, thrusting into her. She has brushed away his teasing thumb, replacing it with her own skilled fingers. A shuddering breath and she tightens further around the length of him. She cries out loud enough that he is certain they hear her in the Great Hall. He is still thrusting into her as she convulses hot and heady around him but he soon follows suit, letting his release run him fully with a loud groan of his own. 
Panting, she rests her head against his chest, forehead sticky with sweat it clings to the thin fabric of his shirt. She does not cuddle. She never has lingered in his arms as they slowly drift down from their high. She slips off his lap and he shutters at the sudden loss of contact, hands gripping the armrests of the chair. 
By the time he has regained his senses enough to stand she has relieved herself and wiped clean his seed dripping down her thighs. Maybe a good romp was the cure to any oncoming ailment. He drowns the last of his ale, eyeing her as she smiles prettily for him under dark thick lashes. So demure and pliant, when only moments earlier he was ready to have her thrown from his room for her uncouth behavior.
“You spoil me, my lord,” she says coyly. He bites back a scoff. 
Her gaze is taken with the leather purse heavy on the corner of his desk. A slight nod of his head and she promptly reaches across the expanse, showing off the long lines of her body, and that of the soft curves she knows he loves to grab hold of during their coupling. Deftly, her fingers dip inside the pouch, taking out three coins. 
“This should cover the cost.” Her gaze darts to him, searching for any subtle hint of permission that she could take more but he is hard set against giving her indication. Already she pushes the bounds of his generosity. 
“And one more,” she purrs softly, plucking a fourth coin out. “As insurance to return to you.” 
He rolls his eyes, knowing well she will only return when she pleases not because she feels indebted to him. Offering a low curtsey, she mumbles her thanks, letting his gaze linger on her, on the low cut of her dress. Her bosom all but swells out of the strains of her bodice. When did such a salacious style come into fashion? Surely his sister did not expose herself so scantily in Edoras? He bites his lip, thoughts of his sister quickly pushed from his mind replaced instead by the women so humbly lowered before him. Already he feels a slight twitch of his groin. 
She rises, satisfied with her display of deference. A Haunting smile on her lips, she glances at the hound dogs splayed out on the rug. 
“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she instructs as a final goodbye. Out the door he is certain she can hear his mocking laughter following her.  
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adeliniel · 2 years
Text
SFW alphabet | Eomer
Wow, it’s such an incredible feeling to finally finish something you’ve started so long ago!
Long time no see, dearests! Hope you all are doing great.
No promises and no expectations this time.
Just read, enjoy and feel good.
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A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
At first, Eomer is even ashamed that he fell in love with you, so he tries to avoid any public interactions and even pretends that he is not very happy to see you. However, when your relationship becomes more serious, he builds a completely opposite strategy, trying to protect you from the attacks of envious people. Eomer takes you everywhere with him and with subtle gestures shows others that you are his woman.
B = Body (Their favorite body part of their partner, why? Do they like touch?)  
Eomer adores your fingers. In his huge palm, your tender fingers seem so small and fragile. He could break them with one sharp squeeze, he knows it, and this paradox blows his head off. He likes to kiss each finger in turn, feeling your soft skin in front of his rough lips.
C = Courtship (What do they do to take your attention?)
At first, Eomer didn't even want to try to invite you on a date or confess his feelings. After all, he knew that he spent most of his time on military campaigns, and he thought you wouldn't want to wait. However, you began to spend a lot of time together when he was in Edoras, and rumors that you are now together spread faster than Eomer managed to make an official confession.
D = Domestic (Are they the type to settle down with you? Are they willing to help with chores? What is your daily routine with them?)
Yes, Eomer dreams of one day being able to leave the service and you (along with your future children) moving to a calmer and quieter place. However, today he can not accept the fact that you refuse to officially move to the palace and live in its rooms. Because he only feels at home where you two are.
E = Espousal (Do they want to marry you eventually? Who proposes to who?)
He never actually thought about marriage, but the longer your relationship lasts the more he considers proposing to you. It just seems right to Eomer for the two of you to be a lawful husband and wife. And the least in the world he would want to dishonor you or be the cause of gossip. 
F = Fragile (How protective are they of you? If they are, how do they show this?)
Eomer is probably the synonym to the word “protective”. He would panic if you cut your finger or accidentally hit something, and he cannot live with thoughts that you can be seriously wounded. The man would be extremely happy if you agreed to stay home and mind your business, but if you don’t he would try to keep you as close as possible to be sure you’re alive and safe.     
G = Gifts (What type of gifts do they give their s/o? Do they like receiving gifts?)
He could easily forget about your wedding anniversary, but for no reason would he forget to bring you at least a small bouquet of flowers when returning home from another military campaign. He isn't really aware of whether you wait for something special, but he considers flowers as the best and most universal present.  
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Eomer does not particularly like to hug. He prefers to kiss the back of your hand (if you're in public), or to kiss your forehead if the situation allows. Usually, he initiates a hug only when you meet after a long separation. His hugs are quite strong, he presses you so close that it becomes difficult for you to breathe. Sometimes he even hides his face in the crook of your neck and exhales noisily, thus tickling your skin.
I = Intimacy (How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?)
Unexpectedly, but deep in his soul, Eomer is very worried about all sorts of romantic things. He knows that he is not a romantic at all, but he is afraid that he will not be able to satisfy your desires and needs. He learns quickly and never ceases to amaze you with various surprises.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
With a cold head, Eomer realizes that he has no reason to be jealous of anyone, because you were the first to confess your feelings. That is, you chose him among the other men around you. However, a hot heart makes his blood boil every time you talk to other guys or when someone shows a keen interest in you. He never accuses you of being jealous, but sometimes you still have to convince him that he is the only one for you.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
His kisses always seem hasty and nervous, as if he hesitates, as if he is not entirely sure that you will kiss him in return. Therefore, kisses on the lips, he prefers kisses on the forehead. He gently presses his lips to your forehead, and sometimes freezes for a few minutes, gently stroking your shoulders with his strong palms. In return, he loves it when you kiss him on the chin. In fact, because of the difference in height, you just can't reach out to kiss him somewhere else. And it seems infinitely dear to him.
L = Love language (What’s their love language?)
Time. Unfortunately, Eomer has to spend a lot of time on military campaigns, patrols and missions. That's why every minute spent with you is so precious to him. He knows that you also have a lot of work to do, but the fact that you leave all your business when he returns home and devotes all your time to him means much more to him than all possible words.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
Eomer is an early bird. He wakes up almost at dawn, because there is a lot of work ahead. At first, according to the old habit, he dressed for the service quite noisily. But several times he caught your dissatisfied and even unhappy look and later tried to be quieter. Later, he even got into the habit of kissing you on the forehead every morning before going to work to the sounds of your unintelligible growl.
N = Nicknames (What do they call you? What do you call them?)
You jokingly call him "My best Rohirrim" or “The strongest man on the Earth” and it always makes him blush. He also tried to create some funny nicknames for you, but he pronounced it with such a serious voice, that everything sounded more cringy than fun. So he just goes with “Flower Lady” or “Dear wife”.  
O = Overture (How did everything start?)
You've known each other for a long time, because you both grew up in Edoras, played and quarreled, and had secrets. Then you went to study in another country, and when you came back, you realized that you two have changed a lot. Eomer saw the same. Instead of the simple girl next door, there was now a beautiful independent woman beside him who filled his thoughts and heart more and more, until he could no longer resist his feelings.
P = Pace (Are they fast-paced in a relationship? Or do they like to take things slow?)
The path of your relationship is more like an ECG than a romantic walk. Since Eomer has never been interested in a relationship before, everything that is happening now is new to him. Therefore, he acts in accordance with his own feelings and emotions, which change almost every minute.
Q = Queen/King (Who takes the initiative in relationships?)
Eomer likes to brag that he is the boss in your pair, but in fact he will not take a step without consulting you. Even during quarrels, he is usually the first to apologize, because your sad eyes do not allow him to live in peace and do everyday things until he is convinced that everything is fine between you.
R = Remembrance (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
That special day when you first accompanied him on his way to a military campaign. Eowyn usually played this honorable role, but after your engagement you were given the right to be a woman who goes along with the commander in chief. He felt as happy and proud as ever. Especially since he knew that in a few weeks you would meet him back home as well.
S = Salvage (What issues does this relationship help him to cope with?
Ever since you came into his life, Eomer has felt full, complete. It was as if all the pieces of the puzzle of his life were finally in place. He knew he didn't have much time for personal life, and the fact that you were willing to put up with his constant trips only confirmed his assumption that you were made for each other.
T = Tiny (How are they around children?)
All Eomer knows about children is that they have to have them sooner or later. He is not ready for his children now, but when he thinks about the distant future and perhaps old age, he definitely sees you as the mother of his descendants.
U = Ulterior (What’s their secret?)
He really likes it when you not only braid your hair, but also add flowers. Eomer sometimes likes to go with you on secret walks in the woods to collect wild flowers, which you then weave into your braids.
V = Vulnerable (How long until they can be vulnerable around their s/o? What are they like in this state?)
From the outside, Eomer seemed to you quite carefree, or at least one who quickly releases heavy feelings and can move on. Later you learned that your husband not only keeps everything to himself, but also does not know how to share and talk about his pain. Many nights you heard him wake up and run away from you to the next room to suppress his grief there again in solitude.One night you just silently stopped him, grabbed his arm tightly, and then hugged him just as tightly, showing that he doesn't have to express his feelings in words to get support.
W = Wound (How do they feel about exposing their scars/injuries?)
Scars and wounds are an integral part of his life. Eomer does not perceive them as something special and would be very happy if his partner won’t pay attention to this. However, he likes it when in the morning you gently run his old scars with your fingers to wake him up.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon about your relationship)
Unlike Eowyn, Eomer cooks quite well. Even better than you. He is ashamed of this, because he considers household chores not a man's occupation, but rather - that it doesn’t suit a brave warrior. However, he is ready to step over himself again and again to see your eyes light up again when you eat what he has prepared for you.
Y = Yearning (How well do they cope when their SO isn’t with them?)
He is used to the fact that you often do not see each other for weeks or even months, so he does not feel much sadness. Eomer consoles himself with the thought that your reunion is getting closer every day. However, the closer he gets home, the more nervous he becomes, because he always worries that your feelings may have changed during a long separation.
Z = Zzz (How are nights spent with them?)
The army taught him to sleep at any time and in any position, but also to wake up from any sound. The first night you spent together, Eomer hardly slept, because when you moved in his arms, he was worried that something had happened and had to check if everything was okay. Eventually, the quiet family life relaxed him a little and taught him comfort, so now he sometimes complains that I can't sleep peacefully in a tent without you by his side.
Thank you for reading!
You can find more of my works right here
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bellejolras · 2 years
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A Roll in the Hay
Rating: E(xplicit) / No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Eomer/fem reader
WC: 1.9k
Other tags: PWP, semi-public sex, no y/n
Summary: sometimes you just need a quickie in the barn, you know? #justrohanthings (in which it turns out the author may be an eomer girlie after all)
for @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book, for the prompt & for beta’ing 😌😌
It was warm in the barn. Thankfully a breeze was blowing, or it would be stifling. The horses didn’t seem to mind, though, snuffling in the air and kicking gently at the dirt as they always did, but it was beginning to get to her. Probably she shouldn’t have gone out at this time of day. Of course it would be warm when she got back. There was no longer wind blowing at her face, only the breeze through the open door to keep her cool as she cleaned up and put everything back where it went. This was no royal stables, with hired hands to care for the horses; they were out in the middle of nowhere. But she didn’t mind, even if it was more work than she had gotten used to.
She scooped some hay off the fresh pile at one end of the room to bring to the horse she had just taken out, then brought the saddle to hang up on the rack. Béma, was it always this heavy? It didn’t help that the only free spot was the most awkwardly placed, almost out of reach. As she lifted it up again, heaving it off the ground, she heard a voice behind her.
“Need some help with that?”
Even without turning around, she knew who stood in the doorway. It was a voice she knew all too well.
*****
[read the rest on ao3!]
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blueeyesatnight · 2 years
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Moments of Peace
Title: Moments of Peace
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Eomer x Lothiriel
Rating: PG 13 (caliber of the books and films)
Word Count: 2700
Warnings: none?
A/N: Written in 2005 and definitely a slight AU...this was the first time I ever wrote for this pairing >.< Baby Bluuuuue
LOTR Masterlist --- Author Masterlist
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Moments of Peace
They had met three times before they married. Once they had been mere children, the second they were in the bloom of youth and the third…the third encounter was the darkest and lightest of them all.
When he was eleven and grief stricken over the deaths of his parents, Eomer son of Eomund came to Edoras with his sister Eowyn. Eowyn was eight years old and so overcome by her grief that she would not talk, she would barely eat and Eomer had to hold her hand throughout every day. It was thought, by their uncle and cousin, that for Eowyn's sake she must learn to do for herself again. To do that, Eomer must be far away where she could not call for him.
So it was that Eomer came to accompany his cousin Theodred to Dol Amroth, a Gondorian state by the sea. Theodred had gone to discuss possible trade routes, though both parties knew they're talks would be fruitless without the consent of the Steward of Gondor. Denethor, at the time, was disinclined to help his brother-in-law and Rohan.
Still, Theodred had come to talk and it was well and good he had. Fate was made the moment Eomer crossed the threshold of Dol Amroth. When his cousin left him to his own devices, Eomer wandered about the halls of the magnificent palace. Everything was gilded in silver or mithril with emblems of graceful swans. He supposed it was the elvish blood in the Royal House that made this palace seem like such a peaceful place, hidden away from the ugliness of the world. For the first time in many days, Eomer breathed freely without painful constrictions in his chest. Perhaps it was the sea air, perhaps it was merely the calm that overtook him. Dol Amroth was alive with beautiful gardens and serene ponds, there was always the whisper of the sea's music reaching his ears.
While walking through the palace he heard the most beautiful music, it entranced him so that he followed it down many corridors and listened outside the door it came from for a goodly time. After years, it seemed, he heard another sound accompany the harp song…crying. Quiet crying. It disturbed him enough that he unceremoniously pushed open the door he'd been listening at to investigate the mournful noise. Inside the room sat a tiny dark-haired girl in a silver gown that spread out around her like a great sparkling puddle. She could have been one of the marvelous carvings in the walls, to Eomer's eyes, she was so delicate and flawless she did not look like a human child.
The girl was startled at his entrance and stopped playing her harp to stare at him, in the same heartbeat her eyes dried up and in her stillness she truly did look like a statue of an elf-child. He did not apologize for intruding, but rather watched her in silence, in awe, for the children of Rohan looked nothing like this. After a moment the girl asked for his name in a voice like a tiny bell, and gave her own for good faith. Though she did not call herself a princess, he knew this must be the youngest child of the Prince of Dol Amroth. Aside from the thin circlet on her brow and the richness of her gown, it was her quiet bearing of regality. She could not have been much older then his own sister, but she had the same air that Theodred had: separate from everyone by nature of the metal molded into a circle and laid on his head.
Eomer complimented her on her music and she resumed playing for him, thus was the rest of their day spent. It was not until the next day that she revealed why she had been crying. Lothiriel told him how her mother had died the previous year and she still mourned; he found himself recounting the deaths of his own parents. They spent hours comparing miseries and theorizing how they're lives had been altered irrevocably.
In a quiet contemplation Lothiriel said, "I shall never be kissed."
"And why shan't you?" Eomer was old enough not to recoil from the word 'kiss' any more.
"I will never love a man, or let any man love me. Too many people get hurt when they love. I don't ever want my heart to hurt again like it did when my mother died."
Considering this for a moment Eomer said, "You need not love someone to kiss them…though I think it must help."
"You don't?"
"No."
Lothiriel sat with her pink cheeked face in pudgy hands and thought hard on Eomer's words, her brow wrinkled with the effort.
"How do you know?" She eyed him wearily.
"I don't."
"Then why do you think that?"
Eomer thought on how to explain the situation to the young princess but could not gather words. His grasp on Westron had not yet fully developed and finally he decided action was better. With the shamelessness of youth he leaned in and kissed Lothiriel.
Instead of throwing a fit or making a face at him, Lothiriel gave a slight smile and said, "You might be right about kissing."
Though Lothiriel was the same age as his sister, Eomer found the difference less obvious and missed his friend when they left a few days later. Many years went by and Eomer kissed many more girls, though sometimes the memory of his first kiss with the elf-like princess would arise and distract him. He thought that it was strange that he now put so much thought into what to say to girls to get them to kiss him, but when he was eleven the most ridiculous of topics worked.
The next time he came to Dol Amroth with his cousin he was eighteen and newly appointed Third Marshall of the Mark. Once more Theodred tried to enlist the help of Dol Amroth, and once more Eomer was left to explore the palace at his leisure. Once more he was struck by the beauty of the place, a different brand of beauty then his home. Wandering, he wondered how the young princess had changed in the last seven years, he wondered how she looked now, wondered if she remembered him.
When he heard singing on a balcony he followed it, hoping that he might stumble upon the princess as he had years ago. As luck would have it, he found Lothiriel, her dark curls falling down her back, dressed in yet another magnificent silver gown.
"My lady, forgive me, I always seem to intrude on you making music." Eomer hoped that Lothiriel would remember him, when she turned and saw his face it was clear that she did for she exclaimed his name.
She looked very different from the little girl he had kissed long ago. She was a burgeoning beauty, her dark hair and bright eyes, her flawless skin, her perfect figure. He could tell she would break many hearts. They spent the remainder of the day recalling his last visit…at least Lothiriel was talking. Once more Eomer took to studying her, every moment which passed made him wish more powerfully that he had saved kissing her for this meeting.
The day turned into night when Lothiriel finally came to that kiss.
"I must say, milord, you made quite the impression. I don't quite know why I let you kiss me but I can say that when the Advisor's son tried to kiss me a month later I hit him in the face."
He laughed with her, trying to picture this demure, fragile looking creature hitting anyone in the face with much success.
"I suppose now you don't hit men in the face for trying to kiss you."
Lothiriel gave him a devious smile and leaned in to whisper, "No, the secret is to let my brothers do it for me, it works so much better."
With her face a few inches from his, he became painfully aware of how beautiful she was and said, "If that is your play I best warn you that you should call them…now."
With that Eomer claimed his second kiss from the princess of Dol Amroth. Much to his amusement, she neither summoned her brothers or hit him in the face. Instead she kissed him in return.
The next few days were a whirlwind of disappearing into niches where they could spend a few moments of undisturbed peace. Where the wars between the countries, the escalating threat of Mordor, the growing antagonism of Saruman, and the general darkness of life disappeared in the awesome power of the silver wings enclosing them. They stole beauty in a world of ugliness, and both were broken hearted when it came time for Rohan's party to leave for home.
It was on that ride back when Eomer mentioned Lothiriel to his cousin and asked if he thought it was plausible for a soldier to marry a princess? It had happened in Rohan, Theodwyn and Eomund were proof of that, but Gondor was a different place. It hurt Theodred's heart to say that by Gondorian law, royalty must marry royalty or a member of a high ranked noble family. A bid for a princess' hand by a soldier would be ignored, especially if the soldier was foreign.
Eomer felt the peace in his heart die at that moment and returned to his life of war with little happiness. He did not see the princess for many years. In fact, he was in his early thirties when he saw beside Eowyn's sickbed in the Houses of Healing and heard a woman crying.
It was very late at night and he had not thought anyone else was about, to distract himself from his own grief he followed the sound. In Lord Faramir's room he saw a dark haired woman in a gleaming silver gown. He was so overcome by hope, so surprised; he said her name aloud without stopping to think if it was really her and scared her half to death.
When she saw who it was that called her name, Lothiriel dried her tears and flung herself into Eomer's arms. They walked out of the Houses of Healing and into the dying gardens of Gondor where they spoke at length. She revealed that her cousin was Faramir, and he was gravely wounded and her uncle Denethor was dead, as well as Faramir's older brother Boromir who had died with the Fellowship of the Ring. He told her of Theodred and Theoden's deaths and Eowyn's life threatening wound; how he had been made King of a country when he had only ever been a soldier; how his men and he were joining with the other kings at dawn to march on the Black Gates and likely march to their own dooms. Hearing his tale, Lothiriel sobbed for him, she sobbed mightily as she had not cried for either her cousin or her mother.
Drawing her close, he tried to make her stop crying for he could not bear her tears, they wrenched at his heart. He was aware of the chaos around him, the death, the blood, the war…and yet the night for one moment as he held her seemed perfectly still. He recalled that he had always felt this sense of peace with her, that she was the face in dreams that knew no terror or pain, and he said to her, "For all the misery that has occurred to make me king, something good has come of it. When last I left you I wanted to marry you, but was a mere soldier and not worthy of a princess' hand. Now this unbidden crown shall give me what I most desire: to take you as my bride. I am a king, and I think it is beyond doubt that a king is a fair match for a princess but I ask you, you Lothiriel if you would marry me should I live to see passed tomorrow. With you I knew some brief peace and I would gladly know that peace with you for the rest of my life."
Lothiriel answered him with a kiss that left no doubt as to her answer. Dawn was still a few hours away and the couple wandered through the White City, hiding in dark niches occasionally as though they were teenagers again. They found that with the prospect of Death looming over their heads, threatening to maul this fragile peace they had made around each other, that their frenzied kisses were not enough.
They found Eomer's room and debated for a breath on what to do. There, faced with death, faced with life, faced with troubles innumerable and ever increasing, they let love win. Come morning the King sat staring at this figure of his lover and for the first time in many months, Eomer prayed he would not die that he might return to her.
The battle fought was like nothing he knew, like nothing he ever wanted to know. It was the worst kind of evil striking you in the face. It was the stench of orcs and blood and sweat. It was the sound of blood pounding in your ears mingled with the crying of the fallen. It was seeing the whole world stained red. It was being faced with a nation of demons running at you, weapons drawn, and you are more then out numbered; at that moment you feel condemned. His most vivid memory of the battle was its ending, was seeing the great eagles swoop from the sky and in seeing their steal colored feathers his mind turned to different birds: the silver swan on every wall of the Dol Amroth palace and the dark haired swan he'd left wrapped in gold and green blankets, her silver feathers discarded.
After the victory that day, Eomer announced that he had taken Lothiriel as his bride. Almost as soon as the news was birthed the rumors erupted. There was confusion amongst the peoples of Dol Amroth and Rohan. Both wondered at why a marriage was arranged between two people who had never been officially introduced? Indeed two people that (as far as anyone knew) had never met before at all? Many thought if must be political, a gift of good faith towards an alliance between Rohan and Gondor. Others thought it of a darker nature. Dol Amroth's gossips, opposed to the barbarian king taking their only princess away, hissed that he had seduced and bedded her, and was forced into marrying her by an angry father or a loose-lipped midwife. The Rohirric gossips, still reeling from a Gondorian queen two generations dead but immortalized by their dislike of her, said that the princess used elf magic to bewitch the king into marrying her that she might gain power.
To their credit, Eomer and Lothiriel ignored such talk and basked in the truth: They risked everything based on a few moments of peace, and it made all the difference.
_________________________________________________________
A/N: I've done worse.
Not Beta Read, written in 2005. Statistically speaking some of you weren't born yet when I wrote this.
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ohnonotnow · 3 months
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my library
here's some of the best the hobbit/lotr fanfics I've read cuz they can be quite hard to find and I wanna help
will update the list as I read
Thorin
Smoke, iron and Thorin
Fire and Gold
Learning Khuzdul
Braid of Gold
Thorin being soft
The Beauty of Chance
Those Hands
Misunderstanding
The arrival
A king's crown
Covered In Steam
There's just inches in between us
Thorin after a long day of training with his nephews
In This Moment 
Agreement
Symphony of your life
Oh so quiet
Confession
Find Your Way Back
Fili
fili oneshots
Moonrise
The Most Unpleasant, Defective, and Abominable Incident
Stay with me
The Redeemer
Durin's Garage
Restless
Kili
The book keeper
insecurities
The beauty and the Beast
getting back at Kili for teasing
My Treasure
Madly in love
It's in his kiss
Love Bites
Sway With Me
Wood Carvings
Softly. . .
Sweet like nectar
A Shot in the Dark
Beorn
Early Mornings
Beorn takes care of you when you're injured
Linger
Legolas
Watcher of Wanderers
The Innocence of Brutality
Blessing
Sensitive
Being best friends with Legolas
Hazy Memories
Spellbound
Thranduil
Bookworm
Relax
Best friends father
Fascination
Flower On My Skin
To Meet Under the Stars
Passenger Princess
Autumn Thunderstorm
I Could Love You With My Eyes Closed
Haldir
Gentle Dark
Lindir
My Heart Is In Your Hands
Moonlight
Just a Little Help
Warriors Great Tales
The Fountain
Return to Me
Èomer
Burnt Bread
A Helping Hand
Wildest Dreams
Falling In Love With A Librarian
SFW alphabet
Happiness
A Roll in the Hay
Blessing
Turning Points
More characters
various characters oneshots
Imagine: elves having highly sensitive ears and you finding out by accidently touching them.
Journey to Erebor
Hair braiding
Elves + Braiding
What Type of Kisser is Each LoTR Character?
The Hobbit Characters + Physical Affection (Suggestive Version)
A Headcanon For Each Member of Thorin’s Company
Cuddling With Thorin's Company
Imagine some of the elves of Middle Earth find out how easy it is to make you (a human staying in Rivendell) blush and become aroused.
The LOTR characters reacting to a modern reader
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sotwk · 5 months
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Taken (Eomer x Reader) - Part 2 of 3
Part 1 / Part 3
Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig
Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk
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Summary: Eomer is determined to convince the woman he loves of his long-hidden devotion, but the obligations of his new crown and her baseborn origins shake her faith in their future together.
Prompt: "It's hard for me to describe what I feel for you… but just know that it's love nonetheless."
Requested by and Dedicated to: @laneynoir You've probably forgotten about making this Valentine ask, but I remember and write down everything you ask of me! <3 Hope you enjoy!
Word count: 3.9k
Content: Angsty romance, declarations of love, jealousy, mutual pining, class division, shield-maiden, King Eomer, post-RotK, non-canon pairing
Rating: T (Teens and up)
Warnings: Excessive angst? Verbal passion? This is clean but it will do a number on your feels.
To Read on AO3: Link
Tumblr Post for Taken, Part 1: Link
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Taken 
Third Age 3019 May 2
Minas Tirith, Gondor
PART TWO
“My lord, are you certain it is safe for you to go without a proper escort?” 
Eomer cast a taut but amused smirk at Haleth, son of Hama, over the horse they had just finished tacking up together. His new squire, one of the youngest fighters to survive the Battle of Hornburg, had been appointed to the post just very recently, and so still had much to learn. 
Eomer dismissed the given counsel that a king needed someone with experience in his direct service, not a novice that required training. He had seen with his own eyes how bravely Hama’s orphaned boy had helped to defend the refugees at the Glittering Caves; in Eomer’s eyes, the child had earned the honor several times over.
“Surely you don’t mean to imply that the King of the Horse-lords is incapable of defending himself on a short ride?”
“No, sire. It is just…” Haleth’s eyes darted about nervously and he lowered his voice. “You ride with a woman. If something were to happen, would you not have to defend yourself and her as well?”
At that, Eomer chuckled. “I commend your gallant instincts lad, but I advise you not to make such an insinuation in the presence of a known shield-maiden. They do not take kindly to having their abilities questioned, and will be quick to set you right.” He patted his squire’s shoulder to show that no offense was taken. “Rest assured that the lady is more than capable of holding her own, and of shielding me from harm if need be.” 
The boy need not know that Eomer would sooner die than put her in that position. He had kept that a secret from her and the rest of his Éored for years, although perhaps a little too successfully and to his own detriment.  
Riding Firefoot into the white-stone square courtyard that connected the galleries of stables, Eomer quickly saw that she was already waiting for him, standing alert beside her own horse. Greywind, a dappled mare that bore no meager resemblance to her equine brother, tossed her head and whickered softly at Firefoot's approach. It was a warmer reception than his master received.
"Good morning, my lord," the shield-maiden acknowledged with a nod as curt as her tone. Royal protocol satisfied, she turned and swung up into the saddle of her own steed. 
Her cold shoulder was to be his comeuppance, then. So be it. Her silent rages were nothing Eomer had not seen, borne, and successfully navigated before. 
But today, this time, would be different. Everything was sure to be different after that kiss, which, after a sleepless night of pondering and self-debating, he would still swear on Bema was no mistake. Clumsy perhaps, but an action he did not regret leaping into. There was no part of Eomer that did not desire to repeat it, over and over. 
First, he must resolve the confusion his recklessness had caused. 
"Follow my lead,” he said, and spurred Firefoot on toward the exit gates. 
His command came from habits formed over years of riding together, and so did her immediate obedience. Her loyalty had always been faultless; loyalty to Rohan, loyalty to him. Whenever he called and whatever he asked for, she gave, just as she came to meet him now, regardless of what had transpired between them last night. 
This new epiphany that her devotion to him might be encouraged not just by duty, but a love to reciprocate his, still felt like too much to hope for. 
They rode side by side down the levels of Minas Tirith, and soon were past the city’s great white walls. At the slightest shift of his master’s weight, Firefoot burst into a full charge down the North-way, rejoicing at the freedom to run across open land once more, an impatience that mirrored Eomer’s own. Next to them, Greywind and rider matched their gait to keep up, and they tore their way for several miles northward into Pelennor. 
Eomer’s body sang at the rush of the wind over his skin, through his hair and his cloak that streamed over Firefoot’s haunches. Too long had he been cooped up within the city walls, tethered to the duties of his new office. It still felt unseemly for him to carry the title of King while his uncle had yet to be properly laid to rest among his forebears, but he was determined to serve in every manner his people required. 
This involved taking guidance from his newly formed council, who seemed to believe that the first order of business was to reaffirm and restrengthen Rohan's alliance with Gondor. In the weeks that followed the great feast at Cormallen, Eomer spent more time with new acquaintances, lords and ladies from the noblest families of Gondor, than with his own men. His Éored, who had been the rock at his side for nearly the whole of the past year, were granted time to rest and convalesce according to their desires, and every one eagerly embraced the offered leave.
That included her, most painfully and noticeably. Each day that passed by filled with council meetings and formal dinners but nearly nothing of her, had dragged Eomer further into despair. When she finally reappeared for the coronation, dressed the way she was…small wonder that he finally lost hold on propriety the moment he touched her. 
In seemingly no time at all, they left it all behind. The high ramparts and looming towers of the grand city turned into a white speck on the mountainside. So far out north into the fields and away from the main road, they had separated themselves from the thousands that had flocked to the city to celebrate the coronation, and retreated into the peace of the vast plains that bore some semblance to their home. 
Eomer eased Firefoot into a relaxed pace and she followed suit. Afterward they were blanketed in silence but for the clink of tack and thud of hooves on the long grass finally regrown in the end of Pelennor’s strifes. 
One sideways glance showed Eomer that she remained resolved to look anywhere but in his direction. No matter. If she refused to look at him, he would gladly stare at her, and take his fill of what he had been deprived of for weeks. 
He had forgotten what a vision she made outside of armor, so long had they lived in battle gear. The gown she wore to the coronation ball had distracted him all evening, but it painted her beauty too foreign. The plain clothes of their people suited her best. On her, the wine-red dress underneath her green Rider’s cloak outstripped any fine silk confection. Her hair, usually held back in tight braids or trapped underneath a war helm, flowed in free waves that tumbled to her waist and made his fingers ache with longing. 
To see her in this manner reminded him of what Rohirrim sacrifice had achieved: the end to a life of constant peril, and in its place, domestic bliss. Eomer knew he would be wholly content to look upon her this way forever. And by Bema, by all the Valar that might hear, he prayed that she would let him. 
Another mile or two passed in the bleak silence before the skies gave him the opening he needed. The faint drizzle that had lazily harried them gradually intensified into a downpour, and the menacing grey clouds above rumbled a fair warning. 
Eomer pointed to a copse of beeches in the distance. “That should suffice for us to wait out the worst of it,” he said, and they directed their horses into the thicket. 
After releasing Firefoot and Greywind to find cover and graze at their leisure, they took their shelter underneath the tree with the most generous canopy. As Eomer watched her gather the cascade of her soaked hair over one shoulder, she happened to raise her eyes in his direction and catch his gaze. Her face remained impassive, but she did not look away again. She knew she could no longer delay what he had requested her company for. 
“May we speak now?”
The tense lines on her brow softened. “My lord,” she said, in a tone that was almost contrite. “I am here to listen to whatever you wish to say.”
“Good,” Eomer said, and needed one more breath to steady himself. “Good...” 
"Long has there been great camaraderie between us as comrades in arms, but in time that deepened into…more meaningful affection.” When she did not flinch at that attestation, he carried on. “After last night, it is clear that we must lay bare the extent of our feelings and finally be open with each other."
Her mouth trembled. “My lord--”
“I love you,” Eomer said. “I recognize no plainer truth than that. I am no bard or scholar, and so it is hard for me to describe what I feel for you...as it would be hard for anyone to explain the glory of the sun or the vastness of the skies. But you must know that it is love, nonetheless."
She remained silent at this, and her clenched jaw told him no response was forthcoming. But he had more. 
“These past years, Rohan’s protection occupied all of my waking thoughts. There was no time to consider ambitions for myself. And what need did I have for that, when the sole object of my desires rode in my company to every battle? But after all our years together, I suppose I began to take for granted that you would always be close by, even while I drowned in fear that one sword stroke could separate us forever."
He edged a step closer to her, driven by the mere suggestion of such unspeakable loss. 
“When you grew distant after Theodred's passing, I awoke to my folly. I wished to blame your withdrawal from me on your grief, but my jealous mind whispered that my long buried suspicions were confirmed, that you had always desired his devotion over mine. I wrestled with the torment from it, until last night, when you gave me reason to hope again.” 
“But..but I did not…y-you had never…” She cut off her own stammering and squared herself determinedly before continuing. “I never found sufficient cause to believe you could care for me so, my lord.” 
“The fault is mine for not being forthright with you from the start. I will do whatever I must to remedy that now.” Suddenly they were face to face on the same side of the tree, for she had not thought to dart away from his advances this time. “I would shout it from the very spire of their great Tower if it will end your doubts.” 
He reached for her, and the edge of his hand found her chin. Contrary to his bold declaration he repeated, barely above a whisper: “I love you.” 
“No,” she murmured back. “Please. You must not say such things.” 
“Why not, when it is the truth?”
“Because it is a truth you cannot act on.”
Eomer’s hand dropped to his side as he barked a humorless laugh. “Granted I have not held the role for very long, but that seems a peculiar thing to tell a King.”
“You are the King now, and that binds you to do things according to your duty, not according to your desire.” She lowered her head. “That is the truth that matters, my lord. Love cannot always prevail over everything.”
The familiar frustration marked with dread clawed at Eomer again. “My love for you will prevail over this,” he vowed. “Moreso because it is love returned.”
Only the sound of splattering rainfall followed, and the realization that she was starting to turn away.
“You… you do love me.”
“I do not.”
The ensuing crack of thunder paled against the shock her reply struck in Eomer. She slipped away from his side once more while he fumbled through his recollections of the previous night.
Drunk as he had been on the taste of her kisses, he could not have misunderstood her impassioned outburst. You are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to!  He had dissected that precious confession over and over in his head and basked in sweeter hope that he had ever dared to feel about anything.
“I will not accept that. I do not believe it!”
In a handful of strides he overtook her as she fled to the edge of the grove, where the trees stood further apart and exposed them to the deluge. 
“What is causing you to deny me? Deny yourself, deny us?!” She attempted to step around him, but Eomer blocked her progress relentlessly. “Is it that misguided belief of yours that I am, in your words, ‘taken’?” 
Finally she succumbed and stood in place, cold and drenched and as stock-still as a soldier holding the line. But Eomer found the answer clear on her grimace. 
"Do you mistake me for some bull that has been put on the market for the highest bidder? Or believe me so feeble that I have no control over my choice of wife?!"
She stiffened at his rising rebuke and shook her head. “Not just a wife, my lord. A Queen. You must choose the right woman to offer to Rohan as our long-awaited Queen.”
“Marry me and it is done.”
Immediately her eyes widened and her face blanched, as his bluntness finally plowed through her shields.  “Oh Eomer,” she breathed, and the return of his name on her lips nearly rendered him as dazed as she was. 
He moved to embrace her, but she clutched him by the forearms, guarding her space. He felt her fingers tremble as they dug into the fabric of his tunic sleeves. He thought he might have heard a sob, but in the rain it was impossible to discern the source of the drops slipping down her cheeks. 
“I know you are wiser than that,” she told him. “You know Rohan’s political realities, regardless of your distaste for them. Your rise to your uncle’s throne has separated us by a chasm that cannot be bridged.” She sensed his intention to interrupt and spoke even louder. “I am an orphaned stray, Eomer. Theodred’s favor may have rescued me from a life of insignificance, but I am still baseborn by anyone's standards. Yet however lowly I am, I can hold my head up with pride, because I have always known my place.”
“As do I.” Eomer slid his hand up the curve of her neck. “Your place is with me.”
“Yes it is.” Her smile was joyless as she gripped his wrist to keep his obvious desires at bay. “I belong at your side, on the open fields, with a sword in my hand, ready to give my life for you at a moment's notice. You gifted me with purpose, and riding in your company has brought me such honor. Please do not ask me to play a role where I will only fail and return to an object of derision.”
Eomer frowned. “I have only ever loved you. No one else is suitable for me to take to wife.”
She lifted those beautiful eyes to stare dead-evenly at him for the first time in months. “Dol Amroth,” she whispered. “The daughter of Prince Imrahil.”
The sadness in her eyes lifted the fog of ignorance that obfuscated him. He recognized that pain as the very same one that had pierced him each time he watched her in Theodred’s company. The way they smiled at each other, their intimate touches, their freely exchanged affection that made his stomach twist with envy. But he had been wrong in his interpretation of that situation, and so was she on this one. 
“What of her?” he said brusquely, pushing aside his full realization of what she was implying. 
“One does not have to sit at the council table to see the soundness of your match.”
“There is no match!”
“Then there will be and there should be!” she insisted. “Everyone sees it, and if you tell me you do not, then you have no right to accuse me of denying what is true.”
A low growl rumbled off Eomer and suddenly he was the one to swivel away, rubbing his face and rain-matted beard while he weighed his answer.
“I do not deny that overtures have been made by advisors, both mine and King Elessar's," he said finally. "Lothiriel does seem an obvious candidate to put forward as a consort for the King of Rohan. But that appropriateness has nothing to do with me. Had Theodred survived to stand in my place, they would be pushing her to him. Have I been counseled on the benefits of an alliance with Imrahil's house? Oh yes--with the subtlety of a hammer's blow. But I barely paid heed to that, since all that mattered to me was your opinion on the subject."
"My opinion," she echoed. She planted her hands on her hips and studied her muddied boots for a long moment. "I can offer you what I know. You, Eomer King, will be the greatest ruler the Mark has ever seen. Your rule deserves every opportunity it can claim, and this offer of an alliance with Dol Amroth is one you cannot dismiss. I have heard nothing but praise and approval at the prospect, from mouths both common and noble."
"Princess Lothiriel is young, and beautiful, and beloved. Her blood is of the most distinguished and most powerful house in Gondor. She will give you exactly what you need. What Rohan needs."
She suddenly came forward to cradle Eomer's face between her hands, a touch he had only experienced in dreams until then. Except this was more akin to his worst nightmare. His inner wretchedness must have become evident in his furrowed brow and was too pitiful to ignore. "Moreover she will adore you, if she has not fallen already, for no maiden has ever lived whose heart you cannot ensnare.”
“Do not flatter me in one breath only to spurn me in the next,” Eomer muttered. “I did not ask for you to wax poetic about my future with another woman. I want your thoughts about all that matters. Us.”
“Us?”
She tried to withdraw her hands, but Eomer caught them in time, and held them firm against his chest, as if it could make her feel how consumed his heart was by her. 
“Once I might have carried hope for us,” she said softly. “Hope that I could one day be enough, because I knew you cared for Rohan above all else and admired my dedication to our people. I thought perhaps in time, that admiration might grow to love, as mine did so quickly after I met you."
“But it did, it--”
Her hands jerked inside his grip, their next attempt at escape futile. “Any hope I had for us died with Theodred,” she said tersely. “When his charge as the King's heir passed on to you. Let it rest with him.”
The roll of receding thunder brought Eomer back to a distinct memory of that dreadful day at Isen. The raw anguish on her face as she looked up at him with Theodred's head on her lap. Her frightened reluctance at releasing the prince for Eomer to take on Firefoot. 
It had rained too when Eomer came to bring her the news of his passing not a day later. Ignoring the heavy downpour, she ran out to meet him as he approached her cottage, and broke down before he could get the words out. He had to lead her back inside and wrap her in a blanket before she caught a chill. She clung tightly to him as he held her for a long while, bewildered by her sobs. It was the only time he had ever seen her weep. 
Only then did it dawn on Eomer: it was not just the loss of Theodred that she had mourned. 
“Run away with me.” 
It burst from his lips without a thought. 
“Wh-What? No!” She yanked away from him with such force he was left grasping for empty air. 
“Come with me, and let us run away together.” He rushed after her as she strode toward their horses. She already knew his mind, but he also knew hers, and there was nothing left for him to employ to sway her to his thinking. Nothing but this brazen proposal. 
“Away to where?!” she cried, without bothering to look his way. She came up to Greywind and seized her saddle pommel, but Eomer’s hand closed around hers, stilling her progress. 
“Anywhere. Far enough to take you away from all this--” Eomer swung out his free arm in a gesture as wild as the fervor in his eyes. “Away from everything that is confusing you.”
She started shaking her head vigorously and backing away. “Eomer, no. You are mad!”
“Do not tell me that!” Eomer lurched forward in pursuit, yet knew better than to grab her. She could not lose him out here where there was nowhere to hide. But he would lose her if she shut him out again by refusing to listen. 
“Do not tell me I am mad when the only madness is you believing we do not deserve a future together!” Each time he blocked her path, she pivoted in another direction, and he immediately swerved to repeat the dance. “Madness is you rejecting a man who yearns for you more than a mortal heart could possibly bear, clinging to the barefaced lie that you do not feel exactly the same.”
At that, she fell still. In the stillness Eomer realized that the rainstorm had finally dissipated, and in studying her face, he noticed the drops that continued to slip from the edges of her closed eyes, gliding to her quivering jaw. 
“You know as well as I that we belong together.” He caught one of the tears with the edge of his thumb, smoothing his finger over her soft, flushed skin. “So let us take the road west and… and just keep riding. Let me take you home. Our people here will follow soon enough, and when they arrive we can meet them as man and wife.”
“Eomer,” she sighed, before falling silent, her eyes still shut. He hoped she would take her time finding ease, so she may really consider his offer. But she responded immediately, too quickly, once again. “We cannot just abandon our obligations.”
“You insist we cannot, but we can. You can do whatever you wish. You just need to decide what that is--"
“No! No, no, no…” The word morphed into whimpers on her lips, an effort to drown him out.
“--and that is all I ask. That you shut out thoughts of all else and answer truly, from your heart." Something in Eomer’s throat tightened, as though an invisible hand had seized his neck and threatened to choke him. He swallowed and persisted with all the courage he could muster. "Will you marry me?"
“No.”
“Please.” It tasted bitter on his tongue, for Eomer son of Eomund had never begged for anything in his life, even as it took the last shreds of pride for him not to fall on his knees in his final bid. “I am asking you for the truth. Your truth alone. Do you want me?”
Her eyes fluttered open, bearing the steely determination and battle strength that had won his respect years ago, and in that moment Eomer saw that that inner fire he loved would now crush him.
“No,” she answered. “I do not.”
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To be continued in Part 3...
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A Vigilant Eye
Pairing: Éomer and his OC wife Mereliss (That translates roughly to “famously kind”. There’s more about her here, where she first appeared in the form of the “reader” character.)
Summary: Our king of Rohan stubbornly refuses to acknowledge a riding injury, but his wife is not going to let him get away that. This is as close to anything smutty as I’ll ever write—that is to say, it’s not really smutty at all in the actual sense, but it’s headed that way and you’re certainly free to imagine where it goes from here!
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“Have you not earned yourself a break? I don’t think you’ve moved from that desk since I left here hours ago.”
Mereliss looked up from a stack of papers to see Éomer standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame and watching her with a wry smile on his face.
“I could ask something similar of you, as you have spent all of those same hours on your feet dealing with one problem or another.” She dropped her pen on the desk and leaned back to stretch. “Are you finished for the day?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He walked over to plant a quick kiss on the top of his wife’s head. “I have only a few minutes to change my boots before Hildred and I are due to inspect the new earthworks outside the main gate.”
He went to collect his riding boots from the closet, and as he walked she took note of the small hitch in his step that had been developing over the past few weeks. He would never admit to being in pain–it was against his nature to be perceived as complaining, no matter how legitimate the reason–and so far the effect was subtle enough to escape the eye of a casual observer. But Mereliss’s attention was far from casual when it came to Éomer. She knew every inch of his body better than she knew her own, and she watched over his health and well being with the vigilance of one who protects a priceless treasure. She had asked him about this slight limp two weeks ago, and he insisted that it would go away soon. But, if anything, it seemed to her a little worse now. She stood and followed him across the room.
“I cannot help but notice that your hip still troubles you. You spend so much time in the saddle, perhaps you should take a few days’ break from riding and allow it some rest.”
He scoffed. “There is nothing wrong with my hip, and certainly nothing that would make me unable to carry out my duties.”
He grabbed a pair of boots and moved toward a chair to put them on, but she stepped into his path and blocked his way.
“I never said that you were unable to carry out your duties. I am merely proposing that a short period of rest might help you to see to those duties more comfortably in the days ahead.”
He attempted to step around her, but she moved sideways in tandem with him. When a second step also failed to circumvent her, he frowned.
“I am comfortable enough already.”
“The way that you walk suggests otherwise. And if you do not take better care of yourself, it will only continue to get worse with time.”
He blew out a frustrated breath and raked his hair out of his face. “As I have told you before, it is nothing to be overly concerned about.” He put a hand on her shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. “You needn’t worry about me. I promise.”
She arched an eyebrow. His stubbornness was legendary, but she had learned her own counter maneuvers over the years. She could be very persuasive when she set her mind to it, and she had no intention of letting this particular issue go.
She pulled his hand from her shoulder and wrapped it around her waist instead, pressing in close to him and running her own hand up his spine to the nape of his neck. He inhaled sharply.
“Very well,” she said. “But if you refuse my advice to rest your hip for the day, then surely you would not also deny me just a few moments to attend to it myself?” Standing on her toes, she brushed her lips lightly across his and looked up at him plaintively from beneath her lashes.
He laughed, almost a nervous giggle. “Mereliss, I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. I have many things still to do this afternoon.”
“Of course you do,” she murmured. “So do I. Just say the word, then, and I’ll step aside and we will both go about our business. Or…”. She snaked her free hand down and pulled the riding boots from his grip, dropping them to the floor with a thud. “You could stay here for a few more minutes and allow me to help you feel better.” The hand trailed slowly back up the inside of his leg.
“Mere, Hildred is expecting me.” Even as he protested, he leaned down to nestle his chin into the crook of her neck, breathing in the sweet floral scent of her hair. “He is waiting as we speak.”
“Oh, that is no cause for concern.” She pulled his shirt from his waistband and slid her hand underneath the fabric and onto his bare skin. “If I know Hildred, he is happily chatting up whatever woman happens to be nearby, and he’ll be glad for the extra time.” She pushed forward, her body against his chest and thighs propelling him backward step by step until his legs made contact with the edge of their bed. “Besides, it will ease my heart to lessen your pain, and a little tardiness can be forgiven if it is necessary to please your wife. Don’t you agree?” She pressed her lips to his jaw, to the dimple on his right cheek, to the corner of his mouth.
He turned his head ever so slightly to meet her lips, and she knew then that she had succeeded and he would do anything that she asked of him. Breaking their kiss, she grabbed his waist with both hands and slowly turned him around. “Lay face down for me,” she whispered into his ear. He looked over his shoulder at her, one heavy brow drawn up in surprise, but she shook her head. “Just do as I ask.”
He climbed onto the bed, face down, and she clambered up after him, shifting her skirt so that she could sit astride the back of his thighs.
“Mereliss, what are you—”. His question was cut short by the deep, guttural moan that escaped his lips as soon as she sank her fingers into the muscles around his left hip.
“Now is that a good moan, or a bad moan?” She already knew the answer, but she would enjoy hearing it nonetheless.
“It’s good,” came the muffled reply, his face buried in the mattress while his hands clung tightly to fistfuls of the sheets. “Very good.”
She smiled and set about working her way methodically through all of the tense, rigid muscles in his hip and lower back, alternating between light circular motions and smooth, deep arcs. The more she worked, the more she felt the rigidity start to give way until eventually the whole area was soft and pliant beneath her fingertips and his occasional grunts or groans sounded less of desperately needed relief and more of contented enjoyment.
When she was at last satisfied that he would be able to walk and ride that day with little or no pain, she lay forward onto his back and tucked her chin over his shoulder. “Éomer King, you are released now from my care and may go about your duties for the rest of the day as needed.”
He turned his head to look at her from the corner of his eye. “You know, it’s very strange, but all of the sudden I can’t seem to recall any duties.” He reached an arm back and put a hand on her leg.
“Oh, allow me to refresh your memory. Hildred is waiting for you to go to the earthworks.” Smirking, she put her hand atop his and moved it further up her thigh. “You’re already late.”
A low rumble came from his chest, and he suddenly rolled beneath her. In an instant, they had somehow reversed positions, and she was on her back below him, the weight of his body pressing her down into the soft sheets. He tucked a few curls behind her ear and smiled at her. “Well, fortunately, a very wise woman once told me that a little tardiness can be forgiven if it is necessary to please my wife.”
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ass-deep-in-demons · 4 months
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✦ Seeing White ✦
Fandom: Lord of the Rings Genre: slice of life, comedy, romance Characters: Faramir, Eomer, Boromir, Eowyn, Lothiriel, Legolas, Merry Rated: G Length: 3119 words, one-shot
This work is dedicated to @emilybeemartin and directly inspired by her art, and also these recent posts circulating in the Boromir fandom: [slutty white shirt] and [rain soaked Boromir].
I am tagging the folks who got tangled in the Wet Shirts Shenanigans: @sotwk, @scyllas-revenge, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @konartiste, @emyn-arnens, @nihilizzzm, @emmanuellececchi. If you didn't want to be tagged I'm sorry, pls ignore :)
✦✦✦
Minas Tirith, 1st of Lótessë 3019 TA
Yes, thought Faramir. This is a great idea. The Ladies will be thrilled.
The day was perfect, too. From the windows of his chambers in the Citadel, all across the White City Faramir could spot the many signs of the long awaited Spring. Together with the verdant Gondorian flora awakening to life after the months of darkness and cold, so, too, were the people of Minas Tirith rising from their knees past the indignity of War. Just as the trees were dressing themselves up in colourful bloom, so were the inhabitants of the old Minas Anor decorating the streets for the impending coronation of their new King Elessar. The merchants, like wandering birds, were returning from distant lands to their abandoned shops and stalls, striving to make up for the losses sustained recently by the Gondorian economy.
It was, for Faramir, self-evident that such a day would be best spent in the Archives of the Grand Library. Granted, if it were for Faramir to decide, all days would be library days; this day, however, was especially well-suited to that purpose. Having the confidence of the palace wait-staff, through careful intelligence he had ascertained that Lady Eowyn, the bold and beautiful sister to the King of Rohan, had today off. It would be delightful to guide her through the collection of scrolls depicting the Fall of Numenor - Faramir could not imagine more romantic circumstances. If not his humble person, then the priceless works of illuminatory art would certainly impress the White Lady.
There remained the question of propriety, naturally. Here, too, he had both luck and days of prior careful planning on his side. Out of all of the birds flocking to Minas Tirith after the thaw, perhaps the most colourful (and certainly the loudest) was his little cousin Lothiriel. The lass was come from Dol Amroth with her brothers to join the upcoming celebrations. This was her debut among the Minas Tirith nobility and so Boromir and Faramir were expected to escort her on occasion, as a courtesy to their uncle the Prince.
What a splendid opportunity to marry duty with pleasure: give his young cousin a lesson in history and spend time in the company of the White Lady. The White Lady in the White City - such an occasion called for the whitest, most pristine of his shirts, and also his best doublet. On this day he was allowed a bit of vanity and he was quite pleased with the results, when he checked himself in the mirror one last time.
Faramir left his chambers and descended to the Courtyard, where he was met with the view that had never failed to cause a pang in his heart, ever since the tender years of his boyhood. In the centre of the sun-bathed plaza, on an islet on the Fountain grew the White Tree of Gondor. In the past, its name referenced its lush white bloom, the beauty of which, if the legends could be trusted, was an echo of the mythical Trees of Valinor. For centuries now the name had only been associated with the Tree’s dry and dead white wood, from which the bark had long been peeled off by the weather. Nary a bud had been spotted since the long gone days of Steward Belecthor.
On that day, though bare as ever, the Tree did not stand there all alone. Under its branches, seemingly caught up in his thoughts, the young King of Rohan was strolling and admiring the Fountain. Faramir, who himself had never been to Rohan, had met Eomer King only recently, in non-too-happy circumstances. All the Lords of Gondor had had the honour of attending a vigil around the bier of the old Theoden King, who had fallen in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Even though several weeks had passed already since that ceremony, the shadows of the battle past could still be spotted lurking on the noble face of the Horse Lord Eomer. Still, his good humour seemed to be gradually returning to him, if the sharpness of his gaze and the healthy colour on his cheeks were anything to judge by.
The young King of the Rohirrim was, coincidentally, just who Faramir needed at that moment, as without his blessing Faramir’s plans would all be for naught. The matter needed to be carefully broached. Luckily, Faramir was nothing if not subtle.
“Eomer King!” he hailed and politely inclined his head in greeting.
“Just Eomer would suffice,” said the Man of Rohan. “My brother Theodred bore great love for your own brother and always hosted him gladly at the Golden Hall. For all the stories I’ve heard about you growing up, I feel as if we were best friends already, Lord Faramir.”
“And who am I to spurn the friendship of a King?” said Faramir and smiled. “Eomer, then, and you must call me by my name as well.”
“Do you think it will sprout leaves again?” asked Eomer, and Faramir understood that he was talking about the Tree. “You know, after Aragorn’s Enthronement?” This did seem too good to come true. Even though from under the Tree’s roots water continued to spring and feed the Fountain, it was difficult to believe that the dry branches held even one drop of sap.
“That, I would want to know myself,” said Faramir wistfully. He felt gooseflesh erupt on his arms at the thought that he might yet witness the Tree blossom in his lifetime. “I would very much like to see the face of my brother, when that happens,” he added quietly.
“And how fares your brother?” asked Eomer. “I’ve heard he’s been through an ordeal during the War of the Ring.”
Faramir hesitated. An ordeal would be an understatement, he thought. Boromir was not himself ever since he’d returned from the War. Faramir could see right through his brother’s facade. He had been pushing himself to the limits, working day and night like a madman. But Faramir was loath to share his worries with Eomer just yet, so he opted for a diplomatic answer.
“My brother is dedicating his every effort to the betterment of Gondor, as was always his way,” he carefully admitted. “I don’t think he’ll allow himself a moment’s respite until Aragorn is seated on that throne, at last. Thank you for your concern, thought. The sentiment is much appreciated. In fact,” Faramir grimaced, “it is rather I who ought to be enquiring about the wellbeing of your Lady sister.” He looked at Eomer and saw the man’s features soften at the mention of Lady Eowyn.
“She is better than I could have hoped for,” said Eomer with a tentative smile, “in part thanks to your patient encouragement, back in the Houses of Healing… for which I am much obliged, by the by. Of late, she’s been out more. I deem it a good sign.”
“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Faramir, and then he quickly checked himself. “Erm… I mean, I’m glad to hear her spirits have improved…” He gathered his courage. “In fact, I am grateful for the opportunity to talk to you on this very matter. You see, I’ve devised a plan, which needs but your approval…”
“A… plan?” Eomer echoed, visibly apprehensive.
“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to take my little cousin Lothiriel to the Archives of Minas Tirith today, to show her our priceless collection of painted scrolls. Perhaps the Lady Eowyn could be persuaded to join us. It would be good… for her moods, I mean!”
Eomer raised his brow at that.
“Now that is a peculiar coincidence. You see, I had planned to take my sister out for a horse ride today, and I was meaning to propose that your cousin Lothiriel would join us in this entertainment. The other day, during dinner, she mentioned her interest in the steeds of Rohan…”
Faramir frowned. His carefully devised plan was now falling apart for this new development. Though he had started his riding lessons as soon as he had learned to walk, aware of his strengths Faramir knew: he had a far better chance at impressing the Lady with his wits than with his equestrian prowess. This matter with Eomer King required a subtle approach. He decided to try dissuasion.
“Curious, indeed. Last time I witnessed my cousin in the saddle, she fell off and broke her ankle. She has been wary of horses ever since…” Faramir mentioned casually. Granted, Lothiriel had been seven when that happened, however Eomer did not need to know that.
This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. A vein on the Horse Lord’s temple started pulsing, Faramir noticed.
“And you, my good man, do not know mine sister, if you think a day among old parchment could ever improve her mood,” Eomer bit back.
Faramir felt a wave of hot anger roll through him. Eomer’s comment stung. Was it possible that Lady Eowyn, so eager to listen to his tales of Gondor’s history back in the Houses of Healing, could indeed reject his offer of a good time in the Archives? Reluctant though he was, he had to admit: where she was concerned, his usually clear mind became clouded. For the first time in his life, emotions made him doubt his better judgement. Eomer, however, seemed to be faring no better, judging from his face, which was getting visibly… flushed?
“Hold on, Eomer…” Faramir put two and two together. “You mean to… spend time with Lothiriel? You do!” Now this sat ill with Faramir, who was used to thinking of his cousin as a little girl, and not a woman grown, ready to be courted. “Have you any idea how young she is? Barely seventeen, I’d wager!”
Eomer levelled Faramir with a deeply unimpressed look.
“You’d loose, too, for she is twenty, and I am eight and twenty! Which is perfectly respectable, and also none of your business. The Lady’s father, the Prince of Dol Amroth, has already consented to my courting her,” siad Eomer icily.
Faramir felt momentarily mortified about his outburst. Ah, this was bad. Of course the most pressing matter for Eomer right now would be to marry well, and of course the noble, beautiful and now decidedly of age Princess Lothiriel would be his intended. And if that were so, then Faramir might have just offended his prospective brother-in-law. Still, he was convinced he could use this unfortunate situation to his advantage.
“He has? Oh, that is well then. I wish you all the luck with securing the Lady’s favour. Unfortunately, my uncle Imrahil has also already approved of my plans to take Lothiriel for a history lesson to the Archives today. You are most welcome to join us, if you will. As is the Lady your sister, with your approval,” he added hastily, hoping to repair some of the damage caused by his ill-advised words.
“Denied! I am taking my sister for a ride today, and that is that,” said Eomer, who seemed to have taken offence from Faramir’s questioning of his motives regarding Lothiriel.
“I beg, Eomer, reconsider…” Faramir began, but then something strange happened. He felt a firm shove upon his shoulder and the ground was abruptly swept from under his feet. He flailed his arms, but that did not avail him - he toppled over the edge of the Fountain and…
SPLASH!
Next he knew, he was taking in a lungful of its fresh water. When he emerged to the surface, sputtering and coughing, he was met with the sight of his brother, who took his place next to Eomer at the water’s edge. Boromir was fresh past his training, already out of his plate, only sporting an unbuttoned surcote over his shift. He was flashing his teeth in a wide grin, his arms crossed cockily over his broad chest.
“Of course it is you, brother,” said Faramir somewhat bitterly. “I see your signature subtlety has not left you over the course of the War.” He could not stay mad at Boromir for long though. Not when his moments of good-natured mischief and levity, so frequent before the Ring, were now so few and far between.
“Forgive me, little brother,” said Boromir, affecting solemnity, “but only you could have thought taking a Lady to the library would serve you well. As your elder it is my duty to tutor you in the ways of women.”
“Hold on, he wanted to woo my sister with books? Hahaha!” Eomer was in stitches about the concept. “Oh, that is rich indeed! Wait ‘till she…”
SPLASH!
Eomer landed in the Fountain right beside Faramir, giving out a most undignified squeak. This did serve to improve Faramir’s mood a great deal.
“Only I get to make fun of my brother,” said Boromir, putting his hands on his hips. “King or no king, you’d do well to mark that, young Eomer! And you will not be telling your sister about any of this. She would…”
Faramir rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed under Boromir’s bulk, as the elder brother, too, inevitably hit the water with a great -
SPLASH!
“Do not presume to speak for me, Boromir of Gondor!” warned Eowyn, towering over the three of them. “And you too, brother! I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, thank you very much.” She had pushed Boromir into the Fountain with such effortless grace, and told both of Faramir’s tormentors off without a hint of hesitation! She was perfection, Faramir knew. Had he not been in love with her already, he would have fallen head over heels for her at that moment. “I would be glad to join you for a tour about the Archives, Lord Faramir,” said Eowyn, and honestly, it all seemed too good to be true.
“I have never seen you pick up a book in your life, sister,” said Eomer, “save to throw it at our tutor.” He pushed his wet hair back from his face and attempted to stand up, only to slip and plop down once again. 
“Slander!” cried Eowyn, and the most beautiful blush crept onto her face. “I love books! I definitely have read a lot of books in my time! And I happen to take a great interest in the history of Gondor, of late,” she fumbled visibly, which only added to her charm in Faramir’s eyes.
He stood up and shivered. His elegant brocade doublet, which he had picked especially for this occasion, was now entirely ruined. He hastily shook it off, not wanting the richly coloured fabric to stain his white shirt underneath. He wiped off the water from his face, and finally deeming himself presentable (for a given definition of the word) addressed the Lady.
“I would be delighted to personally recommend to you the best historical monographs from our Library, my fair Lady Eowyn,” said Faramir and bowed, smiling widely. “Going through them will of a certainty take some time, but I wholeheartedly offer all the assistance I could give in your studies.”
“You know not what you have signed up for, Lady,” said Boromir, who was still sitting in the water up to his chest, and not in any rush to get up.
“Oh, I think the Lady knows perfectly well what she has signed up for,” the merry voice of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood sounded from behind Eowyn, and it was only in this moment that Faramir realised the White Lady had not come here alone. Distracted by her radiant presence, he had failed to notice the Elf, who was standing a little way off with Meriadoc Brandybuck, one of the Perians, and a furiously blushing, uncharacteristically quiet cousin Lothiriel. The three of them appeared to be carrying… hammers and chisels? Although the girl seemed to have dropped hers and focused on fanning her beet-red face instead.
“We were just off to the City, to help with the renovations of the houses on the Third Level. Master Gimli means to teach us stonemasonry!” Meriadoc supplied, excitement brimming on his features.
“Though I have noticed the Ladies are acting somewhat distracted,” said Legolas. “I wonder if they are up for the task after all, or maybe they would rather stay here and admire the views that the Citadel offers on this fine day.”
Faramir suddenly felt very self-aware. He suspected he was blushing at least as strongly as Lothiriel. Luckily, Lady Eowyn did not seem to mind, or even notice. She appeared to have forgotten his face was up here and not down there. Ah, well. A gentleman must make allowances for the sake of ladies.
Boromir looked suspiciously pleased with himself. He stood up, took off his wet surcote and shook the water off like a giant dog might, splashing on both Faramir and Eomer.
“Pardon our indecent state, Ladies,” Boromir said then, jovially. “I think we should all go and help with the renovations today. Many houses have suffered during the siege and I, for one, am impatient to start rebuilding.”
“A worthy cause! One I’d be glad to join once I get the chance to change into something dry,” said Eomer, who had just managed to get up, after a few mishaps. He put his mighty arms to use and wrung out his soaked shirt. Faramir was sure he heard Lothiriel actually squeal.
“I don’t know that you should,” said the Perian, who seemed bent on making the situation as awkward as possible. “We would get more crowd engagement with you three coming as you are.”
To this, Legolas snickered with malicious glee.
“It could do wonders for the population’s morale, true,” the Elf mused. “Alas! We’d get plenty of volunteers, but very little actual work done, I expect.”
✦ BONUS: ✦
“Gondor is beautiful at this time of the year, is it not, my Queen?” said Aragorn.
He was meant to be reviewing the list of guests for his Coronation, but got distracted by Arwen’s movements about his new office. Something outside had caught her attention, apparently, for she’d spent a good while gawking through the window. And his beautiful Undomiel, ever graceful and unperturbed, could only very rarely be caught gawking, and only in private. He had to assume she was not immune to the splendour of the White City, and he was well pleased that she approved of her new domain.
“Pardon?” she startled, and a faint blush tinged her alabaster cheek. “Oh, yes. The nature is in full bloom. But, I am not your Queen. Not yet, at least,” she said, and smiled a very secretive, private smile.
Aragorn suspected a hundred years would pass before he’d learn to decipher all the subtleties of her expression. He was content to just admire them, for now.
[MY WRITING MASTERPOST]
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kylobith · 2 months
Text
Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)
Part 3 of 6
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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.
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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 ��orhild 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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essenceofarda · 3 months
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OF BLESSED THYME & THISTLE | Chapter 1 | Page 3
Masterlist of Pages
Faramir’s cousin, Lothiriel, comes to Minas Tirith to become a companion of his new bride, Eowyn, something that he hopes will ease Eowyn’s rough transition into Gondorian Society. Eowyn, for her part, decides her new companion would in turn make the perfect bride for her brother, Eomer King of Rohan. Matchmaking shenanigans ensue 😏
Page 3! Next page we'll start getting into the introduction of Lothiriel 🤗😁😏
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